.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 44362
   :PG.Title: The Adventures of Harry Rochester
   :PG.Released: 2013-12-05
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Herbert Strang
   :MARCREL.ill: William Rainey
   :DC.Title: The Adventures of Harry Rochester
              A Tale of the Days of Marlborough and Eugene
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1905
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE ADVENTURES OF HARRY ROCHESTER
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      Cover art

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   .. _`The Fight in the Castle Yard`:

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      The Fight in the Castle Yard

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      The Adventures of
      Harry Rochester

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      A Tale of the
      Days of Marlborough and Eugene

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      BY

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      HERBERT STRANG

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      AUTHOR OF "TOM BURNABY" "BOYS OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE"
      "KOBO: A STORY OF THE RUSSO-JAPANESE WAR"

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      Illustrated by William Rainey, R.I.

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      NEW YORK
      \G. \P. PUTNAM'S SONS
      27 AND 29 WEST 230 STREET
      1905  

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   "Honour hath three things in it: the vantage-ground to do
   good; the approach to kings and principal persons; and the
   raising of a man's own fortunes."

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   —*Bacon*.

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*My dear Tom,*

*You received my former books so kindly that I feel
assured you will not object to have this volume inscribed with
your name.  I am not the less convinced of this because you
know well the country in which my opening scenes are laid,
and I had the pleasure last year of playing cricket with you
within a few miles of the village here disguised as Winton
St. Mary.*

*I hope you will bear with me for one minute while I
explain that in writing this book I had three aims.  First, to
tell a good story: that of course.  Secondly, to give some
account of the operations that resulted in one of the most
brilliant victories ever gained by our British arms.  Thirdly,
to throw some light—fitful, it may be, but as clear as the
circumstances of my story admitted—on life and manners
two hundred years ago.  History, as you have no doubt
already learnt, is not merely campaigning; and I shall be
well pleased if these pages enlarge your knowledge, in ever
so slight a degree, of an interesting period in our country's
annals.  And if you, or any other Christ's Hospital boy,
should convict me of borrowing a week from the life of a
great personage, or of antedating by a little a development
in our national pastime—well, I shall feel complimented
by such evidence of careful reading, and not be
in the least abashed.*

*I take the opportunity of this open letter to acknowledge
my indebtedness to the monumental "Mémoires militaires
rélatifs à la succession d'Espagne" issued by the French
General Staff; to Mr. Austin Dobson for a detail which
only his perfect knowledge of the 18th century could so
readily have supplied; and to Lord Wolseley's brilliant life
of Marlborough, which every student of military history
must hope so competent a hand will continue and complete.*

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*Yours very sincerely,*
   *HERBERT STRANG.*

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*Michaelmas Day, 1905.*

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   Contents

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*Chapter* I
   `The Queen's Purse-Bearer`_

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*Chapter* II
   `Sherebiah Shouts`_

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*Chapter* III
   `Master and Man`_

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*Chapter* IV
   `Mynheer Jan Grootz and Another`_

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*Chapter* V
   `A Message from the Squire`_

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*Chapter* VI
   `My Lord Marlborough makes a Note`_

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*Chapter* VII
   `Snared`_

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*Chapter* VIII
   `Flotsam`_

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*Chapter* IX
   `Monsieur de Polignac Presses his Suit`_

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*Chapter* X
   `Bluff`_

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*Chapter* XI
   `The Battle of Lindendaal`_

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*Chapter* XII
   `Harry is Discharged`_

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*Chapter* XIII
   `Concerning Sherebiah`_

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*Chapter* XIV
   `Harry Rides for a Life`_

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*Chapter* XV
   `The Water of Affliction`_

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*Chapter* XVI
   `Knaves All Three`_

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*Chapter* XVII
   `In the Dusk`_

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*Chapter* XVIII
   `A Little Plot`_

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*Chapter* XXI
   `Marlborough's March to the Danube`_

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*Chapter* XX
   `The Castle of Rauhstein`_

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*Chapter* XXI
   `Across the Fosse`_

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*Chapter* XXII
   `The Fight in the Keep`_

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*Chapter* XXIII
   `Blenheim`_

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*Chapter* XXIV
   `The Wages of Sin`_

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*Chapter* XXV
   `A Bundle of Letters`_

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*Chapter* XXVI
   `The New Squire`_

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*Chapter* XXVII
   `Visitors at Winton Hall`_

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   List of Illustrations

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*Plate* I
   `The Fight in the Castle Yard`_ . . . . . . *Frontispiece*

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*Plate* II
   `Harry makes a Diversion`_

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*Plate* III
   `My Lord Marlborough`_

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*Plate* IV
   `At the Last Gasp`_

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*Plate* V
   `"Mon Colonel, we are surrounded!"`_

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*Plate* VI
   `The Stroke of Eight`_

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*Plate* VII
   `"Fire and Fury!" shouted Aglionby`_

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*Plate* VIII
   `Mein Wirth is Surprised`_

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   Map And Plan

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`Map of the Low Countries in 1703`_

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`Plan of the Battle of Blenheim`_





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.. _`The Queen's Purse-Bearer`:

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   CHAPTER I


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   The Queen's Purse-Bearer

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Winton St. Mary—Cricket: Old Style—Last Man
In—Bowled—The Gaffer Explains—More Explanations—Parson
Rochester—"The Boy"—Cambridge in the Field—Village
Batsmen—Old Everlasting makes One—The Squire—An
Invitation—Lord Godolphin is Interested—An Uphill
Game—Young Pa'son—The Winning Hit

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"Stap me, Frank, if ever I rattle my old bones over these
roads again!  Every joint in me aches; every wrinkle—and
I've too many—is filled with dust; and my wig—plague
on it, Frank, my wig's a doormat.  Look at it—whew!"

My lord Godolphin took off his cocked hat, removed
his full periwig, and shook it over the side of the calash,
wrying his lips as the horse of one of his escort started
at the sudden cloud.  My lord had good excuse for his
petulance.  It was a brilliant June day, in a summer of
glorious weather, and the Wiltshire roads, no better nor
worse than other English highways in the year 1702, were
thick with white dust, which the autumn rains would by
and by transform into the stickiest of clinging mud.  The
Lord High Treasurer, as he lay back wearily on his
cushions, looked, with his lean, lined, swarthy face and
close-cropt grizzled poll, every day of his fifty-eight years.
He was returning with his son Francis, now nearly twenty-three,
from a visit to his estates in Cornwall.  Had he been
a younger man he would no doubt have ridden his own
horse; had he been of lower rank he might have travelled
by the public coach; but being near sixty, a baron, and
lord of the Treasury to boot, he drove in his private
four-horsed calash, with two red-coated postilions, and four
sturdy liveried henchmen on horseback, all well armed
against the perils of footpads and highwaymen.

It was nearing noon on this bright, hot morning, and
my lord had begun to acknowledge to himself that he
would barely complete his journey to London that day.

"Where are we now, Dickory?" he asked languidly of
the nearest rider on the off-side.

"Nigh Winton St. Mary, my lord," replied the man.
"Down the avenue yonder, my lord; then the common,
and the church on the right, and the village here and there
bearing to the left, as you might say, my lord."

"Look 'ee, Frank, we'll draw up at Winton St. Mary
and wet our whistles.  My lady Marlborough expects
us in town to-night, to be sure; but she must e'en be
content to wait.  Time was——eh, my boy?—but now,
egad, I'll not kill myself for her or any woman."

"'Twould be a calamity—for the nation, sir," said
Frank Godolphin with a grin.

"So it would, i' faith.  Never fear, Frank, I'll not
make way for you for ten years to come.  But what's
afoot yonder?  A fair, eh?"

The carriage had threaded a fine avenue of elms, and
come within sight of the village common, which stretched
away beyond and behind the church, an expanse of rough
turf now somewhat parched and browned, broken here
by a patch of shrub, there by a dwindling pond, and
bounded in the distance by the thick coverts of the
manor-house.  My lord's exclamation had been called forth by
the bright spectacle that met his eyes.  At the side of
the road, and encroaching also on the grass, were ranged
a number of vehicles of various sizes and descriptions,
from the humble donkey-cart of a sherbet seller to the
lofty coach of some county magnate.  Between the
carriages the travellers caught glimpses of a crowd; and
indeed, as they drew nearer to the scene, their ears were
assailed by sundry shoutings and clappings that seemed
to betoken incidents of sport or pastime.  My lord
Godolphin, for all his coldness and reserve in his official
dealings, was in his moments a keen sportsman; from
a horse-race to a main of cock-fighting or a sword-match,
nothing that had in it the element of sport came
amiss to him; and as he replaced his wig and settled
his hat upon it his eyes lit up with an anticipation vastly
different from his air of weary discontent.

"Split me, Frank," he cried in a more animated tone
than was usual with him; "whatever it is, 'twill cheer us
up.  John," he added to the postilion, "drive on to the
grass, and stop at the first opening you find in the ring.
Odsbodikins, 'tis a game at cricket; we'll make an
afternoon of it, Frank, and brave your mother-in-law's anger,
come what may."

The postilions whipped up their horses, wheeled to the
right, and drove with many a jolt on to the common,
passing behind the row of vehicles until they came to an
interval between one of the larger sort and a dray heaped
with barrels of cider.  There they pulled up sideways to
the crowd, over whose heads the occupants of the calash
looked curiously towards the scene of the game.  It was
clearly an exciting moment, for beyond a casual turning
of the head the nearest spectators gave no heed to the
new-comers.  A space was roped in at some distance in
front of the church, and within the ring the wickets were
pitched—very primitive compared with the well-turned
polished apparatus of to-day.  The stumps were two short
sticks forked at the top, stuck at a backward slant into
the turf about a foot apart, with one long bail across them.
Nothing had been done to prepare the pitch; the grass
was short and dry and stubby, with a tuft here and there
likely to trip an unwary fielder headlong.  There was no
crease, but a hole in the ground.  Nor was there any
uniformity of attire among the players: all had the
stockings and pantaloons of daily wear, and if there was any
difference in their shirts, it was due merely to their
difference in rank and wealth.

"Over" had just been called as Lord Godolphin and his
son drove up, and something in the attitude of the crowd
seemed to show that the game was at a crisis.  The
umpires, armed with rough curved bats somewhat like
long spoons, had just taken their new places, and the
batsman who was to receive the first ball of the new over
was taking his block.  A tall, loose-limbed young fellow,
he held his bat with an air of easy confidence.

"Egad, sir, 'tis Gilbert Young," said Frank Godolphin
to his father.  "I knew him at Cambridge: a sticker.
Who's the bowler?  I don't know him."

The bowler was a youth, a mere stripling of some
sixteen or seventeen years, who stood at his end of the
wicket, ball in hand, awaiting the word to "play".  His
loose shirt was open at the neck; his black hair, not yet
cropt for a wig, fell in a strong thick mass over his
brow; and as he waited for the batsman to complete his
somewhat fastidious preparations, he once or twice pushed
up the heavy cluster with his left hand.

"Gibs was ever a tantalising beast," said Frank aside.
"Hi, you fellow!" he shouted to a broad-shouldered yokel
who stood just in front of him by the rope, "how stands
the score?"

The man addressed looked over his shoulder, and seeing
that the speaker was one of the "quality" he doffed his
cap and replied:

"'Tis ninety-four notches, your honour, and last man in.
Has a'ready twenty-vive to hisself, and the Winton boys
can't get un out."

"Play!" cried the umpire.  The batsman stood to his
block, and looked round the field with a smile of
confidence.  The bowler gave a quick glance around, took
a light run of some three yards, and delivered the
ball—underhand, for round-arm bowling was not yet invented.
The ball travelled swiftly, no more than two or three feet
above the ground, pitched in front of the block-hole, and
was driven hard to the off towards a thick-set, grimy-looking
individual—the village smith.  He, bending to
field the ball, missed it, swung round to run after it, and
fell sprawling over a tussock of grass, amid yells of
mingled derision and disappointment.

"Pick theeself up, Lumpy!" roared the man to whom
Frank Godolphin had spoken.  But the ball had already
been fielded by Long Robin the tanner, running round
from long-on.  Sir Gilbert meanwhile had got back to his
end of the wicket, and the scorer, seated near the umpire,
had cut two notches in the scoring stick.

Again the ball was bowled, with an even lower delivery
than before.  The batsman stepped a yard out of his
ground and caught the ball on the rise; it flew high over
the head of the remotest fieldsman, over the rope, over
the crowd, and dropped within a foot of the lych-gate of
the church.  Loud cheers from a party of gentlemen
mounted on coaches in front of a tent greeted this stroke;
four notches were cut to the credit of the side, bringing
the score to a hundred.  There was dead silence among
the crowd now; it was plain that their sympathies lay
with the out side, and this ominous opening of the new
bowler's over was a check upon their enjoyment.

Sir Gilbert once more stood to his block.  For his third
ball the bowler took his run on the other side of the
wicket.  His delivery this time was a little higher: the
ball pitched awkwardly, and the batsman seemed to be in
two minds what to do with it.  His hesitation was fatal.
With a perplexing twist the ball slid along the ground
past his bat, hit the off stump, and just dislodged the bail,
which fell perpendicularly and lay across between the
sticks.  Sir Gilbert looked at it for a moment with rueful
countenance, then marched towards the tent, while the
crowd cheered and, the innings being over, made for the
stalls and carts, at which ale and cider and gingerbread
were to be had.

"Egad, 'twas well bowled," ejaculated Lord Godolphin;
"a cunning ball, a most teasing twist; capital, capital!"

"I'll go and speak to Gibs," said Frank.  "Will you
come, sir?"

"Not I, i' faith.  'Tis too hot.  Bring him to me.  I'll
drink a glass of cider here and wait your return."

There was a cider cart near at hand, and his man
Dickory brought my lord a brimming bumper drawn from
the wood.  He winced as the tart liquor touched his
palate, unaccustomed to such homely drink; but it was
at least cool and refreshing, and he finished the bumper.
As he gave it back he noticed an old man slowly
approaching, leaning with one hand upon a stout knobby
stick of oak, and holding in the other a rough three-legged
stool, which he placed between my lord's calash and the
rope.  He was a fine-looking old man, dressed in plain
country homespun; his cheeks were seamed and weather-beaten,
but there was still a brightness in his eyes and an
erectness in his figure that bespoke health and the joy of
life.  He sat down on the stool, took off his hat and wiped
his brow, then, resting both hands on his stick, looked
placidly around him.  There was no one near to him; the
space was clear, for players and spectators had all flocked
their several ways to get refreshment, and for some
minutes the old man sat alone.  Then Lord Godolphin,
to ease his limbs and kill time, stepped out of his carriage
and went towards the veteran.

"Well, gaffer," he said, "have ye come out to get
a sunning?"

The old man looked up.

"Ay sure, your honour," he said, "and to zee the
match.  You med think me too old; true, I be gone eighty;
come Martinmas I shall be eighty-one, and I ha'n't a
wamblen tooth in my head—not one, old as I be.  A
man's as old as he feels, says my boy—one o' the wise
sayens he has: I ha'n't felt no older this twenty year,
nay, nor twenty-vive year neither."

"By George!  I wish I could say the same.  What's the
match, gaffer?"

"Well, they do say 'tis for a wager; 'tis all 'I'll lay ye
this' and 'I'll lay ye that' in these days.  I don't know
the rights on't, but 'tis said it all come about at a supper
up at Squire's.—Do 'ee know Squire?  Eh well, there be
the house, yonder among the trees.  Squire's son be hot
wi' his tongue, and at this same supper—I tell 'ee as I
yeard it—he wagered young Master Godfrey of the Grange
he'd bring eleven young gen'lmen from Cambridge college
as would beat our village players at the cricket.  A
hunnerd guineas was the wager, so 'tis said.  Master
Godfrey he ups and says 'Done wi' 'ee', and so 'tis come
about.  The Cambridge younkers be all high gentry,
every man on 'em; our folks, as your honour med see, be
just or'nary folks in the main: there's Long Robin the
tanner and Lumpy the smith—he that turned topsy-turvy
a-hunten the ball by there; and Honest John the miller:
Old Everlasten they calls un, 'cause he never gets cotched
out nor bowled neither: ay, a good stick is Old
Everlasten, wi' a tough skin of his own.  And there be Soapy
Dick the barber, and Tom cobbler, and more of the
village folk; and the only gentry among 'em is Master
Godfrey hisself and pa'son's son, and he don't count
for gentry wi' some.  Do 'ee know pa'son? a good man,
saven your honour, ay, a right good man is Pa'son
Rochester, and stands up to old Squire like a game-cock,
so he do—a right good man is pa'son, ay sure.  And his
son Harry—well, to tell 'ee the truth, I'm main fond of
the lad; main fond; 'tis a well-favoured lad, well spoken
too, and he thinks a deal o' me, he do, and I thinks a
deal o' he.  Why, 'twas he bowled that artful ball as
put out t' last man from Cambridge college.—There, my
old tongue runs on; I don't offend your honour?"

"Not a whit," said my lord.  "The young bowler is
the parson's son, eh?  Bred for a parson too, I suppose?"

"He's over young yet, your honour, but a month gone
seventeen.  He said to me only yesterday: 'Gaffer,' says
he, 'what'll 'ee do 'ithout me when I go up to Oxford?'  He
be gwine come October, a' believe.  'Twas at Oxford
college they made his feyther a pa'son, so belike the lad'll
put on the petticoats too, though sure he's fit for summat
better.  But he'll make a good pa'son if he takes arter his
feyther.  Bless 'ee, Pa'son Rochester be the only man in
the parish as a'n't afeard o' Squire.  I be afeard o'
Squire, I be, though 'ee med not think it.  Ah! he's a
hard man, is Squire.  A' fell out with pa'son first 'cause
he wouldn't be his chaplain—goo up t' hall an' say
grace and eat the mutton and turmuts, an' come away
wi'out pudden.  Wi'out pudden!—I wouldn't goo wi'out
pudden for no man; that's why I first took a fancy for
pa'son.  Then Squire, he wanted to fence in a big slice of
this common land, as ha' belonged to the folks of Winton
Simmary time wi'out mind; and pa'son stood up to 'n,
and told 'n flat to his face 'twas agen the law, an' he had
the law on 'm, he did; an' the wise judges up in Lun'on
town said as how Squire were wrong.  But Lor' bless 'ee,
Squire be as obstinate as a pig; he don't care nowt for
judges; he ups and 'peals to King Willum hisself.  Then
King Willum dies, poor feller, an' Queen Anne sits proud
on the gold throne, an' there 'tis; 'twill take a time for
her poor woman's mind to understand the rights o' the
matter; her don't know pa'son so well as we."

"Or she might make him a bishop, eh?  Perhaps I can
put in a word for him," said my lord jestingly.

The old man stared.

"And who med 'ee be, your honour, if I mebbe so bold
to axe?" he said slowly.

"I?  Oh—well, I have care of the Queen's purse."

"There now, and I've been talken to 'ee just as if 'ee
were a knight or squire, when I med ha' known 'ee by
your cut for one of the mighty o' the earth.  But 'ee'll
forgive a old man—ay, gone eighty year.  I was born
three year afore Scotch Jamie died; no sart of a king was
Jamie, a wamblen loon, so I've yeard tell.  And Charles
One, he was well-favoured before the Lord, true, but not
a man of his word.  Nay, Noll Crum'ell was the right sart
o' king; I mind un well.  I was a trooper in his
regiment, and we was as fine a set o' men as ever trod neat's
leather, true, we was.  I rode wi' un to Marston Moor
in '44, nigh zixty year back.  Ay, a right king was old
Noll.  And I fought in Flanders when Noll was friends
with the French king; but I left that line o' life when
Charles Two come back with his French madams; and
now we be a-fighten the French, so 'tis said; 'twas what
us Englishmen was born for, to be sure; ay, that 'tis."

Here my lord's attention was attracted towards a group
of villagers approaching.  They were led by a short
well-set-up fellow with a humorous cast of face; his thumbs
were stuck into his arm-pits, and as he walked he was
singing to the accompaniment of a flute played by the man
at his side.  The old man looked towards him and smiled
affectionately.

"'Tis my boy a-comen," he said.  "Was born in '59,
your honour, the year afore Charles Two coom back;
and I chrisomed un Sherebiah Stand-up-and-bless out of
Nehemiah nine; a good boy, though wilful."

The boy of forty-three was singing lustily:

   |  "'Twas on a jolly summer's morn, the twenty-first of May,
   |  Giles Scroggins took his turmut-hoe, and with it trudged away.
   |  For some delights in hay-makin', and some they fancies mowin',
   |  But of all the trades as I likes best, give I the turmut hoein'.
   |    For the fly, the fly, the fly is on the turmut;
   |    And 'tis all my eye for we to try, to keep fly off the turmut."
   |

"Mum, boy, mum!" said his father.  "The boy has a
sweet breast, your honour," he added, turning to Godolphin,
"and 'tis my belief 'twill lead un into bad company
in the days o' his youth.  He *will* sing 'Sir Simon the
King' and 'Bobbing Joan', and other sinful ditties.  Ah!
I had a good breast in my time; and you should ha' yeard
Noll's men sing as we marched into Preston fight; I could
sing counter to any man.—Boy, doff your hat to the
Queen's purse-bearer.—Ay, 'twas psa'ms an' hymns an'
speritual songs in my time, as the Book says."

"Sarvant, yer honour," said the new-comer, bobbing
to Godolphin.  "Feyther been taken away my good
name?  'Tis a wise feyther knows his own child; feyther
o' mine forgot that when he named me Sherebiah
Stand-up-and-bless.  Beant the fault o' my name I ha'n't took
to bad courses.  But there, he's a old ancient man, nigh
ready for churchyard—bean't 'ee, dad?"

"Not till I make a man on 'ee, boy."

"May I present my friend Sir Gilbert Young, sir?"
said Frank Godolphin, coming up at this moment through
the gathering crowd.

My lord bowed and swept off his hat in the courtly
fashion of the day, in response to a still lower salutation
from the young Cambridge man.

"I am honoured, my lord," said Sir Gilbert.

"My lard, i' fecks!" ejaculated Sherebiah's father, with
a startled look.  "My lard,—an' I ha'n't even pulled my
forelock!  Boy, doff your cap to my lard!  And the Book
says, 'They shall stand afore princes', and I'm a-sitten!"

The old fellow began to struggle to his feet with the
aid of his staff, but Godolphin laid his hand on his arm,
and pressed him down.

"Sit fast, gaffer," he said.  "See, the players are
coming out again.  I am pleased to have met one of
Noll's veterans so hale and hearty, and I hope your son
will turn out as great a comfort to you as mine."

He put his arm fondly through Frank's, and returned
to his carriage.  The crowd was collecting about the
rope, and the Cambridge men were already taking their
places in the field.  Their score of a hundred was higher
than the average in those days, and the villagers were
eagerly discussing the chances of their team excelling it.
They had seen nothing of the other side's bowling powers,
but as they compared notes on the various merits as
batsmen of Honest John, and Long Robin, and Lumpy, and
the rest, many of them shook their heads and looked
rather down in the mouth.

The first pair of batsmen came to the wickets.  They
were Old Everlasting and Soapy Dick.  The former took
the first over, bowled by Gilbert Young, the captain
of the team, and calmly blocked every ball of the four,
giving a wink to his friends in the crowd when over was
called.  Soapy Dick, at the other wicket, was a little man
with very red hair brushed up into a sort of top-knot in
front.  He handled his bat in a nervous manner, and was
made still more nervous by the cries of the crowd.

"Hit un, Soapy!" cried one yokel.  "Doan't be afeard, man."

"Gi't lather, Soapy!" shouted another, whose cheeks
cried out for the barber's attentions.

Dick grinned mirthlessly, and fixed his eyes on the
bowler at the other end.  The ball came towards him—a
slow, tempting lob that was too easy to let pass.  Dick
lifted his bat and smote; the ball returned gently to the
bowler's hands, and a roar of derision sped the
shame-faced little barber back to the tent.  One wicket down,
and no notches!—a bad beginning for Winton St. Mary.

Lumpy was the next to appear.  He waddled across
the grass turning up his sleeves—a fat little fellow with
bandy legs, and arms as thick as most men's thighs.  As
he stood to take his block, he seemed to handle the bat
with contemptuous surprise, as though wondering what
use that was to a man accustomed to wield the
sledgehammer at the anvil.  Satisfied with his position, he
planted his feet firmly, drew his left hand across his
mouth, and glared fiercely at the bowler.  He was not
to be so easily tempted as poor Soapy Dick had been.
He waited for the ball, and as it rose brought his bat
down upon it with a perpendicular blow that appeared to
drive it into the turf, where it lay dead.  The Cambridge
men roared with laughter, the crowd applauded vigorously,
and Lumpy once more wiped his mouth on the
back of his hand.  The third ball of the over came,
pitching slightly to leg.  Lumpy jumped completely round as
the ball reached him, and with a tremendous swipe sent
it high over long-stop's head into a patch of gorse, whence
it was not recovered until he had had three notches cut
to his credit.  The last ball of the over thus came to
Old Everlasting, who solemnly blocked it, and beamed
upon the spectators with his usual smug smile.

Lumpy had but a short life, after all.  There was no
cunning about him; if he hit a ball it was bound to travel
far, but he struck out every time with the same violence,
and when he missed could hardly recover his balance.  In
twenty minutes he had scored eleven notches, Old
Everlasting having consistently done nothing but block the
balls that fell to him; then, in hitting out, Lumpy, never
too steady on his bow leg's, overbalanced himself and fell
flat, and the long bail was promptly knocked off by the
wicket-keeper.  Two wickets down for eleven.

After this, disaster followed disaster in such rapid
succession that the villagers looked blue.  Long Robin the
tanner was caught second ball, and was afterwards heard
complaining bitterly of the bad leather the ball was made
of.  Tom the cobbler came to the wicket with a bat of
his own—one that he kept hanging behind his kitchen
door, and took down every week for a thorough greasing.
He scored six notches, then hit a ball into his wicket, and
in the tent afterwards explained to his cronies that another
week's greasing would have prevented the accident.  Four
wickets were now down for seventeen, and Godfrey
Fanshawe himself came in, amid a great outburst of cheers
from the crowd, with whom he was very popular, and
who looked to him, as the originator of the match and
the captain of the team, to retrieve the fortunes of the
day.  He snicked his first ball for one; then Old
Everlasting evoked intense enthusiasm by poking a ball
between slip and point, and scoring his first notch.  The
score rose slowly to thirty-one, Fanshawe making all the
runs, and then he ran himself out in trying to snatch an
extra from an overthrow.  The fifth wicket was down.
Fanshawe was reputed the best batsman in the team,
and Winton St. Mary was still sixty-nine behind.  There
was much shaking of the head among the villagers, and
they waited in glum silence for the next man to appear.

"Look 'ee!" exclaimed the old trooper suddenly, "beant
that old Squire a-comen down-along by covert fence?"

"True, Gaffer Minshull," said a by-stander; "what
eyes 'ee've got, for a old ancient soul!  'Tis old Squire
sure enough, and young Squire and the Cap'n wi' un."

Old Minshull leant forward on his stick, and with
pursed lips peered at the three figures approaching.  One
was a burly man in the prime of life, dressed in
semi-military garb—a feathered hat, long red coat marked
with many stains and wanting some buttons, leather
breeches, and spurred boots.  His features were coarse
and red, his eyes prominent and blood-shot; he walked
with a swagger, his left hand on his sword-hilt.  The
second was a youth of some twenty years, dressed in
the extremity of foppishness.  A black hat, looped up
and cocked over one eye, crowned a full auburn wig
fastidiously curled.  The coat was blue, the waistcoat
purple, open to display a fine holland shirt.  A laced
steinkirk was tucked in at the breast.  The breeches
matched the vest, the stockings were of red silk, the
shoes had high red heels and large silver buckles.  In
Mr. Piers Berkeley's mouth was a toothpick; from one
of the buttons of his coat dangled an amber-headed cane.

The third figure was a striking contrast to the others.
He was tall and thin and bent, with pale wrinkled cheeks
and bushy white eyebrows that ill matched his dark wig.
He scarcely lifted his eyes from the ground as he moved
slowly along, leaning heavily upon a silver-knobbed stick.
His dress was fusty and of a bygone mode; to a
Londoner the old man must have resembled a figure out of
a picture of Charles the Second's time.

"Who's this queer old put ambling along, Frank?"
asked my lord.  "The rascals there avoid him as he had
the plague."

"On my life I don't know, sir," replied Mr. Godolphin.
"The fellow with him might stand for Bobadil himself."

"Or for Captain Bluffe in Mr. Congreve's play."

"And the young sprig wants a kicking."

"Sarvant, my lord," put in Sherebiah, who was standing
by; "'tis old Squire, and young Squire, and——  No,
I won't say 't; a wise head keeps a still tongue; I won't
say 't, leastways when a fowl o' the air med carry it
where 'twould do me and feyther o' mine no manner
o' good."

The crowd parted with a kind of sullen unwilling respect
to make way for the new-comers.  Suddenly the squire
paused, as the elder of his two companions addressed him;
flashing an angry glance at him, he said a few vehement
words in a low tone that no one else could hear.  Captain
Ralph Aglionby laughed aloud, shrugged carelessly, and
sauntered across the common towards the tent.  The
squire followed him with a dark glance for a moment,
then resumed his slow progress with his son, and came
to within a few feet of Lord Godolphin's carriage.

"Your lordship's servant," he said with a profound
bow, copied with elaborate elegance by his son.  His
voice was thin and hard, a voice that set the teeth on
edge.  "I heard your lordship was on the ground, and
made bold to come and pay my duty to your lordship."

"I am vastly beholden to you, Mr.——"

"Berkeley, my lord, Nicolas Berkeley of Winton Hall;
and would your lordship but favour me, I should be proud,
when the match is over, to offer your lordship a cover at
my table—poor country fare, I fear, but such as it is,
freely at your lordship's disposal."

"'Tis handsome of you, Mr. Berkeley, but I fear our
business will not permit us to accept of your hospitality.—Ah!
I perceive the next batsman is coming to the wicket.
I hope you're as keen a sportsman as I am myself, and
will forgive me if I fix my attention on the game."

Mr. Berkeley bowed again with expressionless face, and
after a moment's irresolution moved away.  Gaffer
Minshull might have been observed to lick his old lips with
appreciation at this the very courtliest of cold shoulders.
Piers Berkeley, the young squire, stayed for a minute or
two, gazing with silly face at my lord; then, finding that
he remained unnoticed, he stuck the head of his cane into
his mouth and walked away sucking it.

The game was resumed.  For an hour it was tedious
watching.  The new batsman snatched a run now and
then, while Old Everlasting blocked every ball that came
to him with the same want of enterprise and the same
boundless self-satisfaction.  At length his partner was
caught in the long field; the sixth wicket had fallen,
and the score was no more than forty-five.

"Give you three to one against the rustics, Frank," said
Lord Godolphin.

"I'll take you, sir, though 'tis a risk.  Who's our next
man?"

"'Tis our bowler friend, the young sprig of a parson,
unless I mistake," said my lord.  "What's the lad's name,
gaffer?"

"'Tis Henry Winterborne Rochester, my lard, by the
water o' baptism; too rich a name for poor folks like we.
Young pa'son we calls un mostly."

"A limber youth.  I like his looks, eh, Frank?  Does
he bat as well as he bowls?"

"Middlen, my lord, middlen," said Sherebiah.  "Has
a good eye, but a deal o' growen to do afore he can
smite the ball as it should.  But there, my lord, he as
can't do what he would must do what he can, as you
med say."

"Nothen truer, boy," said his father approvingly.  "Ay,
'tis a pretty lad.  Gi' un a cheer, souls."

"Mum, feyther," expostulated Sherebiah.  "Old Squire's
comen back-along this way; little sticks kindle fires, as
you med say."

"True.  I be a timbersome man, afeard o' Squire,
though you med n't think it.  Well!"

But though Gaffer Minshull forbore to cheer, the rest of
the crowd had no scruples, and the warmth of their greeting
brought a flush to the new batsman's honest face.  He
stood at the wicket with quiet ease and watched Old
Everlasting block the last ball of the over; then he glanced
around, stooped to his bat, and fixed his gray eyes steadily
on the bowler.

The rest of the afternoon provided an unfailing subject
for gossip in the village for six months afterwards.
Playing at first with patient wariness, Harry never let a ball
pass his bat, but treated all with a respectful consideration
that was as noticeable as his graceful style.  He played
two overs without getting a notch; then, after another
excellent blocking performance by his partner, came a
change.  The first ball of the next over was rather loose;
Lord Godolphin, who, perhaps alone of the spectators, kept
his gaze fixed on the batsman's face, saw his lips come
together with a slight pressure and his eyes suddenly
gleam—and there was the ball, flying straight over the
bowler's head, passing between two coaches into the road.
Gaffer Minshull was on the point of raising his stick to
wave it, but was stopped by his son with a "Mind old
Squire, feyther o' mine."

"Varty-vive and vour makes varty-nine," muttered the
old man.  "I could do a bit o' cipheren in my time.  Ay,
varty-nine."

Nothing came of the next ball, but the third rose most
happily to Harry's bat, and with a neat little cut he sent it
under the rope among the crowd, who nimbly parted to let
it roll.  Three notches were cut to his credit.  Old
Everlasting complacently blocked the next ball, and Harry
treated the bowler at the other end with great respect till
the fourth ball, which he snicked away for a single.
Getting back thus to the wicket at which he had started, he
delighted the spectators by driving every ball of the over,
at the close of which the score had risen to sixty-three.

"'Tis the eye doos it," said the old man delightedly;
"Master Harry has'n clear an' steady.  Ay sure, a' would
ha' made a good captain for Noll Crum'ell; if so be he's
a pa'son, all the use he can make o' his eye, 'twill be to
tarrify poor sinners like you an' me, my lard."

But misfortune was in store for the Winton St. Mary
men.  Old Everlasting had the first ball of the next over,
delivered by a new bowler, a lanky fellow with a
tremendous pace, for whom two long-stops were placed.  The
batsman was taken by surprise; he missed the ball, the
stumps went flying, and Old Everlasting walked away
scratching his poll, rejoicing in the magnificent score of
one.  Harry accompanied him to the tent, and held a
short conversation with the next man.  The fruit of this
was seen as soon as they reached the wickets.  The first
ball missed bat, stumps, wicket-keeper, and both
long-stops; Harry called his partner for a bye, and though
there was plenty of time for a second run he was
contented with a single, thus securing the next ball.  This
he hit round to leg, a stroke that ought to have made two,
but his partner was somewhat bulky, and suffered for his
misfortune by being promptly run out after one run had
been scored.

Eight wickets were now down, and the score was
sixty-five—thirty-five behind that of the Cambridge eleven.  A
restlessness was observable in the crowd; it seemed
impossible that the home team could win; and there was
general despondency when it was noticed that the
incoming batsman was a spindle-legged fellow known as
Soft Jemmy, who did odd jobs about the village.  Only
Sherebiah still appeared full of confidence.

"A fight bean't lost till it be won," he said.  "Keep
up your sperits, souls."

Soft Jemmy never got a chance to miss the ball.  Such
scheming was never seen on a cricket-field before.  Harry
had privately instructed Jemmy to do just as he was told,
and the half-witted youth at least knew how to obey.
When Harry called him he ran; when told to stand in
his ground he remained fixed like a post; and so, snatching
byes, blocking, hitting when it was safe, Harry defied
all the bowling, and the score rose by ones and twos and
threes.  A change came over the attitude of the
spectators.  From dejection they passed to almost delirious
joy.  Every hit was cheered to the echo; every little
manoeuvre of "young pa'son" added to their delight.
The effect on the out side was equal and opposite.
They became irritated at the altered aspect of the game.
Bowlers bowled wildly; fieldsmen fielded loosely, and got
in one another's way; and the more agitated they became,
the more coolly and confidently did Harry ply his bat.  At
last, stepping out to a full pitch, he made a magnificent
drive over the bowler's head, and brought the total to a
hundred and two.

The cheer that rose from the crowd might have been
heard a mile away.  Some of the men made a rush for
Harry, and bore him shoulder-high to the tent.  Others
flew to secure their winnings, and celebrate the famous
victory in cider or home-brewed ale.  Gaffer Minshull was
with difficulty dissuaded from whirling his hat round on
the top of his stick, and nothing could check his gleeful
exclamation:

"A flick to young Squire; a terrible douse, ay sure!"

"By George, a notable match!" said Godolphin.  "Your
young parson is a lad of mettle, gaffer; he'll be a
sportsman an he lives long enough.  Here, man, drink his
health, and tell him from me that the Lord Treasurer
loves pretty play.  Come, Frank, we'll drive on."

He flung a coin to the old man, remounted his carriage,
and drove off.  Gaffer looked at the money, then after the
calash.

"Ah, 'tis a mighty fine thing to hold the Queen's purse,
my lads, mighty fine!  There be a power o' these same
shinen bright ones in the Queen's purse; eh, lads?"

A shout came from the distance, and the eyes of the
small group around old Minshull were turned towards
the road.  Lord Godolphin's carriage had broken down.
The axle had snapped in two; the horses were plunging,
and my lord and his son were clinging to the sides of the
vehicle.  A score of sturdy fellows rushed to lend a hand,
and Gaffer Minshull was left to himself.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Sherebiah Shouts`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER II


.. class:: center large bold

   Sherebiah Shouts

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

An Angling Story—Old Izaak—Landed—Breakfast—Marlborough's
Smile—The Story of a Potticary—Dosed—On the
Horizon—Highwaymen—A Man of Peace—Behind the Scenes—Nos
Duo—Promises—Black John Simmons—Sherebiah is Troubled

.. vspace:: 2

"'Tis here or hereabouts, baten years ha'n't tooken my
memory.  True, feyther o' mine calls me boy, and so I be
to a old aged man like him; but when a man's comen on
forty-four, and ha' seen summat o' the world—well,

   |  "'Man's life is but vain, for 'tis subject to pain
   |    An' sorrow, an' short as a bubble;
   |  'Tis a hodge-podge o' business, an' money, an' care,
   |    An' care, an' money, an' trouble.'

Ay, 'tis so, 'tis so!"

Sherebiah sighed, but the sigh ill became his round,
jolly face; it was merely to chime with the words of the
song.  He was walking, about six o'clock on the morning
after the cricket-match, along the bank of a little
hill-stream, rod in hand, yet not expecting to halt for a while,
for he took no pains to moderate his voice.  He was not
alone.  His companion was the youth who had won
the match for Winton St. Mary on the previous day—Harry
Rochester, the parson's son.  Each carried a rod—the
huge clumsy rod of those days, nearly seventeen feet
in length; each was laden with wallet, landing-net, and
other apparatus; and in fact they had already had an
hour's sport with ground-bait, having risen from their
beds soon after three on this ideal angler's morning.  A
haze lay over the ground, and a light rain was falling.

Sherebiah was several yards ahead, scanning the banks.
His voice sank a little as he repeated the lines:

   |  "'Tis a hodge-podge o' business, an' money, an' care,
   |    An' care, an' money, an' trouble."
   |

"Cheer up!" said Harry, behind him.  "I like the second
verse best, Sherry:

   |  "'But we'll take no care when the weather proves fair,
   |    Nor will we vex now though it rain—
   |

He was interrupted by the sudden halt of Sherebiah.
The man had swung round; his lips were shot out in the
motion of shooing, a warning finger was held up.  Harry's
voice died away, and he hastened to his companion's side.

"Yonder's the spot," said Sherebiah in a whisper, pointing
to a large pool, shaded with willows, some thirty yards
ahead.  "Mum's the word!  They be sharp-eared, they
trouts.  'Tis there I took ten lusty nibblers, ten year
agoo come Michaelmas.  Faith, 'twas all I could do to
carry 'em; ay, and I shouldn' ha' got 'em home but for
Tom Dorrell, t' carrier from Salisbury, who came trundlen
along in his wagon.  He be dead an' gone, poor soul, as
must we all."

"And what did you do with them?" asked Harry with
a smile.

Sherebiah was famous for his angling stories, and they
had perhaps as much foundation as most.  No one in the
country-side knew the ways of the trout as he did; but he
was equally at home in trolling for jack or pike, roving
for perch, and sniggling for eels.  None could match his
knowledge of the flies in their several seasons: the hour
of the day at which each is most killing; the merits of
the silver twist hackle and the lady-fly, whether for
dapping or whipping; when to use the black gnat, when the
blue; under what conditions of the evening sky the shyest
trout will rise to a red spinner.  And who could tie a fly
like Sherebiah Minshull?  Many a time Harry had examined
his rich store of materials—as varied as the contents
of a witch's cauldron: feathers of every bird that flies,
manifold silks and wires and hooks, wax and needles,
hog's down and squirrel's fur.  Many a time had he
watched him dress a fly and thread a bait, and admired
his dexterous whipping of the streams.

"What did I do wi' 'em?"  Sherebiah had sat down
with legs far apart, and was carefully selecting a fly from
his case.  He spoke always in a whisper.  "Well, 'tis
ten year since, and my memory bean't what it was; but
now I mind on't, I gi' one to Tom carrier for his
lift, and a couple to miller up by Odbury, and one to
Susan Poorgrass at Sir Godfrey's—I was a-courten then;
her wouldn't ha' me, thank the Lord!—and a couple to
Ned Greenhay, Sir Godfrey's keeper as was, for a brace
o' leverets; and to please feyther o' mine I took three up
to the Hall.  Zooks! and small thanks I got, for old
Squire hisself come to the door, and gi' me a douse, he
did; said if I didn't find summat better to do than go
traipsen the country-side, poachen or wuss, he'd commit
me for a rogue and vagabond.  An' th' old curmudgeon
kept the fish; ay, he did so!—Ah! ha' got it; 'tis a fly
that cost me more time in the maken than a dozen others;
a beauty, to be sure; eh, Master Harry?"

He proceeded to put it on his hook.  It was an artificial
oak-fly, blue, green, brown, and orange so cunningly
mingled that no trout could fail to be deceived.

"We'll now see some sport," continued Sherebiah, still
in a whisper, as he prepared to cast.  "I can't abide
bait-fishen; sport, i' faith! 'tis mere bludgeon-play.  True, it
fills the pot, but there's no pleasure in 't.  'Tis no pastime
for a true bob."

"Why, Sherry, 'twas only yestere'en I was reading in a
most excellent book of angling by Master Izaak Walton,
and he, it seems, held little to the fly.  His discourse is in
the main of bait."

"Why, there 'tis.  I met Master Walton once, a-fishen
in the Itchen above Winchester—a quaint man, with a
good breast for a song, for all he was ripe for the grave.
Myself I was but twenty or so, he a man of fourscore and
upward; ay, a fine hale old man, wi' a store o' memories.
We fell into talk; a' told me how a' once rid to Lunnon
wi' a rich jewel o' King Charles's in his doublet; ay, he
was a royal man, wi' a jolly red face, but no harm in un,
not a whit; and learned, too—but no angler.  No, faith,
no angler, for a' talked o' fishen down stream, a' did, when
ne'er a child but knows fish lie wi' their heads up stream.
Ye cotch fish as 'ee do Frenchmen, from behind!  Now,
hook's ready.  Mum, Master Harry, while I cast."

He dropped his fly deftly into the still pool, watching it
with keen eyes and pursed lips.  Meanwhile Harry had
chosen an orle fly, and made his cast a little lower down.
The anglers were silent for some minutes.

"What's that?" asked Harry suddenly, looking up as
a distant sound of wood-chopping reached his ears.

"Mum, boy!" whispered Sherebiah in reply.  "There,
I beg pardon, Master Harry, but you've scared away a
samlet just as he opened his jaws.  That?  'Tis Simon
forester, belike, fellen Sir Godfrey's timber.  Now, a still
tongue——"

He broke off, rose, and followed his line stealthily for a
yard or two.  The surface of the water was disturbed, and
Harry caught a glimpse of a gleaming side.  There was
a splash; the rod bent; then Sherebiah hastened his steps
as the fish went away with a rush.

"He's a-showen fight," whispered Sherry.  "Whoa! he's
sounded, Master Harry; a big un.  Pray the tackle
may hold!  Ah! he's clear, and off again!  Whoa! whoa!
Nay, my pretty, 'ee may fight, but I'll land 'ee."

For ten minutes the contest continued; then the angler
got in his line slowly, and beckoned to Harry to assist
him.  The fish was carefully drawn in; Harry stooped
with his net at the critical moment, and with a sudden
heave landed a fine four-pounder, which he slipped into
Sherebiah's creel.

"That's the way on't, Master Harry," said Sherebiah
contentedly.  "Had no luck yourself, eh?  What be 'ee
a-fishen wi'?"

"An orle."

"Ah, 'tis an hour or two too early in the day for that,
mebbe.  Still, these waters of Sir Godfrey bean't often
fished since young Master Godfrey went to Cambridge
college, and the trout mayn't be over squeamish.  Stick
to 't!"

An hour passed, and both anglers were well satisfied.
Sherebiah's fly proved irresistible, either from its cunning
make or the wary skill with which he whipped the stream.
Four fat trout had joined the first in his basket; two had
rewarded Harry's persistence; then he laid down his rod
and watched with admiration the delicate casts of his
companion.  Sherebiah landed his sixth.  The haze having
now disappeared, and the sun growing hot, he wound up
his line and said:

"Rain afore seven, fine afore 'leven.  I be mortal
peckish, Master Harry; what may 'ee have in your basket,
now?"

"Powdered beef, I think, Sherry; and Polly put in a
cate or two and some radishes, and a bottle of cider;
plain fare, you see."

"Well, hunger's the best saace, I b'lieve.  We poor
folks don't need to perk up our appetites.  I warrant,
now, that mighty lord we saw yesterday would turn up his
nose at powdered beef.  Fine kickshawses a' had at Sir
Godfrey's, no doubt.  To think o' such a mighty lord, the
Queen's purse-bearer an' all, bein' kept in a little small
village by rust or dry-rot, just like a ordinary man!  Old
Squire would ha' liked to gi' him a bed, I reckon; but Sir
Godfrey were aforehand, an' there he lies till this mornen:
axle was to be mended by six, if Lumpy had to work all
night to finish the job.  Med I axe 'ee a question, Master
Harry?  Do 'ee think that shinen piece a' flung to feyther
were his own, or out o' Queen's purse?"

Harry laughed.

"Lord Godolphin doesn't go about the country with
the Queen's purse slung at his waist, Sherry.  What he
meant was that he was Lord Treasurer, the Queen's chief
minister, the man who rules the country, you know."

"Well, now, if I didn't think it'd be folly to carry the
Queen's purse loose about the country!  Then 'tis Lord
Godolphin says we're to fight the French?"

"Yes, he and my lord Marlborough between them."

"Ah! there 'tis.  My lord Marlborough bean't free
with his money like t'other lord.  *He* wouldn't ha' given
old feyther o' mine nothen.  Why, I was at Salisbury in
'88 when my lord—Lord Churchill he was then, to be
sure—was there to meet King Willum, and I held his horse
for 'n, and he gi' me—what do 'ee think he gi' me,
Master Harry?"

"Well?"

"Nowt but a smile!  What med 'ee think o' that for
a lord?  'Thank 'ee, my man,' says he, and puts his foot
in the stirrup and shows his teeth at me, and rides off!
Lord!  Now t'other one, the Lord Godolphin, he is a lord,
to be sure, a fine free-handed gentleman, though he ha'n't
got such fine teeth.  I like a lord to be a lord, I do."

"My lord Marlborough is indeed rather close-fisted,
they say."

"Ay, but I ha' knowed a wuss.  Did ever I tell 'ee of
Jacob Spinney the potticary?  I was a growen lad, and
feyther o' mine wanted to put me to a trade.  So he bound
me prentice to Jacob Spinney, that kept a potticary's shop
by Bargate at S'thampton.  Zooks!  Jacob was a deceiver,
like his namesake in the Book.  A' promised feyther he'd
gi' me good vittles and plenty on 'em, bein' a growen lad;
but sakes, I never got no meat save at third boilen; 'twas
like eatin' leather.  A' said I was growen too fast, a' did,
and he'd keep me down.  Pudden—I never put my lips to
pudden for two year, not once.  I took down shutters at
zix i' the mornen, and put 'em up at eight o' nights;
betwixt and between I was pounden away at drugs, and
carryen parcels, and scrubben floors and nussen mistress'
babby: ay, what med 'ee think o' that?  If so happened I
broke a bottle, or overslept five minutes—oons! there was
master a-strappen me to a hook in the wall he kept o'
purpose, and layen a birch over my shoulders and keepen
me on bread and water or turmuts not fit for a ox.  I
dwindled crossways to a shadder, Master Harry, I did so,
and every week th' old villain made me write a letter to
feyther, sayen as how I was fat and flourishen like a green
bay tree.  Do what a' would, however, I growed and
growed, at fourteen a long slip of a feller all arms and
legs.  Two mortal year I put up wi' un; then I got tired.
One day, mistress was out, and I was rollen pills in the
little back shop, when master come in.  He was in a
terrible passion, goodness alone knows what about.  He
pitched into me for wasten his drugs and eatin' up all his
profits, and hit me with his cane, and sent me spinnen
agen the table, and knocked off his best chiney mortar,
and there 'twas on the floor, smashed to atomies.  Bein'
his own doen, it made his temper wuss, it did, and he
caught me by the hair and said he'd skin me.  I' fecks, I
were always a man o' peace, even as a boy, but I'd had
long sufferen enough, and now my peaceful blood was up.
I wriggled myself free—and there he was, flat on the
floor, and me a-sitten on him.  He hollered and cussed,
for all he was a Puritan; and, haven respect unto my
neighbours, I stuffed a handkercher into his mouth.  There
I sits, a-thinken what to do wi' un.  'Twas in for a
penny in for a pound wi' me then; I'd have to run,
'dentures or no 'dentures, and it seemed fair to have my
pen'orth afore I went.  There was that hook I knowed so
well, and that strap hangen still and loose: 'I'll gi' un
a taste o' the birch he be so uncommon fond on,' thinks I.
So I hoists un up, and soon has un strapped ready; but
looken at un I thinks to myself: 'You be a poor wamblen
mortal arter all, skinny for all the pudden you eat.  I'll
ha' mercy on your poor weak flesh.'  Besides, I had
another notion.  So I casts un loose and sits un on a
chair and straps un to chair-back, hands to sides.

"You med have heard of Jacob Spinney's famous
mixture for pimples?  Well, 'twas knowed all over Hants
and Wilts.  'Twas a rare sight o' market days to see the
farmers' wives a-troopen into the shop for bottles o' the
mixture.  But th' odd thing was, Spinney hisself was
owner of a fair pimpled face, yet never did I know un
take a dose o' his own firm cure.  'I pity 'ee,' says I to
un, as he sat strapped to the chair; 'poor feller, wi' all
those pimples.  Shall have a dose, poor soul.'  Many's
the bottle I'd made up: 'twas brimstone and powder o'
crab and gentian root in syrup.  Well, I mixed a dose all
fresh afore his eyes, and got a long wooden spoon, and
slipped the handkercher out o' his mouth and the dose in.
The ungrateful feller spets it out and begins to holler again;
so in goes the handkercher, and says I: 'Ye don't know
what's for your own good.  Bean't it tasty enough?  Ah,
Master Spinney, often and often 'ee've physicked me;
what's good for me without pudden will be better for
'ee with; you shall have a dose.'  So I made un a dose
o' senna and jalap and ipecacuan, but I was slow with
the handkercher, and afore I could get the spoon in
he had his teeth clinched tight.  But I hadn't nussed the
babby for nothen.  I ups with finger and thumb and
pinches his nose; he opens his mouth for breath, and
in goes spoon, and sputter as he med he had to swaller,
he did.

"Ah, I was wild and headstrong in they young coltish
days.  I bean't so fond o' pudden now.  Not but what
they mixtures did Jacob Spinney a world o' good, for his
next prentice had a easier time nor me, steppen into his
master's business when he was laid in churchyard.  *I* got
no good on 'em, to be sure, for I had to run away and try
another line o' life, and ha' been a rollen-stone ever since.
Ay well, 'tis all one to a man o' peace."

During his narrative the breakfast had been finished.

"Well, Sherry, when I'm out of sorts I'll come to you,"
said Harry, rising.  "Now, while you pack up, I'll go
a stroll up the hillside; there'll be a good view now the
day is clearing, and maybe I'll get a glimpse of Salisbury
spire."

He left the river-bank and strolled leisurely up a gentle
ascent, which gradually became steeper until it terminated
somewhat suddenly in a stretch of level ground.  Fifty
yards from the edge rose a long grassy mound, a well-known
landmark in the neighbourhood.  It was, in fact,
a barrow, dating centuries back into the dim ages—the
burial place, perhaps, of British warriors who had fought
and fallen in defence of their country against the Roman
invader.  Harry had always felt a romantic interest in
these memorials of the past, and more than once had
stood by such a barrow, alone in the moonlight of a summer
night, while his imagination called up visions of far-off
forgotten things.

He sat down now with his back to the mound, and
allowed his eyes to rove over the prospect.  Tradition
said that three counties were visible from this elevated
spot, and on a clear morning like this it seemed likely
enough that report said true.  Far to the left, peeping
over the bare contour of Harnham Hill, rose the graceful
spire of Salisbury Cathedral, at least fifteen miles away
as the crow flies.  His eye followed the winding course
of the little stream below him, losing it here and there
behind some copse or knoll, tracing it again to its junction
with a larger stream, till this in its turn was lost to view
amid the distant elm-bordered meadows.  Nearer at hand
he saw the old Roman road, grass-grown and silent now,
bounding the park of Sir Godfrey Fanshawe, crossing the
stream by an ancient bridge, and running into the London
road at some invisible point to the right.  It was a very
pleasing prospect, brilliant beneath the cloudless sky, and
freshened by the early morning showers.

As he looked along the forsaken highway, once trodden
perhaps by the legions of Constantine the Great, his
glance was momentarily arrested by a small moving speck
in the distance.  "Some wagon from one of Sir Godfrey's
home farms," he thought.  It was approaching him, for it
passed out of sight into a clump of trees, then reappeared,
and was again hidden by an intercepting ridge.  The road
was downhill; in fifteen or twenty minutes, perhaps, the
wagon would pass beneath him, at a point nearly three-quarters
of a mile away, where the highway skirted a belt
of trees perched on the side of a steep declivity.  Between
him and the road lay a ditch which, as he knew, was apt
in winter-time to overflow on to the meadows and the
lower parts of the track, making a sticky swamp of the
chalky soil.  But it was dry now, and the floodings were
only indicated by the more vivid green of the grass and
the tall reeds that filled the hollow on this side.  On the
other side a strong stone wall edged the road, marking
the boundary of Sir Godfrey's park; it was overhung with
elms, from which at this moment Harry saw a congregation
of rooks soar away.

Thus idly scanning the roadway, all at once his eye lit
upon the figure of a horseman half concealed by the belt of
reeds in the hollow.  He was motionless; his back was
towards Harry, his horse's head pointing towards the
road, from which he was completely screened by the reeds
and the willows.

"What is he doing there?" thought Harry.  He rose,
and walked towards the edge of the descent.  Narrowly
scanning the brake, he now descried two other horsemen
within a few yards of the first, but so well concealed that
but for his quickened curiosity he would probably never
have discovered them.  For all he knew, there might be
others.  "What is their game?"  His suspicion was
aroused; the vehicle he had seen approaching was perhaps
not a wagon; it might be a chaise belonging to Sir
Godfrey; it might be——  "Why, 'tis without a doubt Lord
Godolphin himself on his way to London, and coming
by the shortest cut."  There was no need for further
speculation; in those days the inference was sure: a
carriage in the distance, a party of horsemen lurking in
a copse by the roadside——  "'Tis highway robbery—ah! the
Queen's purse!"

Harry unconsciously smiled at the thought.  His first
impulse was to warn the approaching travellers.  But
the carriage was at present out of sight; he could not
make signals, and before he could reach the stretch of
road between the ambuscade and their prey, the travellers
would certainly be past, while he himself might be seen
by the waiting horsemen, and headed off as he crossed
a tract of open country.  Moving downwards all the time,
he in a flash saw all that it was possible to do.  The
stream passed under the roadway some twenty yards
beyond the spot where the horsemen were lying in wait;
the banks were reedy, and might screen an approach to
the copse beyond the wall.  There was a bare chance, and
Harry took it.

He raced downhill towards Sherebiah, who was sitting
on the bank still, placidly smoking his pipe; landscape had
no charm for him.

"Sherry," said Harry in jerks, "Lord Godolphin or
someone is driving down the road; highwaymen hiding
in the reeds; in five or six minutes—come, come, we have
no time to lose."

"Then we'll go home along," said Sherry, putting his
pipe in his pocket as he rose.

"Nonsense! we can't slink away and leave them to be
robbed."  Harry took Sherry by the arm to drag him
along.

"What be the good?  Fishen-rods bean't no match
for pistols, and bein' a man o' peace——"

"Come, I can't wait.  I'll go alone, then."

He released the man's arm and stepped into the stream.
Sherebiah hesitated for a moment; then, seeing that Harry
was in earnest, he dropped his tackle and strode forward,
saying:

"Zooks, not if I knows it!  I'm a man o' peace, sure
enough, but fairplay's a jewel.  Have at the villains!"

He followed Harry into the water.  Side by side they
raced on, dodging the weeds, scrambling over occasional
rocks, slipping on the chalky bottom, making at top speed
for the bridge.  As they approached this they went more
slowly, to avoid being heard.  Fortunately, at the point
where the road crossed the stream there was a line of
rocks, over which the water plunged with a rustle and
clatter, drowning the sound of their footsteps.  They had
to stoop low to avoid the moss-grown masonry of the
arch; as they emerged on the farther side they heard a
muffled exclamation from one of the horsemen, and climbing
the steep face of the tree-covered slope towards the
wall they heard a shot, then another, mingled with shouts
and the dull thuds of horses' hoofs on the turf-covered
road.

On the way Harry had explained his plan in panting
whispers.  Running along now under cover of the wall,
they came opposite to the scene of the ambush.

"Now, Sherry, do your best," said Harry, as he
prepared to mount the wall.

Instantly a new clamour was added to the uproar in the
road.

"This way!"

"Shoot 'em!"

"Lash the noddy peaks!"

"Pinch their thropples!"

"Quoit 'em down!"

"Haick!  haick!"

By this time Harry was on the wall, by favour of
Sherebiah's strong arm.  A slug whizzed past his head and
sank with a thud into the trunk of a tree just behind;
next moment the horse-pistol from which it had been
discharged followed the shot, the butt grazing Harry's
brow.  There was no time to take in the details of the
scene.  Harry made a spring for the masked horseman
who had fired at him, two yards from the wall; but the
fellow, alarmed by the various shouts and the sudden
appearance of Sherebiah at Harry's side, dug the spurs
into his steed's flanks and galloped off down the road,
over the bridge, and out of sight.  One of his companions
lay motionless on the road; the others had ridden away
at the first alarm from the wall.

Harry mopped his brow and looked about him.  Lord
Godolphin stood upright in the carriage, his lips grimly
set, a smoking pistol in his hand.  His son was on
foot with drawn sword; a postilion was crawling out of
the ditch all bemired, pale and trembling.

"Odzooks!" cried my lord, "a welcome diversion!"

.. _`Harry makes a Diversion`:

.. figure:: images/img-030.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: Harry makes a Diversion

   Harry makes a Diversion

He was perfectly cool and collected, though his hat was
off and his wig awry.  "A thousand thanks, my men.
Whew! 'twas in the nick of time.  Where are the rest
of you?"

"There are no more, my lord," said Harry, lifting his
cap.

"No more!  But the shouts, then?—I heard a dozen
shouting, at least.  Are the rest on the other side of the
wall?"

"All on this side, my lord," said Harry with a smile.
"Here is the mob."

He indicated Sherebiah, who touched his cap and bobbed
to his lordship.

Godolphin stared, then chuckled and guffawed.

"Egad! 'tis a rare flam.  Frank, this fellow here did it
all, shouted for a dozen; by George, 'twas a mighty neat
trick!  And, by George, I know your face; I saw you
yesterday, I believe!  What's your name, man?"

"Sherebiah Stand-up-and-bless Minshull, my lord," said
Sherry, "by the water o' baptism, your honour, for I was
born while old Rowley were in furren parts.  If a'd been
born two year arter, my lord, I med ha' been chrisomed
wi' less piety."

"I remember you, and the old gaffer your father—a
fine old fellow.  Well, my man, your name suits me
better; 'tis for us to stand up and bless, eh, Frank?  And
here's a guinea for you."

Sherebiah put his hands behind him and looked down at
the coin in my lord's hand.

"Nay, nay, my lord," he said slowly.  "True, I did the
shouten, or most on't, but 'twas Master Harry his notion.
Pa'son's son, you see, my lord; know'd all the holy story
o' Gideon; says to me, 'Sherry,' says he, 'shout high and
low, bass and tribble, give it tongue,' says he; and I gi'd
it tongue, so I did."

Both gentlemen laughed heartily.

"I recognize you now," said my lord, turning to Harry,
who looked somewhat embarrassed.  "Surely you are the
hero of yesterday's cricket match?  You swing a straight
bat, my lad, and, stap me! you've a quick wit if you
devised this late surprise.  How came you on the scene?"

"We'd been fishing yonder, my lord, and I chanced to
spy your carriage and the villains waiting here, almost at
the same time.  It was clear what they were about, and as
there was no time to warn you we came along the stream,
and—Sherry shouted."

His smile as he said the last words met an answering
smile on Lord Godolphin's face.

"A mighty clever trick indeed—eh, Frank?  We're
beholden to you.  'Twas a mere chance that I sent my
mounted escort on ahead by the highway to arrange a
change of horses, never thinking to be waylaid at this
time o' day."

"Ay, 'twas the Queen's purse, my lord," struck in
Sherebiah.  "To know Queen's purse-bearer were a-comen
along old road like a common mortal, 'twere too much for
poor weak flesh and blood."

"The ignorant bumpkins mistook your meaning," said
Frank.

"So it appears.  But come, you're the parson's son, I
believe.  I forget your name?"

"Harry Rochester, my lord."

"Going to be a parson yourself, eh?"

"I am going up to Oxford in October, my lord; my
father wishes me to take orders."

"Ah!  And your own wish, eh?"

Harry hesitated.

"Come, out with it, my lad."

"I had thought, my lord, I should like to carry the
Queen's colours; but 'tis a vain thought; my father's living
is small, and——"

"And commissions in the Queen's army sell high.  'Tis
so, indeed.  Well, I heard something of your father last
night at Sir Godfrey's; you can't do better than follow his
example.  And hark 'ee, if ever you want a friend, when
you've taken your degrees, you know, come and see me;
I owe you a good turn, my lad; and maybe I'll have a
country vicarage at my disposal."

"Thank you, my lord!"

"And now we must get on.  Dickory, you coward,
help these two friends of ours to remove that tree.  The
villains laid their ambush well; you see they felled this
larch at an awkward part of the road."

"And I thowt 'twas Simon forester a-choppen," said
Sherebiah, as he walked towards the tree.

"What shall we do with this ruffian on the road?"
said Frank Godolphin.  "He appears to be stone dead.
'Twas a good shot, sir."

"Leave the villain.  You'll lay an information before
Sir Godfrey or another of your magistrates, young master
parson.  Did you recognize any of the gang?"

"No, my lord.  I only saw the masked man.  Perhaps
Sherry was more fortunate."

"Not me neither," said Sherebiah hastily.  He had
gone to the fallen man, looked in his face, and turned
him over.  "'Twas all too quick and sudden, and my
eyes was nigh dazed wi' shouten."

"Well, well, Sir Godfrey's is near at hand; go and
inform him, and he will scour the country.  We must
push on."

The tree was removed; the bedraggled and crestfallen
postilions resumed their saddles, and with a parting salutation
my lord drove off.  Harry stood looking thoughtfully
after the departing carriage.

"Master Harry," said Sherebiah, coming up to him,
"this be a bad business.  The man bean't dead."

"He's saved for the hangman, then."

"Ay, and who med 'ee think he be?"

"You do know him, then!  What does this mean, Sherry?"

"Well, I be a man o' peace, and there's mischief to
come o' this day's piece o' work, sure as I'm Sherebiah
Stand-up-and-bless.  'Tis black John Simmons, Cap'n
Aglionby's man."

"A scoundrel his master may well be rid of."

"Ay, if the man were dead!  But he be alive; the lord
didn't shoot'n at all; 'a fell off his horse and bashed his
nob; an' he's got a tongue, Master Harry."

"Well, what then?  If he rounds on his fellows, so
much the better.  What are you afraid of, Sherry?"

"I bean't afeard, not I; but the Cap'n——"

He paused, and Harry looked at him enquiringly.
Sherebiah turned away.

"Ah! little sticks kindle fires, little sticks kindle fires,
they do."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Master and Man`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III


.. class:: center large bold

   Master and Man

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

A Midnight Summons—A Warm Reception—Righteous
Indignation—Aglionby Retorts—The Berkeley Arms—A
Village Sensation—The Constable's
Story—Aspersions—Unimpeachable
References—Waylaid—Squaring Accounts—The Captain
Rides Away

.. vspace:: 2

The clock of St. Mary's church had just chimed the first
quarter after midnight, and the deep note of the lowest
bell was dying away over the tree-tops, when the
sound was intercepted by the distant clink and clatter
of iron-shod hoofs on the hard road, approaching from
the direction of Salisbury.  The horse's pace was slow,
and there was something in the fall of the hoofs that
betokened a jaded steed.  It was a clear calm night;
the air carried every sound distinctly; and nothing broke
the stillness save the footfalls of the horse, an occasional
murmur from the birds in the trees, and the whirr of
wings as a solitary owl, disturbed by the nocturnal rider,
left its search for food and rustled back to its nook in
the tower.

The horseman came presently to the church, wheeled
round to the right, and urged his flagging beast along
the road leading to the manor house.  Arriving at the
park, he flung himself from the saddle, hitched the bridle
over his left arm, and turned the handle of the massive
iron gate.  But there was no yielding to his push: the
gate was locked.  The man shook and rattled the handle
impatiently, to assure himself that he was not mistaken,
then turned aside with an inarticulate rumble of anger,
and went to the lodge, a low ivy-grown cottage abutting
on the road.  He tapped on the small latticed window
with the butt of his riding-whip; there was no reply.  The
horse by his side hung its head and breathed heavily; it
was jaded to the point of exhaustion.  Again he rapped
on the glass, growling between his teeth; and when his
summons still met with no response he dealt so smart
a blow that one of the thick square panes fell in with a
crash.  A moment later a voice was heard from within.

"Away wi' 'ee!  Who be you, a-breaken an honest
man's rest at this fearsome time o' night?"

A night-capped head appeared at the hole, just visible
in the faint illumination of the clear summer sky.

"Open the gate, Dick," said the rider impatiently.
"Ods my life, will you keep me waiting here, will you?"

"Be it you, Cap'n?"

"Zounds, man, must I tell you my name?  Ha' ye
never seen me before!  Stir your old stumps, or by the
lord Harry——"

"Squire give orders t' gate were to be locked and
kep' locked; not a man to come in, not a soul.  They's
my orders, ay sure, Cap'n."

"Orders! orders!" cried the other in a burst of passion.
"Adslidikins, if you're not at the gate with the key
inside of two minutes I'll put a slug through your jolt
head, you mumper, you miching rogue you!"

And indeed Captain Aglionby displayed a monstrous
blunderbuss, and pointed it full in the face of the scared
lodge-keeper.  For an instant the man hesitated; then,
muttering to himself, he disappeared from the window,
and soon afterwards emerged from the side door within
the palings, his night-gown showing beneath a heavy
driving coat.  He came towards the gate with the
key—a bent old man, tottering and mumbling.

"I shall lose my place; Squire give orders, a' did, not
a soul to come in; to drag a aged man from his nat'ral
sleep an' lose him his place an' all; well, I was forced;
no man can zay as I warn't forced; mumper as I be, I
vallies my little bit o' life, and——"

"Hold your tongue, you old flap-eared dotard, and
make haste, or I'll pink your soul.  Don't you see the
jade's dead-beat; 'tis time I stabled her."

The man turned the key and slowly opened the gate.
With a grunt the captain led his horse through, and,
without so much as a glance at the lodge-keeper, proceeded
up the quarter-mile drive leading to the house.

"Old Nick's not abed," he said to himself as he cast
his eye over the house front.  A light shone from a
window in the turret over the porch.  "The old
nightbird!  Lock me out!  Oons!"

He threw the bridle over an iron post at the side of
the entrance, and walked round a projecting wing of the
building till he came to a small door in the wall.  He
turned the iron ring, pushed, rattled; the door was fast
shut.  Cursing under his breath, he was proceeding
towards the servants' quarters when he heard the creak
of a key turning, and, wheeling round, came to the postern
just as it was opened by Squire Berkeley himself, his tall,
lean, bent figure enwrapped from neck to heel in a black
cassock-like garment, a skull-cap of black velvet covering
his head.  He held a lighted candle; his piercing eyes
flashed in the darkness.

"Hey, Squire!" cried the captain in a tone of forced
good-humour, "I had much ado to rouse old Dick.  'Tis
late to be sure; but if you'll give me the key of the stables
I'll settle Jenny for the night and get to bed."

He made as if to enter, but Mr. Berkeley spread himself
across the narrow doorway.

"Who are you, sirrah," he said, "to break into my
park against my express orders?"

There was contempt in his cold incisive tones, and
anger with difficulty curbed.

"Why now——" Aglionby began.

"Who are you, I say?  And what am I, that my orders
are defied, and my house made a common inn, a toping
house for you and your toss-pot ruffians?  Go—go, I say!"

The captain was for a moment staggered; the old man's
manner left no room for doubt that he was in earnest.
But Aglionby was too old a campaigner to cry off so
easily.  In a tone half-conciliatory, half-aggrieved he
said—

"Fair and softly, Squire!  this is but scurvy treatment
of a tired man.  Look you, I've been in the saddle this
livelong day; the mare's well-nigh foundered; and for
myself—gads so, I could eat an ox and drink a hogshead.
To-morrow, in a few hours, I'll bid ye good-bye—for
a time, if ye want a change; but to-night—no, Squire,
'tis not hospitable of you, 'tis not indeed."

"You dally with me!" cried the squire, the hand that
held the candle shaking with passion.  "You set no foot
within this door—now, nor ever again.  Begone, while
there is time."

"While there is time!  Look ye, Master Berkeley, I
will not brook insults from you.  Yesterday you must
put an affront on me in the presence of my lord Godolphin,
shoving me out of the way as I were a leper, and at the
very moment, stap me! when I might ha' paid court to
his lordship, and got the chance o' my life.  Adsbud, I
was not good enough to approach my lord, to accost him,
have speech with him——"

"An omission you have since repaired," interjected the
old man with a meaning look.  The captain started, and
there was a perceptible interval before he resumed, in a
tone still more blusterous—

"Ods my life, what mean you now?  You took care I
should not meet my lord in your company; and, i' faith, he
showed he wanted none of that neither."

"Hold your peace and begone!" cried the squire in a
fury.  "You think I know nothing of your villainies?
How many times have I harboured you—ay, saved you
perchance from the gallows!  How many times have
you eat my food, rid my horses, browbeat my servants,
roistered it in my house, till I could bear with you no
longer, and then betaken yourself to your evil practices
abroad, consorted with villains, run your neck well-nigh
into the hangman's noose, and then come back with
contrite face and vows of amendment, to fawn and bluster
and bully again?  Out upon you!  Your rapscallion of
a servant is even now laid by the heels, and to-morrow
will have to answer to the charge of waylaying the Lord
Treasurer.  He's a white-livered oaf, and his tongue will
wag, and you'll companion him before Fanshawe, and
you'll swing on the same gibbet."

At the mention of his man's plight the captain's face
had fallen; but when Mr. Berkeley's tirade was ended he
broke into a laugh.

"Ha! ha!  Squire, now I come to understand you.  'Tis
your own skin you have a care for!  Ha! ha!  I might
have known it.  I am to be haled before Sir Godfrey,
am I? and to hold my tongue, am I? and to be mum
about certain little affairs in the life of Master Nicolas
Berkeley—that paragon of virtue, that pampered, patched
old interloper, am I?  By the lord Harry, if I stand in
manacles before Sir Godfrey, you shall bear me company,
you painted pasteboard of a saint!"

Berkeley's pale face blanched with fury.  For a moment
he was incapable of speech.  Then he stepped forward a
pace; the hand holding the candle shook so, that the
grease sputtered upon his gown.  His voice came in
vehement passionate whispers:

"You threaten me!  Do your worst—I defy you!—Back
to your wallow, bully!—begone!"

He suddenly withdrew within the doorway, slammed the
door, and bolted it.

"Whew!" whistled the captain, left standing outside.
"'Tis the worst passion ever I saw him in.  Defies me!
Well, Master Nicolas, would I could afford to take you
at your word!  A plague on Simmons!  I thought he
was dead.  He'll split, sure enough, and there's an end of
Ralph Aglionby.  Jenny, my dear, you're a sorry jade, but
you'll have to bear my carcase till we're out of harm's way.
We have five or six hours before the world's astir.  Do
your best, my girl, and we'll cheat 'em yet."

Captain Aglionby led his tired steed down the drive to
the gate, roused Dick the lodge-keeper with scant
ceremony, and in a few minutes was riding slowly towards
the village.  As he came into the principal street, he was
surprised to notice that the only inn was lit up, a most
unusual circumstance at that time of night.  The door
stood open, and there were lights in several of the
rooms on the ground floor.  A feeling of apprehension
seized upon him; he could not but connect these lively
signs with the events of the morning, and especially with
the capture of his man.  Could the fellow have blabbed
already?  He was just making up his mind to spur the
mare past the inn, over the bridge, on to the London road,
when two persons came to the door and caught sight of
him.  One was Mistress Joplady, the buxom hostess; the
other William Nokes, the village constable.  It was too
late to evade them: indeed he heard the hostess exclaim,
"Well, I never! 'tis the Cap'n hisself, sure."  Resolving
like a wise man to make the best of it, he rode up to the
door, dismounted, and, swaggering, with his usual air of
assurance said:

"Egad, mistress, I'm glad to find you afoot.  My mare's
dead-beat, has carried me nigh forty miles this day; send
Tom ostler to stable her, like a good soul; and give me a
bite and a bed.  I didn't care about disturbing the squire
at this time o' night."

The captain was no favourite with good Mistress Joplady,
but she received him now with something more than her
usual urbanity.

"Come away in, Cap'n Aglionby," she said.  "Sure
your name was in our very mouths.  Strange things be
doing—ay, strange things in Winton Simmary; bean't it
so, William Nokes?  Take the cap'n into the parlour,
William; a few souls be there, Cap'n, not fit company for
the likes o' you, to be sure, but they'll tell 'ee summat as'll
stir your blood, they will so.  Tom'll see to Jenny, so be
easy."

Captain Aglionby followed the constable into the parlour,
where a group of the village worthies were assembled.
They were neither smoking nor drinking, a sure sign that
they had something momentous to talk about.  A silence
fell upon the company as the captain clanked into the
room, and one or two of the more active-minded of them
threw a quick glance at each other, which the new-comer
did not fail to note.

"A fine night, men," said the captain jovially.

"Ay, 'tis so."

"And a late hour to find the Berkeley Arms open."

"Ay, 'tis latish, sure enough."

"Any news from the army in Flanders?  A post from
London, eh?"

"Nay, not 'zackly that."

"Odzooks! speak up, men," cried the captain
impatiently.  "Why are they all mumble-chopped to-night,
mistress?" he asked, turning to the hostess, who had
followed him with bread and cheese and beer.

"Ah, they be pondering strange things," returned
Mrs. Joplady.  "Tell the cap'n all the long story, William
Nokes."

The constable, fingering the hat in his hand, looked for
sympathy into the stolid faces of his fellows, cleared his
throat, and began:

"Cap'n, your sarvant.  Eight o'clock this mornin', or
mebbe nine—'twixt eight and nine, if the truth was
told—comes Long Tom from the Grange, Sir Godfrey's man, as
ye med know, Cap'n.  Says he to me, 'Constable,' says he,
'Sir Godfrey commands 'ee as a justice o' the peace to
bring your staff and irons and other engines,' says he,
'up along to Grange, wi'out remorse or delay, and arrest a
prisoner in the Queen's name.'  You may think what a turn
it gi' me, souls, so early in the mornin'.  'Be he voilent?'
says I.  'Can I arrest the villain all alone by myself?'  'Ay
sure,' says he; 'there's no knowin' what a tough job
'twould be an he were sound and hearty, but he's dazed, so
he be, wi' a crack in the nob, and won't give no trouble to
no mortal constable, not a bit,' says he.  'A crack in the
nob,' says he; didn't he, souls?"

A murmur of assent came from the group.

"So I ups and goos wi' Long Tom hotfoot to the
Grange, and Tom he tells me by the way the longs and
shorts on't.  Seems 'twas Sherry Minshull as cracked
his nob, leastways he picked un up, he and young
master pa'son betwixt 'em, an' hoisted him on a cart o'
Farmer Leake's, an' so carried un to Grange and laid un
afore Sir Godfrey.  'Twas highway robbery, Cap'n, a-took
in the very act, a-stoppen the carriage o' the high lard as
come this way yesterday, or day afore, as 'ee med say,
seein' 'tis mornin' now by the rights on't.  And Sir Godfrey
commits un, he do, dazed as he were wi' the crack in the
nob, and hands un over to the law, and says, 'Constable,'
says he, 'keep the knave fast in the lock-up, an' hold un
till I gets word from my Lard Godolphin in Lun'on.'  They
be his words, Cap'n."

"Well, well, cut your story short, man.  Adsheart,
ye've more words than matter."

"Ay, but wait to th' end, wait to th' end," put in a
voice.

"The end of a rope 'twill be, and not for one neither,"
added another.

The constable looked a little uncomfortable.

"So I had un fast in the lock-up, Cap'n," he went on,
"and 'twas the talk o' the village all day long.  Squire
himself heard on't, and down he come, so he do, and
bein' hisself a justice o' the peace he goos into the
lock-up and zees the man, and axes un questions, not
for my ears, me bein' a constable; nay, I stood guard
at the door; and when Squire coom out he says to me,
'Constable,' says he, 'keep a good guard on un; he
deserves hangen, ay, and his mates too.'  Never seed I
Squire so mad-like; 'twas 'cos it was a lard, maybe, and
on his own ground, as 'ee med say."

"Ay, and nearer nor that," said a voice.

The captain put down the tankard from which he was
quaffing, and glared round the faces.  They were blank
as the wall behind them.

"And now what'll he say?" pursued the constable.  "He
were mad afore, ay sure; now he'll ramp and roar worse
nor the lion beast at Salisbury Fair.  Ye med not believe
it, Cap'n, but 'tis true for all that; the godless villain ha'
dared Squire an' Sir Godfrey an' me an' all; ha' broke his
bonds an' stole away, like a thief i' the night, as the Book
says."

"What!" cried the captain, leaning forward and thumping
the table.  "Escaped, has he?"

"A' has so, like a eel off the hook."

"Ha! ha!  Stap me! eels are slippery things.  But
'tis a rub for you, master constable.  You'll lose your
place, i' faith, you will."

"Why now, it be no sin o' mine.  I left un snug in
lock-up, I did, door double-locked and bar up, an' went
to take my forty winks like a honest poor man; an' no
sooner my back turned than out skips the pris'ner, like
Simon Peter in the story.  There be witchcraft in't, an'
that 'ee ought to know, Cap'n, seein' as the villain be
your own sarvant."

"Eh, fellow?"

"Sakes alive, I thowt as 'ee knowed that all the time!
Sure 'twas John Simmons, your honour's own body-slave,
so to speak.  An' I was main glad to see 'ee, Cap'n, 'cause
now 'ee know un for what he is, 'ee'll help me to cotch
un, in the Queen's name."

"Knows where he be, I'll be bound," said one of the
group in a low tone.  The captain sprang from his chair,
ran round the table, and, before the speaker could defend
himself, he caught him by the throat and hurled him to
the floor.

"Zounds, loon!" he cried in a passion, "what do you
mean?  Will you affront me, eh? will you mouth your
cursed insults to my very face?  Odzooks, I'll slit your
weazand, hound, and any man of you that dares a hint
o' the sort, so 'ware all!"

The men looked abashed and uncomfortable; the hostess
was pale with apprehension, and the constable edged
away from the irate captain.  His burst of passion
over, he turned to Mrs. Joplady and spoke in quieter tones.

"I brook no insolence, mistress.  I don't answer for
my servant's deeds behind my back.  I've been away all
day, as poor Jenny will bear me witness; was I to know
my fool of a servant would play highwayman in my
absence?  'Tis a useful fellow, civil, too, beyond most;
I picked him up in London; he was in truth commended
to me by no less than his grace the Duke of Ormond,
who tapped me on the shoulder in the Piazza at Covent
Garden, and said, 'Aglionby, my bawcock, you want a
servant; I know the very man for you!'  Could I suspect
a man after that?  How he got mixed up in this business
beats me.  And as for helping master constable to repair
his carelessness—adsbud, 'tis not likely.  The man in
truth is no longer servant of mine.  I am on my way
to serve the Queen in Flanders, and this very day
arranged with my friend Sir Rupert Verney to take the
fellow off my hands.  You may hang him, for me!"

"There now, Sam," said the hostess, turning to the
man who had been felled, and was now at the door
glowering; "your tongue runs away wi' 'ee.  Beg the
cap'n's pardon, and don't go for to make a ninny o'
yourself."

"Never mind, my good woman," said Aglionby loftily.
"The yokel knows no better.  Now, I'm tired out; give
me a bed, good soul, for I must away at sunrise—and
egad, 'tis past one o'clock!  Good-night to 'ee, men; and
I hope Sir Godfrey will forgive you, constable."

He went from the room, and soon afterwards the hostess
bade the villagers get to their beds, and closed the inn for
the short remnant of the night.

Before seven o'clock next morning the captain was on
horseback.  The ground was wet; it had been drizzling
for several hours, but a misty sun was now struggling
up the sky, and Tom ostler foretold a fine day.  The
captain rode off, answering with a bold stare the
suspicious and lowering glances of the few villagers who
were on the spot.  He was in high spirits; the anxieties
of the past night were gone; and as he rode he hummed
a careless tune.  He had ridden but little more than a
mile when, from an intersecting lane, a man stepped out
and gripped the horse's reins.

"Get off that there horse!" he said bluntly.

"Gads so, Sherry, you gave me quite a turn," said the
captain with unusual mildness.  "Don't hinder me, man;
I'm off to Flanders, and, i' faith, that's where you ought to
be yourself, if all was known.  Come, what's the meaning o't?"

"Get off that there horse!" repeated Sherebiah.  "I'm
a man o' peace, I be, and I settles all scores prompt."

There was a look of determination in his eyes, and in his
right hand he grasped a knobby cudgel.

"Right! but we've no accounts to settle.—What!" he
cried, as he saw Sherebiah's cudgel raised, "you play the
bully, eh?  Gadzooks, I'll ferk ye if——"

He was drawing his sword, but the cudgel fell with a
resounding whack upon his knuckles, and with a cry of
pain he scrambled to the ground and stood, a picture of
sullen rage, before his intercepter.

"I'll thank 'ee for your pistols," said Sherebiah,
removing them from the holsters as he spoke.  "Nay, don't
finger your sword; I be a man o' peace, and you know
my play with the quarterstaff.  Jenny, old girl, crop your
fill by the roadside while I have a reckonen wi' Cap'n
Aglionby."  He laid a curious stress upon the title.  "Now,
Ralph, you be comen wi' me into wood yonder.  'Tis there
we'll settle our score."

Seizing the captain with his left hand, he led him down
the lane, through a gap in the hedge, into a thin copse
of larches, until he came to a narrow glade.  Aglionby
assumed an air of jocular resignation; but that he was
ill at ease was proved by the restless glances he gave
Sherebiah out of the corner of his eye.

"Off wi' your coat!" said Sherebiah, having reached
the centre of the glade.  "Off wi't!  I be gwine to
pound 'ee; you can defend yourself, but you'm gwine to
be pounded whether or no."

"Confound you, man, what have I done to you?  Why
the——"

"Off wi't, off wi't!  Least said soonest mended.  Great
barkers be no biters, so it do seem; doff your coat, Cap'n
Aglionby!"

"Well, if you will!" cried the captain, with a burst of
passion.  "I'll comb your noddle, I'll trounce you, for an
insolent canting runagate booby!"

He flung his coat on the wet grass; Sherebiah laid down
the cudgel and followed his example.

"Come on, Cap'n Aglionby!" he said.  "'Tis not, as
'ee med say, a job to my liken, trouncen a big grown
man like you; but 't ha' got to be done, for your good and
my own peace o' mind.  So the sooner 'tis over the better."

To a casual onlooker the two would have seemed very
unequally matched.  The captain stood at least a head
taller than his opponent, and was broad in proportion.
But he was puffy and bloated; Sherebiah, on the other
hand, though thick-set, was hard and agile.

As if anxious to finish an uncongenial task with the least
delay, he forced matters from the start.  The captain had
no lack of bull-dog courage, and he still possessed the
remnant of great physical strength.  To an ordinary
opponent he would have proved even yet no mean antagonist;
and when, after a few sharp exchanges, Sherebiah's
punishing strokes roused him to fury, he rained upon the
smaller man a storm of blows any one of which, had it got
home, might have felled an ox.  But Sherebiah parried
with easy skill, and continued to use his fists with
mathematical precision.  Once or twice he allowed the captain,
now panting and puffing, to regain his wind, and when
the burly warrior showed a disposition to lengthen the
interval he brought him back to the business in hand with
a cheery summons.

"Now, Cap'n Aglionby," he would say, "let's to 't
again.  Come, man, 'twill soon be over!"

At last, beside himself with rage, the captain attempted
to close with and throw his opponent.  He could scarcely
have made a more unfortunate move.  For a few moments
the two men swung and swayed; then Aglionby described
a semicircle over Sherebiah's shoulder, and fell with a
resounding thud to the ground.  Neither combatant was
aware that for some time a spectator had been silently
watching them.  Harry Rochester, coming whistling
through the trees, had halted in surprise, at the edge
of the glade, as his eyes took in the scene.

"There now, 'tis over and done," said Sherebiah, stooping
to pick up his coat.  "That score's wiped off.  Stand
on your feet, man!  And I'll trouble 'ee for your sword."

The captain staggered to his feet.  He was in no
condition to refuse the victor's demand.

Sherebiah took the weapon and broke it across his knee.
From his own pocket he then took the captain's pistols.
He carefully drew their charges, and handed them back.

"Now, hie 'ee to Flanders," he said.  "You've done
more fighten this mornin' than you'll ever do there.  You'll
find Jenny on the road."

The captain glared at him, and seemed about to reply.
But he thought better of it, and with a vindictive glare
walked slowly away.

"What's it all about, Sherry?" said Harry, stepping
forward when Aglionby had disappeared.

"Ah, that be 'ee, sir?  'Twas only a little small matter
o' difference 'twixt Cap'n Aglionby and me.  We're quits now."

"You'll have to get Mistress Joplady to give you a raw
steak for your eye."

"Ay sure, Cap'n did get in a hit or two," replied Sherebiah
placidly.

"I didn't know you were such a fighter."

Sherebiah gave him a quick look out of his uninjured eye.

"Nay, I bean't a fighter, not me," he said.  "I'm a man
o' peace; I be so."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Mynheer Jan Grootz and Another`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV


.. class:: center large bold

   Mynheer Jan Grootz and Another

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

The Gaffer Chops Logic—In Print—The London
Coach—Simple Annals—A Village Hampden—Bereft—An
Offer of Service—A Hearty Send-off—Outside
Passengers—Introductions—Contractor to the
Forces—Followed—The Man on the Road—Sherebiah Muses

.. vspace:: 2

It was a dull, damp day towards the end of November,
a little more than four months after Captain Aglionby's
unhappy departure from Winton St. Mary.  There was
again great bustle at the Berkeley Arms; Mistress
Joplady's ample face was red with exertion, and her voice,
when she gave directions to her servants, was raised to
an acrimonious pitch far from usual with her.  The whole
village appeared to be gathered either within or without
the inn.  Gaffer Minshull was there, seated with his back
to the wall and leaning on his inseparable staff.  Lumpy,
Soapy Dick, Long Robin the tanner, Old Everlasting the
miller, stood in a group about the door, talking to the
ostler, who stood guard, with arms akimbo, over four
brimming pails of water ranged along the wall.

Soft Jemmy was standing a yard or two away, watching
with open mouth a man who, straddling across a
step-ladder, was smearing the ancient sign-board with
daubs of black paint, obliterating every trace of the crude
heraldic design that had marked the inn's connection with
the lord of the manor.  When the board was one
unbroken black, the painter descended the ladder with his
brush and can, winked at Jemmy, and went into the inn
to "mix the flavours", as he said in passing.  The
half-witted youth contemplated his handiwork for some minutes
in mild surprise; then he walked towards old Minshull
and addressed him timorously:

"Gaffer, I'm afeard my poor yead won't stand the
wonder on't, but it med do me good to know why John
painter ha' covered that noble pictur wi' the colour o' sut."

"Why, boy, black's for sorrow, as 'ee med know wi'out
tellen an 'ee weren't so simple, and 'tis a black day for
Winton Simmary, so 'tis."

"Why be it more black to-day than 'tis a-Sunday?"
asked the youth.  "'Tis Tuesday, gaffer, bean't it? and
new pa'son didn't holler it in church for a holy day."

"Boy, your poor yead won't stand high things, 'tis true,
but 'ee know young pa'son be off to Lun'on town to-day,
an' that's why all the souls be here, to see the last on un."

Jemmy looked up again at the defaced sign-board,
puzzling his poor brains to find some connection between
it and the departure of "young pa'son".

"'Tis a shame, gaffer," said Honest John, "to deceive
the poor lad, when you know the sign bean't painted out
for no such thing."

"Why, there now," returned old Minshull, "bean't it
all one?  I axe 'ee that, souls.  Young pa'son be a-gwine
to Lun'on 'cause his poor feyther's dead an' gone; Pa'son
Rochester be dead an' gone 'cause o' the fight; an I
weren't afeard on un, I'd say the fight were all along o'
Squire; and Mis'ess Joplady ha' changed the ancient sign
of th' inn 'cause her can't abear to think on't.  Bean't that
gospel truth, souls all?"

The group looked impressed with the old man's logic.
Mistress Joplady, coming for a moment to the door, had
overheard his concluding sentences.

"'Tis true," she said, wiping away a tear.  "I never
liked Squire; nobody never did as I ever heerd on; but
when pa'son died I couldn't abear him.  One thing I'm
thankful for from the bottom o' my heart, and that is,
that my house is college property, like the church, and
I can snap my vingers at Squire, and I do."  She suited
the action to the word.  "Has been the Berkeley Arms
for a hunnerd years, but 'twill be so no longer.  When
paint's dry, up goos the yead o' Queen Annie, bless her! a
poor soul as ha' lost all her childer, like myself, and
the Queen's Head it'll be for ever more."

"Ay, things be main different in village now, sure,"
said Lumpy.  "To think what mighty changes come in
a little time!  Zeems only a few days sin' young pa'son
won that noble match—you mind, souls, the day the lord's
carriage broke under the weight of the Queen's purse—ay,
the day afore he were stopped in old road.  I never
understood the rights o' that bit o' work.  Gaffer, hav 'ee got
that printed paper ye read, where the Lun'on talk be given
like the words of a book?"

Old Minshull slowly drew from his pocket a folded sheet,
rather dirty, worn at the edges, and falling apart at the
folds.  He opened it out with great care, and spread it
on his knees.

"That's he," said Lumpy.  "Gaffer, you be a scholard;
read it out loud to us again."

"Ay, an' don't need spectacles neither," said Minshull
proudly; "well, listen, souls."

Very slowly, and with as much deliberation as though
he were reading it for the first instead of the hundredth
time, and moving his forefinger along the line, the old
man began to read the account of the attempted robbery
of Lord Godolphin which the *Daily Courant* presented to
the London public a week after the event.  The names
of the principal persons concerned appeared with a dash
between the initial and final letters, and Godolphin's was
read by Minshull as "Lard G line n".  After briefly
relating the incident, the writer of the paragraph added:


"'Tis said the Prisoner that broke jail was a Servant of a
Captain A——y, a Guest at that time of Esq. N——s B——y.
The gallant Captain's Commission (as it is credibly reported) is
not under the seal of her Gracious Majestie, or King William lately
Deceas'd of Noble Memorie, but of the Czar of Muscovy.  'Tis
vouch'd by some 'twas none other than the Great Cham."


"Ay, that's print," said Soapy Dick at the conclusion
of the reading.  "The 'Cap'n A line y' was Cap'n
Aglionby sure enough, an' some did zay as how 'twas
he let the pris'ner out o' lock-up, and so brought shame
to Will'm Nokes."

"Ay, an' some did say as how the Cap'n hisself made
one o' the cut-purse rogues as waylaid the lard," said
Honest John.

"Old wives' tales," said Minshull.  "My boy Sherry
be wise for his years, an' he says Cap'n couldn't ha' let
prisoner out, 'cause a' were miles away at the time.  And
as for Cap'n bein' on the road—why, when Sir Godfrey
coom in all the might o' the law to 'stablish the truth,
Squire up and said as how Cap'n was abed and asleep on
that early mornen when the deed was done."

"Ay true, Squire said so; but did a' take his dyin' oath
like a common man?  Tell me that, souls."

At this moment the conversation was interrupted, and
the villagers were thrilled into excitement by the distant
tootle of a horn.

"Here be coach at last," cried the ostler.  "Ten minutes
behind time, and no sign of young Master Rochester.  Giles
coachman won't wait, not he."

But as the coach came in sight at a bend of the road,
two figures were seen hastening along from the direction
of the rectory.  One was a tall youthful form clad in
black from his low felt hat to his buckle shoes.  His
steinkirk was black, and its fringed ends were tucked
into a black waistcoat.  Black were his plain drugget
coat and breeches, black also his woollen stockings.
Nothing redeemed the sable hue of his garments save
his cambric shirt, the white front of which was much
exposed, in the fashion of the time.  Harry Rochester's
face was pale, its expression sad.

His companion, a head shorter than himself, was Sherebiah
Minshull, clad in the sober brown of ordinary country
wear, and trudging along steadily under the weight of
a fair-sized valise.  Winter or summer, his appearance
never varied: his firm round cheeks were always ruddy,
his blue eyes always bright; and his expression, now as
always, was that of placid self-content, well becoming "a
man of peace".

The two drew nearer to the inn, where the group had
by this time been enlarged by the accession of the greater
part of the village population, women and children,
workers and loafers, mingled in one interested throng.
As Giles Appleyard was at that moment explaining to
the passenger at his side, he had never seen such a crowd
at Winton St. Mary before, though he had driven the
coach, good weather and bad, for fifteen years come
Christmas.  It reminded him of the crowd at Salisbury Fair.

"And seein' as how I've been laid up wi' a bad leg for
two months," he added, "I'm behind the times, I be;
news travels slow to them as don't drive coaches, and,
i' feck, I know no more than the dead what this mortal
big crowd do mean, i' feck I don't."

But many voices were ready to tell him when, having
pulled up his four steaming horses at the inn door, he
descended with grave deliberation from his perch, saluted
Mistress Joplady with the gallantry of the road, and
entered her house "to warm his nattlens", as he said,
with a tankard of her home-brewed.  Young pa'son was
a-gwine to Lun'on town!  It seemed a slight cause for such
an unwonted scene; in reality it was a momentous event
in the life of Harry Rochester and in the history of his
village.  Small things bulk large in the imagination of
rustic folk; a journey to London came within the
experience of few of them; and the departure of young
pa'son, following so closely upon two such notable events
as the cricket match and the attack on the Lord High
Treasurer, had already furnished unfailing material for
gossip, and would be the theme of comment and
speculation for a year to come.

It was all along of old Squire, they said; and the coachman,
for the first and only time in his career, delayed his
departure for some minutes after the horses had been
watered, in order to listen to the story.  A few days after
Lord Godolphin's flying visit, Squire Berkeley had fenced
in a piece of land which time out of mind had been
regarded as part of the village common.  Old Gaffer
Minshull, whose memory went back fifty years, was called up
to tell how in the year '53, just before Christmas, the then
parson had held a prayer-meeting on that very spot to
celebrate the making of Noll Crum'ell Lord Protector;
he remembered it well, for it lasted five hours, and old
Jenny Bates fainted on the ground and took to her bed
from that day.

"Ay, 'twas a holy spot, an' Squire med ha' feared to
touch un, as the old ancient folk feared to lay hands on
the Lord's holy ark; but, bless 'ee, Squire bean't afeard
o' nothen, nay, not o' the still small voice pa'son do zay be
inside on us all."

When the ground was fenced in the good parson was
disposed to carry the matter to law.  But though he had
already won one case (a matter of right of way) in the
courts, the only result was that the squire had carried it
to appeal, trusting in the power of the purse.  The angry
villagers therefore determined to take the law into their
own hands.  Without consulting the rector, they
assembled one evening towards the end of October, and
hastening in a body to the disputed space, began to make short
work of the new fencing.  But the squire had got wind
of their intention, by some witchcraft of his own, they
believed: he soon appeared on the scene at the head of
a gang of his own men.  There was a fight; heads were
broken, and the squire's party were getting badly mauled
when the rector suddenly arrived and rushed between the
combatants.

"Ay, poor pa'son, I zee un now, I do," said Gaffer
Minshull feelingly, "goen headlong into the rout wi' all
his petticoats flyen!  A fine upstanden man was pa'son,
as ought to ha' been a man o' war.  A' stood in the eye of
Squire, an' Squire opened on un, gave tongue to a deal
o' hot an' scorchen words, a' did.  But pa'son took no
heed to'n, not he: he spoke up fair an' softly to Squire's
men, and wi' that way o' his a' made 'em feel all fashly
like; a' had a won'erful way wi' 'n, had pa'son; an' they
made off wi' their broken heads, they did; an' Squire was
left a-frothen an' cussen as he were a heathen Frenchman
or Turk.  Ah, poor pa'son!  Such a fine sperit as he had,
his frame were not built for 't; wi' my own aged eyes I
seed un go blue at the lips, and a' put his hand on his
bosom, a' did, an' seemed as if all the breath was blowed
out of his mortal body; and a' went home-along a stricken
soul, and two days arter his weak heart busted, an' young
pa'son had no feyther—ay, poor soul, no feyther, an' my
boy Sherebiah be nigh varty-vour, and here I be.  'Tis
strange ways Them above has wi' poor weak mortals—strange
ways, ay sure!"

Mr. Berkeley took advantage of the rector's death to
pay off old scores.  The legal actions which Mr. Rochester
had taken, on behalf of his flock, collapsed for want of
further funds; he had already seriously impoverished
himself by his open-hearted generosity; and when the squire
came down on the dead man's estate for the law costs,
Harry found that, after all debts were paid, he was
possessed of some twenty guineas in all wherewith to start life.

His project of going to Oxford was necessarily
abandoned.  He was at a loss to find a career.  Educated by
his father with a view to entering the Church, he was
fairly well grounded in classics and mathematics, and had
in addition a good acquaintance with French, and a great
stock of English poetry; but his knowledge was not
marketable.  He was too young for a tutor's place, and
had no influence to back him; friendless and homeless, he
was at his wits' end.

Then one day he bethought him of Lord Godolphin's
promise.  It had been frank and apparently sincere.  My
lord, it was true, had spoken of a country benefice when
Harry's Oxford days were over; but Harry reflected that
the slight service he had rendered was not likely to appear
greater with the lapse of time, while his need was actual
and urgent.  Why not take the Lord Treasurer at his
word, journey to London, and put his case before the man
who, in all the kingdom, was the most able to help him
if he would?

He mentioned the matter to Gaffer Minshull, rather
expecting that the sturdy veteran would pour cold water
on his idea.  To his surprise the old man urged him to
carry it out, and overbore the objections which every
high-spirited lad, even in those days of patronage, must
have had to soliciting favours from the great.  His
eagerness was partially explained to Harry when the old fellow
added a suggestion of his own.  He was seriously
concerned about his boy Sherebiah.  In spite of strict
injunctions to have nothing to do with the expedition against
the squire's fencing, Sherebiah, man of peace as he was,
had been attracted to the scene as a moth to a candle.  At
first he had watched events from a distance, among other
interested spectators; but when he saw the fight at its
beginning go against the villagers, owing to the superior
training of the squire's men, many of whom were old
soldiers, he could contain himself no longer.  At the head
of the waverers he dashed into the affray, and set such an
example of valour that it would have gone hardly with the
enemy but for the opportune arrival of the rector.

From that moment Sherebiah was a marked man.
Whatever reasons the father had for fearing Mr. Berkeley
were strengthened when it became evident that the squire
had marked and would resent the son's action.  Sherebiah
had been doing no good in the village since he suddenly
returned to it, from no one knew where, a few years
before.  His father was anxious that he should go away
for a time, at least until the squire's anger had cooled.
He welcomed the opportunity afforded by the approaching
departure of Harry.

"Let un goo wi' 'ee," he said.  "'Tis a knowen boy,
handy, with a head full o' wise things he's larned in the
world.  He'd be proud to sarve 'ee, ay, that he would."

"But, gaffer, I can't afford a servant.  Twenty guineas
are all I have, and I know not what may happen.  If Lord
Godolphin fails me, my money will soon be gone, and then
there'll be two poor fellows instead of one."

"Never fear.  I bean't afeard for 'ee.  And what does
the Book say?  Why, 'twas the holy King David as said
it hisself: 'Once I were young,' says he, 'and now I be
old; but never ha' I knowed the righteous forsaken, nor
his seed a-beggen bread neither.'  That's what he said,
and he knowed a thing or two, so he did."

"Perhaps he didn't know everything, gaffer.  Well,
you're set on it, I see.  Sherry would certainly be better
out of the squire's way; so he can come with me, and as
soon as I find something to do he had better look for
employment, and London ought to be a good place for that."

Thus it happened that, on this November morning, the
two passengers who had booked places in the Salisbury
coach for London were Harry Rochester and Sherebiah
Minshull.

The story took a long time in the telling in the parlour
of the inn, and Giles Appleyard was somewhat perturbed
when he saw by the big clock in the corner that his
departure was overdue.  He drained his tankard, wiped his
mouth with the back of his hand, and went out, calling
loudly to the passengers to take their places.  Harry
shook hands all round; every man had something to say
to him that was intended to be pleasant and encouraging,
but was in many cases the reverse.  His heart was full as
he thought of leaving the good folk among whom he had
lived and whose kindly feeling for him was so evident.
When, last of all, Mistress Joplady flung her arms round
his neck and hugged him to her ample bosom, and then
wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, he felt a lump
in his throat, and was glad to escape and mount to his
place on the roof of the coach.

"All right, Bill?" shouted the coachman over his shoulder.

"Ay."

"Let goo, ostler."

And gathering up the reins he cracked his whip, and
with a clatter and rumble the heavy vehicle, amid a
volley of cheers, lurched forward on the way to London.

The journey of nearly seventy miles was not likely to
be pleasant.  The stage-coaches of those days were large
and clumsy structures, with hard springs.  The inside
passengers were jolted and jostled; the outside
passengers had no proper seats, but found what sitting room
they could among the packages and bundles.  On this
morning, there was only one other passenger on the roof
of the coach, a stout broad-faced man dressed in brown
clothes much like Sherebiah's.  He had retained his seat
during the scene of farewell, and sat solemnly munching
a thick sausage, scanning the crowd out of shrewd little
twinkling eyes that seemed a size too small for the other
features.  When his sausage was finished, he filled a
huge pipe and sat puffing in stolid silence.

For some time after the coach started, no word was
spoken by the three passengers.  Harry was wrapt in his
thoughts, brooding over the past, dreaming about the
future.  Sherebiah had lit his pipe as soon as he was
settled, and smoked on contentedly, stealing a glance
every now and then at the broad figure separated from
him by a large travelling trunk.  He seemed to find some
amusement in these occasional peeps at his neighbour,
who by and by returned his glance.

"Mizzly mornen," said Sherebiah, with a nod.

"Zo," grunted the other.  His eyes were resting on
Sherebiah's pipe.

"Tobacco be a great comfort," said the latter, noting the
look.  "Master Harry there, he bean't come to 't yet; true,
'tis not for babes an' sucklens; but I took to 'bacca when
Susan wouldn't take me, and 'tis better nor any wife."

"Where you get dat pipe?" asked the stranger, in a
slow pleasant voice with a foreign accent.

"This pipe!  Why, over in Amesbury; see, 'tis marked
wi' the gauntlet, sure token of a Amesbury pipe, an' there's
no better in the land.  Why med 'ee axe such a feelen
question, now?"

"Once I zaw a pipe like it, wid de mark on it—de
gauntlet, you zay."

"Oh!  I say, master, what part o' the land med 'ee
hail from?  Your tongue makes me think 'ee med be a
Dutchman, though I wouldn't say so to your face."

The man looked at his interrogator without replying.
He stuffed the tobacco down into his pipe with a fat
forefinger which exactly fitted the bowl.

"You know Amsterdam, my vrient?" he said.

"Ha' been there, mynheer; so 'tis Amsterdam you hail
from!  Well, I ha' been in wuss places.  Ay, ha' seed
summat o' the world, I have, and I knowed 'ee by your
cut for a Dutchman."

There was silence again for a space.  Both the men
sat smoking, heedless of all things around them.  They
finished their pipes at the same moment, and, moved by
a mutual impulse, each handed his pouch to the other.

"Virginia," said Sherebiah laconically.

"Ah!  Barbados," returned the other.  "My name, Jan
Grootz."

"And it becomes 'ee," said Sherebiah.  "Now mine
bean't so good a match; 'tis over long for one o' my
inches, and over proud for a man so meek: Sherebiah
Stand-up-and-bless Minshull in the church book, but plain
Sherry to them as I takes to, like young pa'son there."

Harry was roused from his reverie at hearing himself
mentioned.  He looked for the first time at his
fellow-passenger, who at that moment lifted his podgy right
hand and pointed to a windmill in full sail a little distance
from the road.

"Ay sure, minds 'ee of home; your country's full of
mills, to be sure.  Mebbe you be a miller, now?"

The Dutchman waited to blow a great cloud from
his mouth before he answered.

"A sailor," he said; "but I have mills."

"A skipper," rejoined Sherry, looking over his costume.
"'Tis not for me to say, but to mortal eye you be more like
a varmer.—'Tis a skipper from Holland," he added,
including Harry in the conversation, "that has a mill or
two to his name and smokes 'bacca out o' Barbados."

"Jan Grootz," said the Dutchman.

Harry acknowledged the introduction, and remarked
on the slowness of their progress over the rough road.
On this Mynheer Grootz volunteered the remark that,
having come all the way from Bristol, he would be glad
when the journey was ended.  By degrees he became still
more communicative; and when the coach pulled up at
Basingstoke for the mid-day meal, Harry had learnt that
the Dutchman had been to Bristol to inspect a vessel of
which he was part-owner, and which had come most
fortunately to port after being first knocked about by a
French privateer, then badly damaged by a storm.  It
was to the storm that she owed her escape from the
Frenchman, and to her captain's seamanship her escape
from the storm.  Grootz was particularly gratified at her
safe arrival, for she represented a large amount not only
to him personally, but to others who could ill afford to
lose on a venture upon which he had persuaded them to
embark.

When the journey was resumed, the conversation
became still more friendly.  Harry liked the look of the
Dutchman.  His broad face with its wide nose and little
eyes was not handsome, but its expression inspired
confidence; and the careful slowness of his speech, and his
habit of pointing with his forefinger when he wished to
be emphatic, were a little amusing.  He asked no
questions, but Harry by and by found himself explaining his
own position and relating the events that had led to it,
and told him of his projected visit to Lord Godolphin.  At
this up came the forefinger.

"Ah, my young vrient, you are de son of a minister:
ver' well: you know de good Book: ver' well: 'Put not
your drust in princes;' de words are drue.  I tell you dis;
besides my mills and my ships, I do oder dings; I supply
food for de men and horses of de English and Dutch
armies; and I have met princes; yes—I, Jan Grootz.  I
tell you dis; wid a good honest merchant of London or
of Amsterdam, I care not, man knows where he stand;
his foot is on de solid rock; but wid dukes and grand-dukes
and oder princes—ah! man tread a quicksand.  Dey
promise, but do dey pay?  You are good boy, I dink; mind
you, I do not say I know, for outside do not always speak
drue; de apple may be red, and all de time a maggot at
core.  I tell you dis; seven year ago I make contract over
hay wid young captain of Bavarian Elector; it was in
Namur campaign; he look good, he speak good, I am
well content; but donder! my hay I lose, and 3242 thalers
3 groschen beside.  Dis den I tell you; avoid arms and
de law, drive some honest trade: zo you respect yourself,
and oder people dey respect you.  You owe noding;
nobody owe you; you are a man."

Ever since the departure from Basingstoke, Sherebiah,
sitting just behind Harry, had taken no part in the
conversation, but appeared to find something curiously
interesting in the road behind, for after once or twice
looking over his shoulder he at last faced round altogether,
and sat with his back to the horses.  Just as the Dutchman
finished his speech—the longest to which he had yet given
utterance, and one that his slow delivery lengthened
beyond its natural extent—Sherebiah turned round, tapped
Harry on the shoulder, and in a low tone said:

"Summat's i' the wind."

"What do you mean, Sherry?"

"Wind yourself about and look down the road behind."

"Well, I see nothing—stay, there's a horseman just
topping the hill, a good mile behind us: what of that?"

"Why, 'tis like this.  He always is a mile behind:
that's where 'tis.  I seed him afore we come to
Basingstoke; but he didn't come to the inn to eat his vittles,
not he.  I seed him again when we was a mile this side
o' Basingstoke; what had he been doen, then, while we
eat and drank?  We stop, he falls behind; when we trot,
he trots; 'tis as if he were a bob at th' end of a line, never
nearer never vurther."

"You think we are being followed?"

"That's what I do think, sure enough."

"A highwayman?"

"Mebbe, mebbe not; most like not, for 'tis not dark
enough, and he's always in sight."

"Perhaps he thinks he can't be seen."

"Not reckonen on the height of the coach roof?  But I
seed him, I did, two hours an' more agoo."

"Why should he follow the coach, I wonder?  He may
belong to someone inside."

"Mebbe, mebbe not; 'tis curious anyways."

"Well, the fellow is clearly dogging the coach; if your
curiosity troubles you, suppose you slip off a mile before
we reach the next post-house and try to get a nearer look
at him as he passes?  You can catch up the coach while
they change horses."

"Ay, I will, sure.  We be nigh the river now; over the
bridge and we come to Hounslow heath, a fearsome place
for highwaymen.  We change at the Bull and Gate, then
run straight into Lun'on: oh, I know the road."

It was late in the afternoon by the time the coach
reached the inn where the last change of the journey was
made.  Ten minutes before, Sherebiah nimbly slipped down,
crept through a gap in the hedge, and waited for the
pursuer to appear.  Presently he heard the clatter of hoofs;
the sound grew louder, but all at once began to diminish.
Scrambling back into the road, he was just in time to see
the horseman strike off at full speed along a by-road to his
left, which led, as Sherebiah knew, to London by a course
only a mile or two longer than the main highway.  The
man must evidently have changed his horse somewhere on
the road, and could only have taken the detour in a desire
to arrive in London ahead of the coach.

Sherebiah stared long and earnestly at the retreating
figure.  He frowned and looked puzzled as he set off to
overtake the coach.  The driver was mounting the box as
he came up.

"Well, what do you make of it?" asked Harry.

"He be gone off by a side road," replied Sherebiah.

"So your curiosity is not to be satisfied after all?"

"Well, he rid away hard to the left, wi' his back towards
me, an' 'tis growen duskish, an' nowt but a owl could see
clear."

But when Sherebiah clambered to his place he wore a
sober look which did not escape the clear little eyes of
Jan Grootz, who silently extended his pouch to him.
Sherebiah refilled and puffed away, every now and then
removing the pipe from his mouth and staring
contemplatively at the bowl.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A Message from the Squire`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V


.. class:: center large bold

   A Message from the Squire

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

The Old White Hart—A Letter for the
Captain—Visions—Aglionby gives Instructions—The
Watch—Half-Truths—Ways and Means—Hard Thinking

.. vspace:: 2

Sherebiah sat very silent for the rest of the journey.  The
coach jolted on rapidly towards the great city: passed the
market-gardens of Hammersmith, the open fields of
Kensington, along Piccadilly, where the first street-lamps shed
a dim oily light, through Holborn, at last pulling up at the
Angel and Crown in Threadneedle Street.  It was past
nine o'clock, dull and murky, and few people were about.
But a small crowd was gathered at the door of the inn
to meet the coach, and Sherebiah, as he shouldered the
luggage and moved towards the door, shot a keen but
unobtrusive glance at the faces of the men.  His
movements were somewhat too slow for Harry, who, eager to
ease his limbs after a whole day's stiffness and discomfort,
entered the hostelry first.  All at once Sherebiah quickened
his step, hastened into the lobby, set the luggage down at
the foot of the stairs, and then, making a mumbled excuse
to Harry, slipped out behind one of the inn servants, and
looked narrowly at the diminishing crowd.  He was just
in time to see a man, whom he had already noticed on the
outskirts of the group, saunter away in the direction of
London Bridge.  Appearances are deceptive, and Sherebiah
was not sure that he was right, but he thought the
man bore a resemblance to the rider whom he had seen
following the coach, and of whom he had caught one
nearer glimpse as he turned into the by-road.  He followed
the man, stepping as quietly as his heavy shoes allowed,
accommodating his pace to that of the man in front, and
taking advantage of the shadow afforded by the penthouse
fronts of the closed shops.  The man quickened his steps
as he approached the bridge.  Sherebiah pursued him at a
discreet distance over the narrow roadway, beneath the
rickety four-story houses that towered above the bridge
over almost its entire length, through Traitor's Gate, and
on into Southwark.  The man went along one narrow street,
and at last passed under a low archway.  Walking even
more stealthily, Sherebiah still followed, and found himself
in the spacious yard of the Old White Hart Inn.  This
famous three-storied hostelry was built about three sides
of a square.  Along two sides of the upper story ran a
balustraded gallery, with wooden pillars supporting the
sloping roof.  All was quiet.  Sherebiah, keeping in the
shadow of the arch, peeped round and saw the man he
followed standing at the door waiting for an answer to his
summons at the bell, which hung on the outer wall under
a gabled cover.  After a little time the door opened and
the porter appeared.

"Be Cap'n Aglionby within?" said the man.

"Ay, and abed and asleep.  What do you want wi' him?"

"I want to see un."

"A pretty time o' night!  House was shut up an hour
ago—no business doin' these hard times.  Why didn't you
come sooner?"

"A good reason, 'cause I be only just come to Lun'on.
I has a message for Cap'n Aglionby."

"Well, needs must, I s'pose," grumbled the servant.
"I'll go up and wake the captain, and be cursed horrible
for my pains.  Who shall I say wants him?"

"Tell un a friend from the country."

The porter went into the inn, and soon reappeared in the
gallery at the top of the house, where he tapped at the
door of one of the bedrooms opening from it.  He tapped
once, twice, thrice, and received no answer; then to his
fourth knock came a response the tone of which, though
not the words, could be heard in the yard below.  A colloquy
ensued, of which only the share of the inn servant was
distinctly audible to Sherebiah.

"A man from the country, Cap'n, to see you."

Mumble from within.

"So I told him, but here he bides."

More mumbling.

"Didn't tell me his name; a man from the country was
all he said, and I knows no more."

The answering mumble was of higher and impatient
mood.  Then the man came slowly downstairs, grumbling
under his breath all the way.

"You're to go up," he said to the stranger.  "'Tis
number thirty-two.  And fine tantrums he be in, waked
out of sleep; as if I ain't waked out of sleep or kept
from it day and night, and all year long."

The man entered the inn after the servant, and began to
ascend.  Sherebiah meanwhile, looking around, had espied
another stairway at the opposite angle of the courtyard.
Darting across on tiptoe, he mounted quickly, quietly,
and reached the gallery above in time to see the
messenger disappear into the captain's room.  He hurried
along, and, relying on the porter's complaint of the paucity
of business, he opened the door of the adjacent room and
slipped in, leaving the door ajar.  Through the thin
partition he heard the murmur of voices in the next room, but
could not catch a word distinctly.  In a few moments,
however, there was a crash as of a chair being overthrown,
followed by a torrent of execrations from the captain.
Then the door of the next room opened, and Aglionby
came out on to the gallery accompanied by his visitor.

"Hang you and the squire too!" said the angry warrior.
"The tinder's wet, and I can't light my candle.  Give me
the letter and I'll read it by the light of the lantern yonder,
and catch my death o' cold withal."

Shrinking back into the darkness of his room, Sherebiah
caught sight of Captain Aglionby as he passed the half-open
door on his way to the single lantern that feebly lit up
the gallery.  He had pulled on his breeches and stockings,
but for the rest was in night attire.  The lantern swung
from a hook at the corner of the gallery, three rooms
beyond that into which Sherebiah had ventured.  Standing
beneath it, the captain broke the seal of the letter
given him by the visitor, and read rapidly under his
breath.  The reading finished, he stuffed the paper into
his pocket and chuckled.

"Stap me, he begs and prays me now!" he exclaimed.
"See, Jock, tell me what ye know of this.  Ye ha'n't read
the letter, ha' ye?  By the Lord Harry, I'll slit—"

"Nay, nay, Cap'n," interrupted the man; "I know
nought o' the letter.  I'll tell 'ee how it all come about.
I was openen the gate for Squire, when—"

"Speak lower, man; your brazen throat'll wake the house."

"I was openen the gate for Squire," resumed the fellow
in a lower tone, which was, however, still audible to
Sherebiah's straining ears, "when who should come by but
young master popinjay dressed all in his black.  He never
bobbed to Squire, not he; never so much as cast eyes on
un; but when Squire saw the young swaggerer he stopped
still as a stone, and looked after un dazed like.  Then he
put his arm on the gate, a' did, and leant heavy on it,
thinken mortal hard; 'twas a matter o' five minutes afore
he lifted his head again, and never seed I a stranger look
on any man's face than I seed then on Squire's.  A' jumped
when his eyes fell on me; 'What be staren at, fool?' says
he, in one of his rages.  'Shall I run for doctor?' says I;
'you do look mortal bad.'  'Nay,' says he, ''tis nothen; a
little faintness; 'twill pass.'  I touched my cap, as becomes
me, and Squire went into park and shut gate behind un.
But a' hadn't walked more nor three steps when a' stops,
swings about, and 'Jock!' says he, 'order post-horses for
Hungerford road to-morrer.  And come up to hall inside
of an hour; I shall ha' a job for 'ee.'

"Well, I went up to hall after I'd ordered horses, and
Squire give me this letter.  'You'll ride to Lun'on
to-morrer, and take this letter to Cap'n Aglionby at White
Hart, South'ark.  And you'll tell the cap'n where young
Master Rochester be stayen.'  'How'll I know that,
Squire?' says I.  'Pon that he burst into one of his terr'ble
rages again.  'How, fool!' says he; 'why, keep the coach
in sight, and see that 'ee make no mistake.'  So here I be,
Cap'n, and young Master Rochester he's at Angel and
Crown in Threadneedle Street."

"Thank 'ee, Jock; I know the house.  And is the
young springald alone?"

"Not he; has Sherry Minshull with un, a-carryen his
belongens."

"Zounds and thunder! did Sherry see you?"

"No, i' feck; I kept too far from coach to be seen for
sarten, and at Angel and Crown Sherry was too heavy
laden to spy me."

"Well for you, well for you!  Jock, you'll come and
take up your quarters here; there's plenty of room.  I'll
tell 'em to gi' ye a bed."

"What about the horse, Cap'n?  I left un at Angel
and Crown."

"Let him bide till morning; then you can bring him
here too."

"But Squire, Cap'n,—won't he expect us back, me and
horse?"

"Not he; 'tis here written; I'm to keep you if there's
any work for you, and odzooks!  I'll ha' some work for you,
never fear.  Jock, if your story has made you as dry as
it has made me you're main thirsty; go down and bring
up beer for two, and a lighted candle.  I'll ring and wake
that rascal by the time you get to the foot of the stairs."

The man went down by the way he had come, and the
captain returned to his room.  As soon as the coast was
clear, Sherebiah slipped out into the gallery, carrying his
shoes to avoid noise, ran down the outer staircase, stood
for a few moments at the foot to make sure that all was
safe, then darted across the yard and out at the gate.  The
street was quite deserted, and Sherebiah, secure from
molestation, walked slowly along towards London Bridge,
deep in thought.  His friend Harry had been followed to
London at the orders of the squire; what was the meaning
of that?  Surely Mr. Berkeley did not intend to wreak
vengeance on the son for the baffled opposition of the
father?  What had Captain Aglionby to do with the
matter?  Rumour the omniscient had informed the village
that the captain's departure had been occasioned by a
violent quarrel with the squire; yet it was plain that the
squire knew the captain's whereabouts and was enlisting
his aid in some project.  Sherebiah wished that he could
get a sight of Mr. Berkeley's letter; he was puzzled to
account for the old man's shock as Harry passed the gate;
but try as he might to piece these strange circumstances
together, all his cogitation suggested no clue.

So absorbed was he, so mechanical his movements, that
he started convulsively when, just as he had passed through
Traitor's Gate, a man stepped suddenly before him from
a narrow entry and bade him stop in the Queen's name.
Looking up, he saw that his way was barred by a corpulent
constable in cocked hat and laced coat, with a staff
two feet longer than himself, and half a dozen ancient and
decrepit watchmen with lanterns and staves.

"Stand!" cried the constable.  "Give an account of
yourself."

Sherebiah took his measure.

"Not so, neither, master constable.  Out o' my way;
'tis a late hour, and I ought to be abed."

He made to move on, but the constable stood full in his
path, and the watchmen grouped themselves behind their
superior.

"You may be a villain for aught I know," said the
constable, "or even a vagrom or thief.  Why abroad
at this hour o' night?"

"I'm as sober as a judge," replied Sherebiah, "and
neither thief nor vagrom.  Stand aside, master constable."

"Well, 'tis dry and thirsty work watching o' nights,
and there be seven of us, and a shilling don't go far in
these war times; we'll take a shilling to let ye pass;
eh, men?"

The watchmen mumbled assent.  Sherebiah laughed.

"A shilling?  'Tis a free country, master constable,
and a sober countryman don't carry shillings to buy what's
his.  And seems to me, so it does, as ye've had drink
enough a'ready; out o' my way, I say!"

"Arrest him, men!" cried the constable, angry at being
disappointed of his expected tip.

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when with
sudden energy Sherebiah threw himself against him, at the
same time placing a leg behind his knee.  As the constable
fell, Sherebiah dashed at the watchmen, toppled two of
them over, their fall being accompanied by the crash of
their lanterns, scattered the rest, and ran rapidly across
the bridge.  This unexpected onset from one whom they
had taken for a simple and timid country bumpkin was
too much for the watch.  They made no attempt to pursue
the fugitive, but returned surly and crestfallen to their lair.

"Where on earth have you been, Sherry?" asked Harry,
as his man re-entered the inn.

"Payen a visit to a cousin o' mine, Master Harry.
And I was nigh put in lock-up, I was.  Was stopped by
the watch, but I toppled un over, I did.  I'm a man o'
peace."

"If you are let alone," said Harry, laughing.  "I feared
some harm had happened to you.  Our Dutch friend tells
me London is an ill place at night for a stranger."

"Ay, and by day too, Master Harry," rejoined Sherebiah
earnestly.  "If I med make so bold, I'd say, get 'ee
to-morrow a good cane,—none of your little small
amber-tipt fancies as fine gentlemen swing in their dainty
fingers, but a stout length of oak or birch, fit to crack
a pate."

"I have a sword, Sherry, and can use it, thanks to you."

"Ay, but 'tis not always easy to draw a sword in time
in a street brawl, and there be light-fingered gentry as can
coax a sword from the scabbard and the wearer none the
wiser till it be too late.  Be it your poor feyther's sword
you ha' brought, sir?"

"Yes, the silver-hilted one; I showed it you once, Sherry."

"Well, 'tis right for a gentleman to wear a sword,
though I marvel, I do, at a holy man o' peace like pa'son
haven such a deadly piece o' furniture."

"Ay, and I've often wondered how a man of peace like
yourself is able to handle a sword so well.  You made
a swordsman of me, Sherry; how did you become one
yourself?"

"Ah, sir, 'tis a many things a man o' peace has to know
in the way o' dressens.  I believe in peace with a cudgel
in your hand.  Them as wants peace be most like to get
it an they be ready for war."

"You remind me of what Master Butler says:

   |  'There's but the twinkling of a star
   |  Betwixt the man of peace and war'.

But the hour is late, Sherry, and I must be up betimes in
the morning, for my visit to Lord Godolphin."

"You bean't gwine to see the high lard to-morrer, sir?
Better larn to find your way about this tangle o' busy
streets first.  'Tis as easy as sucken eggs to lose your
way."

"I have made up my mind to go to-morrow.  You see,
I must lose no time.  I have only twenty guineas, as you
know, and by to-morrow two of those will be gone.  And
I sha'n't rest till I have tried my luck.  Good-night, Sherry!
Wake me at seven."

Left to himself, Sherebiah ordered a pint of small beer,
and sat for an hour longer, ruminating, with knit brows
and compressed lips.  More than once he got up and
walked round the deal table, stopping to take a pull at
the tankard, heaving a sigh, then going on again.  He
was disquieted.  The sudden discovery that the squire's
animosity was pursuing Harry no less perplexed than
disturbed him.  Harry and Mr. Berkeley had never met
at close quarters; there had been no intercourse between
hall and parsonage.  A personal cause of offence was, as
it seemed to Sherebiah, out of the question; yet it was
strange that the squire's hatred of the father should
extend to the son.  At length, muttering "No one can tell
what's what with the likes o' old Squire,"  Sherebiah
brought his big fist down on to the table with a bang
that made the pewter jump and rattle, and fetched the
drawer from his place in the bar.

"What d'ye lack?" said the man.

"Nothen, sonny, nothen.  'Tis a way o' mine to hit out
when I be a-thinken, a bold way for a man o' peace, true.
Bacon at half arter seven, drawer,—and we be country
eaters, mind 'ee.  Good-night!"





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.. _`My Lord Marlborough makes a Note`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI


.. class:: center large bold

   My Lord Marlborough makes a Note

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

London Streets—A Chair!—A Great Man's Portals—An
Effort of Memory—Patronage—Marlborough—A Step in
the Peerage—A Memorandum—A Friend in London—A
Dinner at Locket's—Mr. Colley Cibber—Great
Expectations—A Thick Stick—Prevarication

.. vspace:: 2

Harry was awake long before Sherebiah tapped at his
door next morning.  His projected visit to Lord Godolphin
gave him some concern.  He had no tremors of shyness
at the thought of meeting the Lord Treasurer; but,
ignorant as he was of London ways, he knew not how to
time his visit, and could hope for no counsel on that point
from Sherebiah.  He was too much excited to do justice
to the crisp rashers which were placed before him at the
breakfast-table, and felt little disposed to converse with
Jan Grootz the Dutchman opposite.  Sherebiah had taken
upon himself to wait at table, but, as a privileged servitor,
did not think it unbecoming to throw in a word here and
there.  He gave Grootz his views on the price of oats and
the policy of King Louis of France with equal assurance.

"Know ye where de lord live?" asked the Dutchman suddenly.

Harry had forgotten that he had mentioned his errand
to his fellow-passenger, and for the moment repented his
confidence.  Before he could reply, Grootz went on:

"He live over against the Queen's Wood Yard, by
Thames-side, leading to Scotland Yard.  My vrient John
Evelyn built de house.  I have been dere."

"Oh!" exclaimed Harry.  "Then can you tell me the
best time to visit him?"

"Ja!  De best time, it is ten o'clock, before he go to de
palace.  He rise late; he has many visitors; I zee him
myself in his dressing-gown before his zervant have curled
his wig, and I wait my turn two hours.  And when you
zee him, you zall lose no time; he like man to speak out,
mark you."

The Dutchman spoke very slowly, not interrupting his
meal, and wagging his fat finger as he concluded.

"And how shall I go?  Shall I walk?"

"I' feck, no," said Sherebiah from behind.  "The night
have been rainy, and the streets be mushed wi' mud;
you'd be spattered from head to heel, Master Harry.
Nay; you med walk as far as the Exchange and buy 'ee
a pair o' gloves there for seemliness, and then get your
shoes brushed by one o' the blackguards at the corner.
Then you can take a chair; 'tis a shilling a mile, and easier
goen nor the hackneys, for the chairmen walk on the
pavement, and you won't get jolted nor splashed so bad."

"Ja, and I tell you dis," added the Dutchman.  "Short
poles, and short men; zo, dey take not zo much room,
and if dey upzet you, why, you do not fall zo much."

"Ay, and don't let 'em chouse 'ee out o' more than their
due," said Sherebiah.  "I know they men.  If they think
a man be up from country, they look at un and then at
the shilling, up and down, and miscall un wi' such brazen
tongues that he'll pay anything to save his ears.  A shilling
a mile, Master Harry, no more."

"Zo!  De counsel is good.  But I give you a better:
go not at all.  Lords!  I tell you dis before: an honest
merchant is worth two, dree, no man zay how many
lords; and de Book zay, 'Put not your drust in princes'.
Still, I wish you good luck, my young vrient, Jan
Grootz; zo!"

He squeezed Harry's hand in his own great fist, and
then, having demolished his mountain of food, filled his
pipe and set forth for the Custom House on Thames bank.
Two hours later, Harry left the inn under Sherebiah's
guidance, and for the first time in his life trod the streets of
London.  Filled though his mind was with the approaching
interview, which might mean so much to him, he was
yet able to take an interest in the strange scenes that
opened before his inexperienced eyes: the brilliant shops,
each with its sign of painted copper, pewter, or wood
hanging from iron branches; the taverns and
coffee-houses, already crowded with people eager to hear and
discuss the news, and perhaps to get a peep at the
morning's *Courant*; the court and porticoes of the Royal
Exchange, to which merchants were flocking; the crowds
of money-dealers in Change Alley, looking for clients.  He
went up to the gallery on the first floor of the Exchange,
and bought a pair of gloves from a neat and pretty girl at
one of the booths; then strolled along, admiring the rich
and dazzling display of silks and jewellery which a few
hours later would attract all the fine ladies in town.

Descending to the street again, he passed up Cheapside
and through St. Paul's Churchyard, down Ludgate Hill
and through Ludgate, where he beheld impaled on stakes
a row of hideous heads of traitors, one of which, Sherebiah
told him with indignation, was that of Noll Crum'ell.
Then skirting the Fleet Ditch, once navigable, but now a
noisome slimy sewer, he came into Fleet Street, through
Temple Bar to the Strand, and at length arrived at Charing
Cross, where he was nearly overturned by a hasty
chair-man, whose "By your leave!" was not yet familiar to his
ears.  At Charing Cross stood a number of boys with
boxes before them on the pavement, and cries of "Clean
your shoes!" "London fucus!" "Best Spanish blacking!"
came in eager competing tones.  Sherebiah selected one
whose stand was in front of a barber's shop.

"Here's the blackguard for 'ee, Master Harry," he said.
"He'll shine your shoes while barber shaves my stubble.
A penny; no more."

When the shoes were polished and the stubble mown,
Sherebiah called up a couple of chairmen who were sitting
on their poles near by.

"Do 'ee know my Lord Godolphin's noble house?" he asked.

"Ay; servant, sir."

"Well then, carry my young master to that very house,
and see 'ee don't jolt 'n, or drop 'n, or let 'n get splashed.
'Tis under a mile, Master Harry," he whispered at parting.

Harry would rather have walked.  The men took what
care they could, but the press of people was so great that
they had to dodge at every few steps, and their fare
gripped the seat to prevent himself from being knocked
against first one side, then the other, of the conveyance.
At the corner of Whitehall, as they turned into Scotland
Yard, a passing dray splashed up a shower of liquid mud,
and Harry felt a moist dab upon his nose.  Fortunately
the spot was soon removed with his handkerchief; and
when, after crossing by the Charcoal House and through
the Wood Yard, the chairmen at length set him down at
the door of Godolphin's house, he would have felt no
anxiety about his personal appearance, if he had been
sufficiently self-conscious to think about it.  He had put
on his best coat, silk stockings, and buckle shoes; at his
side he wore the sword about which he had spoken to
Sherebiah.  He sprang alertly up the steps, and looked
about him with a keen quick gaze that bespoke a definite
purpose.

The great entrance-hall was thronged.  Servants, officers,
government officials, men about town, stood in groups or
moved here and there in pursuit of their several objects
of business or pleasure.  No one appeared to remark the
presence of the new-comer, who walked quietly through
the throng towards the broad staircase.  At the foot a
gorgeously-dressed flunkey was standing, to whom one
or two gentlemen had already applied for information.
As Harry was about to address him, his attention was
attracted by a woolly-pated wide-grinning black boy, who
at that moment ran down the stairs.  He carried a silver
tray, on which a cup and jug of fine porcelain jingled as
he ran.

"Done, Sambo?" asked the tall flunkey at the stair-foot.

"Yussir!" replied the boy with a white grin.  "My lord
jolly dis mornin; oh yes; drink him chocolate without one
cuss.  Gwine to begin work now; oh yes."

"Can I see the Lord Godolphin?" asked Harry, stepping
up to the servant as Sambo disappeared.

The man gave Harry a stare, but answered respectfully:
"My lord's levee is over, sir.  The nigger brings down
the tray when the last visitor has gone."

"I have come specially to see my lord, and——"

"Have you an appointment, sir?"

"I think if you will take my name to my lord he will
see me."

Harry spoke quietly; he was determined not to be turned
from his purpose by mere formality or red tape.  The man
eyeing him saw nothing but self-possession and confidence
in his air.

"My lord is now engaged with his correspondence," he
said.  "He does not brook interruption."

"My name is Harry Rochester; I will answer for it
that you will do no wrong in acquainting his lordship."

After a moment's hesitation the man beckoned to a
fellow-servant, and gave him Harry's message.  He went
upstairs, and returning in a few minutes said:

"What is your business with my lord, sir?  His lordship
does not remember your name."

There was the suggestion of a sneer in the man's voice.
With hardly a perceptible pause Harry replied:

"Tell his lordship I am from Winton St. Mary, at his
invitation."

A faint smile curled the lips of the two flunkeys.  The
second again mounted the stairs.  When he descended, his
face wore its usual expression of deference and respect.

"Be so good as to wait upon his lordship," he said, and
led the way.

In a few minutes Harry found himself, hat in hand,
making his bow to Lord Godolphin in a large wainscoted
apartment.  Four large candles burnt upon the mantel-piece,
daylight being kept out by the heavy curtains on
either side of the narrow window.  A huge log fire filled
the chimney-place; beyond it stood a broad table littered
with papers, which at that moment a young man was
sorting by the light of a shaded candle.  Lord Godolphin
was in dressing-gown and slippers.

"Well, sir?" he said.

"My name is Rochester, my lord."

"I am aware of that.  I do not recall it.  Well?"

My lord's tone was cold and uninviting.

"Your lordship will permit me to mention a little
incident on the Roman road by Sir Godfrey Fanshawe's
park, when——"

"Stay, I remember now.  You are the lad they called
the young parson, eh?  I have a poor head for names.
When my man spoke of Winton St. Mary I supposed you
might be a messenger from the gentleman who
entertained us there."

Now that Harry was actually face to face with the
Lord Treasurer, he felt some diffidence in opening the
subject of his visit.  My lord, in spite of his deshabille,
seemed far less approachable than he had been on the
old Roman road.  Then he was the country sportsman;
now he was the chief minister of the Queen.

"Your shouting friend with the scriptural name—how
is he?" he asked in a somewhat more cordial tone.

"He is well, my lord; he is with me in London."

"And your father: has he won his case against the
squire?  I heard something of him at Sir Godfrey
Fanshawe's, I think."

"My father is dead, my lord."

"Indeed!  Pray accept my condolences.  And now, tell
me what brings you here."

"Your lordship may remember, after the scene with
the highwaymen——"

"Yes, yes; you did me a service, you and your man;
what then?"

"It was but a slight service, my lord; I do not presume
on it; but you were so good as to say that if, at some
future time, I should find myself in need of assistance,
I was to come to your lordship."

"Why, I did speak of a country parsonage, I believe.
But you,"—he smiled—"why, I really may not venture to
set you up in a cure of souls.  You have to take your
degrees yet."

"That is impossible, my lord.  My father impoverished
himself in his feuds with Mr. Berkeley; when his affairs
were settled I found myself possessed of but a poor twenty
guineas.  I have given up all thought of going to Oxford;
I must seek a livelihood."

"H'm!"

Lord Godolphin looked him up and down, as though
estimating his chances of making his way in the world.

"You wear a sword," he said.  "Rochester—you are
no connection of the earl's?—no, of course not, he is a
Wilmot.  Where do you spring from?"

"My grandfather was a soldier, my lord; I have heard
that he died young, but my father seldom spoke of these
matters; we have no relatives."

"H'm!  I bethink me now, you yourself have an itch
for martial life.  All boys have, I suppose.  Young Lord
Churchill was cut to the heart a few months ago because
my lady Marlborough would not permit him to follow his
father to Flanders.  Well, to be frank with you, I see no
way of helping you.  With twenty guineas you can no
more buy a commission than you can enter yourself at
a college.  To enlist as a common soldier would be a last
resource to one of your breeding.  There are too many
young scions of good stocks for the lesser places at court
to go round among them.  Yet I would fain do something
for you."

He began to saunter up and down the room, his hands
clasped behind him, stopping for a moment to listen as the
sound of cheers came from the street.  Suddenly the door
was opened, and the voice of the servant was heard
announcing a visitor.

"My lord Marlborough."

Harry looked with eager curiosity as the great soldier
entered the room.  He saw a tall, singularly handsome
man, with short curved upper lip, firm chin, long
almond-shaped eyes, and a calm benignity of expression.  John
Churchill, Earl of Marlborough, was at this time fifty-two
years of age.  As captain-general of the English forces,
in the summer of this year, 1702, he had opened in
concert with the Dutch a campaign in Flanders against
Louis the Fourteenth of France,—a new campaign in the
great war of the Spanish Succession which the policy of
William the Third had bequeathed to his sister-in-law.
Venloo and other towns had been captured by the
confederate armies, Liège had been reduced, and the forces
having gone into winter quarters, Marlborough had
returned to England to support the Occasional Conformity
Bill.  He was a close personal friend of Godolphin, and
allied to him by the marriage of Francis Godolphin to his
daughter Henrietta.

"Welcome, my dear lord!" said Godolphin, starting
forward to meet the earl.  "I did not know you had
arrived."

"I am but just come from waiting on the Queen," said
Marlborough.  "I arrived late last night."

"You are welcome indeed.  All men's mouths are full
of your praises."

"Ay," returned Marlborough with a smile; "your
Londoners have lusty throats.  And I have a piece of
news for you."  He dropped his voice: the secretary had
vanished through a further door: Harry stood in a
quandary, the noblemen both seeming to ignore his presence.
"The Queen has been pleased to express her wish to
make me a duke."

Godolphin laid his hand on his friend's arm, and said
cordially: "I congratulate you, Jack, with all my heart.
Why, this very morning I have a letter from Churchill at
Cambridge; there are shrewd wits there; he says 'tis
whispered you are to be raised in the peerage, and the
boy, young dog, begs me to tell him what his own title
will be then."

"Ah! 'tis over soon to talk of it.  I must acquaint my
lady first, and methinks she will object."

"Stap me, Jack! 'tis few women would hesitate to
exchange countess for duchess.—God bless me, I'd forgotten
the boy!  My lord, this is the hero of the little adventure
at Winton St. Mary I writ you of.  'Twas he that
inspired the stout fellow to shout, and scared the
highwaymen out of their five wits."

.. _`My Lord Marlborough`:

.. figure:: images/img-080.jpg
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   :alt: My Lord Marlborough

   My Lord Marlborough

Marlborough looked towards Harry, who flushed and
bowed.  An idea seemed to strike Godolphin.  Linking
his arm with the earl's, he led him slowly to the other
end of the room, and stood there talking earnestly to him
in tones too low for Harry to catch a word.  Once or
twice both glanced at the tall youthful figure standing
in some natural embarrassment near the door.  Once
Marlborough shook his head and frowned, upon which
Godolphin took him by a button of his laced coat and
spoke more earnestly than before.  At length Marlborough
smiled, laid a hand on Godolphin's shoulder, and spoke a
few words in his ear.  Then he turned about, and coming
slowly towards Harry, said, in his clear bell-like tones:

"My lord Godolphin tells me you have lost your father
and are all but penniless.  'Tis an unfortunate situation
for a lad of your years.  You would serve the Queen?"

"Ay, my lord."

"You have a quick wit, my lord says.  I may make
some use of you.  Write your name on a piece of paper,
and the name of your lodging."

Godolphin motioned him to the table, where he found
paper and a pencil.  He wrote his name and the name of
his inn, and handed the paper to Marlborough, who said,
as he folded it and placed it in his pocket:

"I will send for you, Master Rochester, if I can serve you."

"My lord, I am much beholden to you—" began Harry.

Marlborough interrupted him.

"'Tis my lord Godolphin you should thank for his good word."

"'Faith, my lord," said Godolphin, "'tis due to Master
Rochester that the Queen is served by her present Lord
Treasurer.  I am glad, my lad, that my friend Lord
Marlborough chanced to come upon us here, and I hope
you will have reason to be glad also.  Now, you will
excuse us; we have matters of state to speak of; I wish
you well."

Harry murmured his thanks and bowed himself out.
His nerves were a-tingle with his unexpected good fortune.
To have seen and spoken with the greatest man in the
kingdom was itself an unforeseen privilege; and the
prospect of assistance from such a powerful and august
personage filled him with elation.  The earl had shown
no great cordiality, it was true; but Harry was inclined
to draw good augury from the few words he had uttered.
They were probably more sincere than a warm volubility
would have been.  He left the house with a sparkling eye
and a springy gait, and looked eagerly around to see if
Sherebiah were near at hand to hear his news.  But
Sherebiah was nowhere to be seen.  Having no particular
business, now that his great errand was accomplished, Harry
walked through Whitehall into St. James's Park, in the
hope that he might catch a glimpse of Queen Anne herself.
The guard had just been changed at St. James's Palace,
and a stream of people met him as he strolled along the
Mall.  He was interested in watching them—the fine ladies
with their hoops and patches, the beaux with their
many-coloured coats, canes dangling at their buttons, toothpicks
between their teeth, and snuff-boxes in frequent use.  So
absorbed was he that he was startled when all at once a
hand struck him a hearty blow on the shoulder, and a
voice exclaimed:

"Hey, Harry, what make you, ogling the ladies?"

He turned and saw his friend Godfrey Fanshawe, the
captain of the cricket team to whose victory he had so
much contributed.  The two young fellows shook hands
heartily.

"What brings you to London?" continued Fanshawe.

"I've come in search of fortune, like Dick Whittington.
You heard of my father's death?"

"Ay, but nothing since.  They seldom write letters at home."

Harry then explained the course of events which had
brought him to London, concluding with his recent
interview with Marlborough and Godolphin.

"Egad, man!" exclaimed Fanshawe, "you're in luck's
way indeed.  Would that I stood so well with the two
greatest men in England.  My lord Marlborough will
gazette you an ensign of foot or a cornet of horse; and
my cornetcy, I may tell you, cost my father a pretty
penny.  What luck, Harry, if we make the next campaign
together!  The earl will surely go back to Flanders when
the winter is over."

"I should like nothing better."

"Where are you staying?"

"At the Angel and Crown, in Threadneedle Street."

"You must leave that and come westward.  Are you alone?"

"Sherry Minshull is with me at present; but he'll get
work for himself as soon as I am settled."

"Sherry's a handy fellow; egad, I know no better!
He'll tie a fly with any man, and is as good with sword
or quarterstaff as he is with his fists.  Well now, 'tis
drawing towards dinner-time; come and dine with me;
the people of fashion here dine at four, but I stick to
country habits.  We'll go to Locket's at Charing Cross;
you're my guest to-day.  And we'll go to the play this
evening; the first time, I warrant you, you've seen a play.
Come!  I stand well with the people at Locket's, and the
sharp air this morning has given me an appetite."

It was but five minutes' walk to Locket's tavern.  Entering,
Fanshawe bowed with elaborate courtesy to the fair
dame in charge, and called for the card.

"There's boiled beef and carrots, I see, and a goose,
and look, a calf's head.  I adore calf's head.  What say
you?  Yes?  Boy, bring calf's head for two, and quickly."

With calf's head and cabbage and a wedge of Cheshire
cheese, the two young fellows appeased their unjaded
appetites.  Fanshawe sat for some time finishing his
bottle of wine, Harry contenting himself with small beer.
Then, as there still remained a few hours to while away
before theatre time, Fanshawe proposed a row on the
river.  Harry eagerly assented; they sallied forth, took
boat at Westminster stairs and rowed up to Chelsea,
returning to Westminster in time for the performance
of Mr. Colley Cibber's new play, "She would and she
would not", by Her Majesty's Servants at Drury Lane.
Harry was delighted with his first visit to the theatre.
He was tickled at the unabashed impertinence of
Trappanti the discarded servant, played by Mr. Penkethman,
one of the best comedians in London, as Fanshawe
informed him; and fell in love with Hypolita the heroine,
a part which suited Mrs. Mountford to perfection.  But
he was perhaps most interested in Mr. Colley Cibber
himself, who played the part of Don Manuel the irascible
father.  His pleasure was complete when, after the
performance, Fanshawe took him to the Bull's Head tavern,
and showed him Mr. Cibber with his paint washed off,
surrounded by a circle of actors, soldiers, lords, and even
clergymen.  He had never seen an author before.  Mr. Cibber
had no presence to boast of, with his thick legs,
lean face, and sandy hair; but the liveliness of his
conversation gave him a sort of pre-eminence among his
coterie, and made a considerable impression on a youth
ready to admire and wonder at anything.

Fanshawe appeared quite at home among the company.
He was indeed a frequent visitor at the Bull's Head after
the play, where all were welcome on condition of providing
their quota towards the general hilarity.  Fanshawe was
the lucky possessor of a fine baritone voice, and his spirited
singing of west-country songs had won him instant popularity.
On this night, in response to the usual call, he began—

   |  "Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce, lend me thy grey mare,
   |    All along, down along, out along lee;
   |  For I want for to go to Widdicombe Fair,
   |    Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy,
   |        Dan Whiddon, Harry Hawk,
   |    Old uncle Tom Cobleigh, and all";

and by the time he reached the end of the third of the
eight stanzas, the whole company were ready to join him
in trolling the chorus,

   |  "Old uncle Tom Cobleigh and all".
   |

It was late when Harry reached the Angel and Crown.
Sherebiah was marching up and down before the tavern,
blowing great clouds from his pipe.

"Hey now, Master Harry," he said, with an expression
of mingled wrath and relief; "'tis a mighty scurvy trick
you have played me, i' feck 'tis so.  Here we are, your
second day in London, and you must go off along by your
lone self on who knows what errand o' foolery.  Ay, 'tis
strong words for me, and a man o' peace and all, but
not too strong, seee'n as I knows the wicked ways o' the
town and you be unfledged.  Zooks, sir, I've been in a
terrible way, thinken all manner of awsome an' gashly
things, as how you med ha' been trepanned, or slit by
the Scourers, or trampled by some high lard's horses, or
rifled and beat by footpads, or 'ticed into a dicing den by
sweetners always on the look-out for a country gudgeon,
or——"

"Hold, Sherry, you forget yourself," said Harry, who
was, however, not displeased to find the honest fellow so
solicitous about him.  "In truth, I forgot all about you.
I can take care of myself, I think.  I dined with Mr. Godfrey
Fanshawe, whom I chanced to meet, and we went to
the play afterwards, and I never laughed so much in my
life.  Mrs. Mountford's a beauty, Sherry, and Mr. Cibber—when
he doesn't squeak—has the pleasantest voice ever I
heard—nay, not that, after all; 'tis not so pleasant as my
lord Marlborough's.  What d'ye think, Sherry?  I met the
earl himself at Lord Godolphin's, and he has my name on
a scrap of paper, and to-morrow or next day I shall hold
the queen's commission, and then off with the troops
to Flanders, and I shall make my fortune, man, and
then——"

"Huh!" put in a voice from the doorway.  "Haastige
spoed is zelden goed."

Harry's excitement was dashed by the slow drawl of
Mynheer Grootz, whose little eyes were twinkling as he
puffed at his big pipe.

"Ay, a true word," said Sherebiah.  "'More haste, less
speed,' as the Dutch words mean put into rightful
language.  'Counten chickens afore they be hatched,' as ye
med say."

Though he was a little nettled, Harry had too much
good sense not to see that his elation had carried him
too far.  He could laugh at himself—an excellent virtue
in man or boy.

"I am an ass, Mr. Grootz," he said; "but really I did
not expect such good luck.  My lord Godolphin was
very kind, and so was the earl, and as he used but few
words I do think he meant what he said.  I am sorry my
absence made you uneasy, Sherry; but I don't understand
why you should imagine all manner of harm."

"An ye knew——" began Sherebiah; but he paused,
hemmed, and changed his sentence.  "All's well as ends
well, Master Harry; I axe your pardon for my free words;
and here be a fine stout piece of ash I bought in Fleet Street
for your hand.  Feel un; 'twill crack a pate as quick as
speaken, and I'll be more easy in mind knowen you have
such a good staff in company."

"Thanks, Sherry!" said Harry with a laugh, weighing
in his hand the stick with which the man presented him.
"But I'm a man of peace, you know, eh?—at present.
Now let's to bed."

As they went from the room Harry remarked, "By the
way, Sherry, how is it that you know Dutch?"

"Me know Dutch?  Why, sir, what makes ye think I
know that outlandish tongue?"

"Why, didn't you tell me just now the meaning of what
Mynheer Grootz said to me?"

"Ay, so I did, now.  It must ha' been as a dog knows his
master's speech, or just as I knowed the meanen o' the
holy things your good feyther was used to speak in the
high pulpit, for egad, word by word I knowed no more
than the dead what a' said, not I."

The explanation struck Harry as rather lame, but he
merely said, with a laugh:

"Well, you'll make a very faithful watch-dog, Sherry.
Good-night!  I shall sleep well;—if I don't dream too much
of battle and glory."





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.. _`Snared`:

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   CHAPTER VII


.. class:: center large bold

   Snared

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.. class:: noindent small

Hope Deferred—Motes in the Sunbeam—Mynheer makes an
Offer—Sherebiah on Guard—New Quarters—Tumblers—Solvitur
Ambulando—Doubling—Sick at Heart—Too Late—A Debit
Balance—Gloom—Cold Streets—Three Sailors—Muffled

.. vspace:: 2

Several days passed—days of unfailing happiness for
Harry.  Though he spent hours in roaming the town,
there was always something fresh to see, something novel
to capture his interest.  He saw the state entrance of the
new Venetian ambassador.  He visited the Tower, the
Abbey, and St. Paul's, saw Winstanley's water-works in
Piccadilly near Hyde Park, and witnessed a football
match at Covent Garden.  He accompanied Fanshawe
several times to the theatre, and somewhat offended
that sparkish young gentleman by constantly refusing
to join him in card-parties and night escapades in
the streets.  He saw a back-sword match at the Bear
Garden in Hockley in the Hole, and a billiard match at
the Greyhound Coffee-house near Monmouth Street.
Apart from these public sights, he found endless diversion
in the ordinary street scenes: the markets, the itinerant
vendors, the acrobats, or posture-masters as they were
then called, who performed their dancing and tumbling
in squares remote from the traffic.  It amused Harry that
Sherebiah never tired of these mountebank tricks, but
would stand and watch them with unflagging interest by
the hour, applauding every neatly executed feat, and
criticising with unsparing severity every instance of
clumsiness or bungling.  Soldiers, on the other hand,
apparently did not interest Sherebiah.  Harry liked to
watch them drilling on the Horse Guards' parade or in
Hyde Park; but on these occasions Sherebiah always
strolled away, waiting with impatience until his young
master had satisfied his curiosity.

"They won't kill you, Sherry," said Harry once,
laughing as the man sheered off.  "Their muskets are not
loaded."

"True.  But 'tis no pleasure to me to see such men
o' war.  Feyther o' mine were a trooper; he be always
talken on it; I be a man o' peace, I be."

Every day when he came down to breakfast, and when
he returned in the evening, Harry eagerly looked for a
message from Lord Marlborough.  But the days passed;
a week flew by; and still no message came.  After the
second day he made no reference to the matter; Sherebiah
and Grootz considerately forbore to allude to it.  But they
watched him with shrewd eyes, and saw, through all the
curiosity and pleasure he took in his new life, a growing
sense of disappointment and anxiety.  He had built high
hopes upon the interview at Godolphin's; as boys will, he
had allowed his fancy to outstrip his judgment, and had
added a good deal of embroidery to the simple facts.
Already in imagination he saw himself carrying the
Queen's colours, performing heroic deeds in the field,
winning golden opinions from the general, coming home
laden with honour and substantial rewards, perhaps to
gain, as the acme of bliss, an approving smile from the
Queen herself.  And he would wake from these day-dreams
to the sober reality—-that the desired message from
Marlborough had not come, and meanwhile time was fleeting
by, and every day saw his little stock of money
diminished.

He had resisted Fanshawe's recommendation to change
his lodging.  Charges were higher, Sherebiah informed
him, in the more fashionable parts, and he knew that he
could not afford to run risks.  At first he had not been
parsimonious; he was not extravagant by nature, but he
had not hesitated to buy a trifle that pleased him, to give
largesse to the ballad-singers and street musicians, to pay
his eighteenpence for a seat in the pit at Drury Lane or
Lincoln's Inn Fields.  But he gave all this up, and thought
twice about spending a penny.  He bought only the
strictest necessaries, and for his amusement depended on
the sights of the streets, the parks, and the river, and such
entertainment as could be had at the coffee-houses,
where for a penny he could obtain a dish of coffee, read
the *Daily Courant* with its manuscript supplement, or
Dawks's *News Letter*, and hear all the news of the day
discussed with more heat than information by arm-chair
politicians.

One day the *Courant* announced that the Queen had
been pleased to confer the dignity of a dukedom upon
the Earl of Marlborough, and that the House of Commons
would be asked to grant him an annual pension to match
his new rank.  Harry remembered what he had heard
pass between Marlborough and Godolphin, and when
the coffee-house gossips supplemented the official
intimation with the rumour that the Countess Sarah had been
violently opposed to her husband's elevation in the peerage,
he understood the meaning of the peculiar tone in which
Marlborough had spoken of acquainting her ladyship.
The new duchess was the theme of much conversation
and many jests in these free-spoken assemblies.
Marlborough was a very great general; everybody was agreed
on that; but it was doubted whether he was master in
his own house; some said he was henpecked; one plain
blunt fellow declared in Harry's hearing that the duke
was as much afraid of his missis as any Thames bargee.
Harry was not interested in Marlborough's domestic
affairs, but his heart sank when he reflected on his own
insignificance beside the great man whom the Queen was
delighting to honour.  After all, how could he expect a
man of such eminence, immersed in state affairs, with all
the responsibility for conducting a great campaign, to
remember a country youth whom he had seen once, and
who had made, perhaps, as deep an impression on him
as a fly might make on a lion.

That night Harry was eating his supper, somewhat
moodily, when Mynheer Grootz, sitting opposite, made
him a sudden proposition.

"I tell you dis," he said.  "I go back to my country
zoon.  I have business wid de armies; I sell hay for
de horses, meal for de men.  You are quick, I see dat;
you speak French, enough for my purpose; I give you
good wages if you come and help me in my business."

Harry flushed.  The Dutchman dipped a hunk of bread
into his soup and filled his mouth with it, looking down at
the bare deal board the while.

"I thank you, Mynheer," said Harry with some
constraint.  "I have another purpose, as you know."

Up came the fat forefinger, moist with gravy.

"I speak plain to you.  You have pride; I alzo.  But
I have mills, and ships, and vields; dey are mine; I am
rich—ja, rich; I, Jan Grootz.  My fader, he was a poor
weaver in Dort; he work hard and die poor; I work hard,
and grow rich.  I have what for to be proud.  You are a
gentleman; dat is zo; it is good to be a gentleman; it
is not good to be poor.  And more, it is not good to zee
money go every day, every day, and wait for some prince
to fill de empty purse.  You have pride; for what?  For
white hands, and by and by an empty stomach.  My hands,
dey are not white, naturlik; but my stomach is full, and
I stand up before any prince; Jan Grootz; zo!"

He spread his broad hands before Harry, as though
he were proud even of their horny skin.  The action brought
a smile to the lad's gloomy face and dulled the edge of his
irritation.

"I won't debate the matter with you," he said.  "I'm
not afraid of work, I hope, and maybe my white hands
may be red enough before long.  I won't despair of my
lord Marlborough yet; and I know your intention is
friendly, Mynheer."

The Dutchman grunted, and applied himself again to
his meal.

Great as were Harry's anxieties, Sherebiah's were
perhaps even greater.  He also was disappointed by the
forgetfulness or neglect of Marlborough, and concerned
at the constant drain upon his young master's purse; but
he had further causes of trouble of which Harry was
unaware.  Ever since their arrival in London Sherebiah had
been possessed by a dread of impending ill.  He had
always in mind the interview between Captain Aglionby
and the squire's man at the White Hart tavern, and day
by day expected it to bear fruit to Harry's harm; but for
reasons of his own he hesitated to tell him the plain truth.
He stuck like a leech to Harry when he went walking, and
many times when the lad would rather have been alone
with his dismal thoughts he found Sherebiah at his heel,
like the watch-dog to which he had compared him.  He
did not know that even when he succeeded in eluding his
too solicitous henchman, it was only in appearance; for
Sherebiah, armed with a stout ash cudgel, was seldom
many yards behind.  Many a night after Harry had gone
disconsolate to his bed, the man wended his way to
Southwark in the hope of making a further discovery; but he
never saw the captain or anyone whom he knew to be
connected with him, and when at last he found an opportunity
of making a discreet enquiry at the hostelry, he was
more alarmed than pleased to find that Captain Aglionby
had departed some time before, and that nothing had
since been heard of him.

One morning, when they had been for about a month
in London, when Parliament had been prorogued, and a
new year had opened, Sherebiah surprised Harry by
suggesting that they should remove to an inn near
Leicester fields.

"Why, you were against it when Mr. Fanshawe proposed
it.  How is it that you have changed your mind,
Sherry?"

"Well, sir, 'tis this way, if I med be so bold.  Your
money be gwine fast, and 'twould never do to begin a more
humble way o' liven here.  Nay, what I say is, if you
must pare and scrape, go where you bean't so well known,
and then nobody'll think the worse on 'ee for't."

"Hang me, who talked of paring and scraping,
Sherry?" cried Harry impatiently.

"I axe your pardon, sir," said Sherebiah earnestly,
"but I were not born yesterday.  Here are we, four
weeks in Lun'on, and you know yourself how many golden
guineas you brought wi' 'ee, and how many be left.  Sure
I bean't a great eater myself, but even my little small
morsel ha' got to be paid for.  Master Harry, 'twill be
best for 'ee to do as I say.  Ay, an' if I knowed 'ee
wouldn't up and rate me, I'd say another thing, I
would so."

"Well—what's that?"

"Why, I'd say, hand over your purse to me.  Nay,
sir, don't be angry; ye're not wasteful, no; but if we go
to another house, I can save 'ee many a penny here and
penny there in ways you wouldn't so much as dream on.
I know Lun'on folk, you see; ay, I know 'em well."

In the upshot, Sherebiah had his way on both points.
The reason for his change of front was that on the
previous afternoon he had seen the squire's man Jock
hanging about the inn, and had found out subsequently
that Captain Aglionby had returned to his old quarters
at the White Hart.  It was just as well, he thought, to
take one step further from danger by changing their
lodging.  When this was done, and Sherebiah kept the purse,
Harry was amazed to find how much further his money
went.  It would not have surprised him if the weekly
bill had been reduced by a small amount; but when he
discovered that, though he fared quite as well, the
expenses were not half what they had been, he began to
think that Sherebiah possessed some talisman against
the cupidity of London innkeepers.  He found, too, that
he was left much more to himself, and wondered why,
with the change of lodging, Sherebiah's watchfulness
appeared to have diminished.

He was walking with Godfrey Fanshawe one cold
January afternoon by Pye Corner, when he was attracted
by a crowd of people gazing at a street show that, to
judge by their laughter and applause, was exceedingly
entertaining.  Elbowing their way through the stragglers
on the outskirts, the two young fellows arrived at a
position whence they could see what was going on.  A
group of posture-masters were performing, and at the
moment of Harry's arrival, a short thickset man, dressed
in fantastic costume, and with painted face, was dancing
on his knees with his toes in his hands, keeping time to
the music of a flute and a violin.  The tune was a merry
one, and the movements of the acrobat irresistibly funny,
so that every member of the crowd roared with laughter.

"Adzooks!" exclaimed Fanshawe, "the fellow's face is
the funniest part of the performance.  Look'ee, Harry, 'tis
as sober as a judge's on assize; one would think 'twere a
hanging matter."

Harry had been so tickled by this odd mode of dancing
that he had not noticed the performer's features.  He
glanced at them now, started with a sudden gasp, and
cried:

"By the Lord Harry, 'tis——"

"'Tis what?" said Fanshawe, looking at him in surprise.

"Oh, nothing!"

"Come, I scent a mystery.  Unravel, sir!"

"'Tis nothing.  See, Fanshawe, the dance is over.  Let
us go on."

Without waiting for his companion, he pushed his way
back through the crowd.

"Faith, I don't understand you of late, Rochester," said
Fanshawe in a half-vexed tone, when he overtook him.
"You're moody, full of whimsies, all starts and surprises.
Would to Heaven that the duke would bethink him of
that paper you gave him!  You need settling in life.  Why
don't you go to him, or to Lord Godolphin again?  'Tis
few suitors but would show more perseverance."

"Not I.  'Twas against the grain to beg even one
favour.  I'd rather earn my bread by scraping a fiddle, or
dancing on my knees like—like the poor fellow there."

"Well, let me tell you, you'll rue your independence.
Adsbud, who would get on in this world if he didn't pay
court to the great!  Your starveling poet writes a flattering
dedication to a lord—for pay!  Your snivelling parson
toadies to the lord of the manor—for a meal!  I except
your father, Harry; he was a rare one.  'Tis the way o'
the world; we must all do it, or pay the penalty."

"Be the penalty what it will, I'll pay it rather than play
lick-spittle to any man."

Fanshawe shrugged.  "By the way," he said, "Mr. Berkeley
is in town—to pay his court to someone, I swear.
'Tis said he is buying a commission for that cub his son;
pray Heaven it be not in my regiment!  That's the way
o' the world again.  Here's Piers Berkeley, the young
popinjay, all grins and frippery, like to carry the Queen's
colours in a fine regiment because his father has a long
purse, and you, a deal more fit for it, kicking your heels
for want of a rich father or a richer patron.  I fear 'tis all
up with your chances now; but I wish you luck.  I go to
Flanders in a week; home to-morrow to say good-bye;
who knows when we may meet again!"

The two friends bade each other a cordial farewell; then
Harry returned sadly to his lodging.  Some two hours
later Sherebiah came back.

"What do 'ee think, Master Harry?" he said.  "I ha'
seed old Squire."

"I knew he was in town," replied Harry.  "And what
do you think I've seen, Sherry?"

Detecting a something strange in his tone, Sherebiah
gave him a hard look.

"I never was no good at guessen," he said.  "Mebbe
the German giant at Hercules' Pillars, or the liven fairy
in Bridges Street."

"No, 'twas no giant and no fairy, but a short man—about
your height, Sherry—with a round face—just as
round as yours—and a solemn look—like yours at whiles;
and what think you he was doing?  He was dancing on
his knees, with a crowd of numskulls round him grinning
at his capers, and——"

"There now, 'twas sure to be found out, I knowed it.
'Twas me—I don't deny it, 'cos bean't no good."

"Now I know why you wanted to keep the purse, you
old dissembler.  You eke out my little store with the pence
your antics fetch.  Sherry, I love thee; I do indeed.  But
how did you learn those fantastic tricks with your knees?"

"Oh, I ha' done a bit o' tumblen in my time; ay sure."

"You seem to have done a bit of everything.  But
when? and why?  You must tell me all about it."

"Some day mebbe.  Ha' led a motley life for a man o'
peace; so 'tis.  'Twould make old feyther o' mine drop all
his old bones in a heap if so be as he knowed all my lines
o' life.  The time'll come to tell 'ee, sir, but 'tis not yet,
no."

That was the end of Sherebiah's acrobatic performances.
From that day he stuck to Harry more closely than ever;
and the weekly bills increased.  They had been in town
now for nearly two months, and by dint of the greatest
economy Sherebiah thought that the money might last for
a fortnight longer.  Then the wolf would be at the door.
Harry had not told his man of Jan Grootz's offer, though
he surmised, from a word Sherebiah let fall, that he knew
of it.  Hoping against hope, he waited and longed for some
sign from the duke.  Every day Sherebiah went to the
Angel and Crown to see if a letter had come, and every
day he came back disappointed.  He had not given the
host his new address, for reasons of his own; and when
on one of his visits he learnt that a man had enquired
for the present whereabouts of Mr. Harry Rochester, he
hugged himself on his prudence.  He would not have
been so well pleased if he had known that on the very next
day, when he returned from the Angel and Crown by a
roundabout way to his inn in Leicester Fields, he was
shadowed by a man who had waited for several hours
for the opportunity.  And he would undoubtedly have
counselled a second change of abode if he had known
that the spy, after assuring himself that Harry Rochester
was a guest of the inn, had gone hotfoot to Captain
Aglionby.

Another week went by.  On Saturday night Sherebiah
counted up the contents of his purse, and found that by
the end of the next week he would have spent the
uttermost farthing.

"I give it back to 'ee, sir," he said.  "Come Monday
morn, I go to find work."

"Not so fast, Sherry.  We share alike; when you go
to find work, I go too.  The duke may send for me even
at the eleventh hour."

"A plague on the duke!  I wish I may never hear of
dukes again to th' end o' my mortal days.  A duke's a
bubble, and that's the truth on't.  Better be an honest
man, as Mynheer Grootz says."

"'Tis mere forgetfulness, I am sure, Sherry.  He has
mislaid the paper, I suspect, and his mind being filled
with weightier matters, has forgotten that even so
insignificant a person as myself exists."

"'Tis my belief he never did a kindness to man, woman,
or child in all his born days.  Why, all the chairmen and
hackney coachmen know un; ay, and madam his duchess
too.  My lady will haggle with an oyster-wench over a
ha'penny, and the only thing my lord gives away for nowt
is his smile.  Hang dukes and duchesses, say I!"

"Well, Sherry, I can't gainsay you, because I don't
know.  We'll give him three days' grace, and then——"

He sighed.  The world looked black to him.  He knew
no trade, had practised no art, had no means to enter a
profession.  He turned over in his mind the possible
openings.  He could not apprentice himself to a merchant or
handicraftsman, for that needed money.  He might perhaps
get a clerkship in a goldsmith's or a warehouse; Sir
Godfrey Fanshawe, no doubt, would vouch for his respectability!
He almost envied the footmen of gentlemen of quality, who
wore a livery, earned six pounds a year, and a crown a
week extra for gloves and powder.  He writhed on his
sleepless bed that night as he contrasted his present
circumstances with his former prospects and his recent
imaginings.  A clergyman,—an officer of the Queen's,
forsooth! he was a pauper, a beggar, with nothing but
his health and his wits.  Then he rated himself for his
despondency.  "Fancy snivelling," he said to himself,
"because a duke hasn't the grace or the time to
remember a promise!  What would my father think of me?
Here have I wasted precious time waiting on a duke's
pleasure when I might have been turning the weeks to
some profit.  And I was too proud to accept the Dutchman's
friendly offer.  Egad, I'll go to him on Monday and
beg him to give me employment; sink my pride for good
and all."

So possessed was he by his determination that Sunday
passed all too slowly.  On Monday morning he walked early
to the Angel and Crown and asked for Mynheer Grootz.
The landlord replied that Mynheer Grootz had left the inn
on Friday, removing all his baggage.  He was about to sail
for Holland, and, as the wind favoured, it was probable
that his ship had already left the Thames.  This news
was a terrible damper.  Harry had built confidently on
the anticipated interview.  Mingled with his gratitude for
the coming favour, he even felt a pleasant glow at his
condescension in accepting service so much beneath him.
And now this new house of cards was toppled down!  He
turned gloomily away, and wandered aimlessly through the
streets, disposed, under the first sting of the disappointment,
to believe that fate had indeed a spite against him.
He was glad he had said nothing to Sherebiah of his
intention, being in no mood to endure condolences, in word or
look.  "What a useless loon I am!" he said to himself
bitterly.  "Sherry can earn his living by tumbling in the
streets, and maybe in dozens of other ways; I can do
nothing.  Even Piers Berkeley has a commission in the
army—that puppy!"

But Harry was never long in the dumps.  He was only
a boy, and the misfortunes that had befallen him so
suddenly were sufficient excuse for his passing fits of
moodiness; but his was naturally a sanguine temper, and by the
time he reached the inn his brow had cleared and he was
able to eat his dinner with good appetite.

"The last but one, Sherry," he said with a smile.  "After
to-morrow the purse will be all but dry, and then I shall
have to earn my bread.  What do you say?  Will you
teach me to stand on my head, to begin with?"

"Zooks, sir, dont'ee put it so terrible low.  Look'ee,
now, I ha' some score o' guineas behind my belt; ye're
welcome to the loan on 'em till your ship do come home."

"You're a good fellow, Sherry, but I couldn't think of
it.  Do you want to make me still more ashamed of
myself?"

"Well then, sir, why not go to my lord Marlborough's
noble house and walk up and down outside till the duke
comes out, and stand full in his path and catch his
eye—or mebbe his missis'; her med be taken wi' 'ee and
command her good man to remember 'ee, for by all accounts
she——"

"Hold your tongue, sirrah!" cried Harry with a touch
of anger.  "Hang about a great man's door, like Lazarus
waiting for the offal!  No indeed.  Nay.  To-morrow we
shall be adrift; pray God a fair breeze will carry us into
port.  Sherry, you had better go and tell the landlord we
shall leave him to-morrow.  Ask for the reckoning; we will
pay the score and begin the morning at least free men."

In half an hour Sherebiah returned with the bill.  Harry
pulled a long face as he glanced at it.  He untied the
purse-strings and laid his money out on the table.

"'Tis worse than I thought," he said ruefully.  "In
some unconscionable fashion the bill mounts higher this
week; I am ten shillings short without vails to the
servants."

"Ah, I know Lun'on folk, I do.  But don't let that
trouble 'ee, sir; ten shillens won't make a great hole in
my store."

"But I won't have your money.  Nay, Sherry, call it a
whim of mine; 'tis our last day; the charges are mine;
to-morrow we must start afresh.  I have some trinkets in
my box; their worth I know not; but you can take one or
two to a goldsmith's and place them with him until the luck
turns.  You will do that better than I."

He left the room and came back with a miniature set in
gold and a brooch of antique make.  Sherebiah looked at
them with a deliberative air.

"Baubles like these sell for next to nowt," he said.
"'Tis not all gold that glitters.  But I'll take 'em, sir,
and cheapen 'em as best I may.  Be I to pledge 'em in
my name or yours?"

"It doesn't matter—whichever you like.  I'll sit by the
fire and read while you are gone."

"Ay, 'tis a raw and nippen afternoon, and there be
true comfort in a log fire."

He flung his cloak over his shoulders and was gone.
Harry went to his room and brought down a volume of his
father's containing Mr. John Milton's poem of "Samson
Agonistes".  In the dark afternoon he read for some time
by the light of the fire, finding a certain melancholy
pleasure in fitting Samson's woeful laments to his own case.

   |  "So much I feel my genial spirits droop,
   |  My hopes all flat",

he murmured, and then closed the book over his finger
and gazed into the ruddy cavern of the fire till his eyes
ached.  Sherebiah seemed a long time gone; a feeling of
restlessness stole upon Harry.  He let the book fall from
his hand, rose, and paced about the room, stopping once
or twice at the narrow window to look out into the street.
The air was misty, the pavement sticky with mud; every
passing horse stepped under a blanket of vapour; the
wayfarers were muffled about their necks and walked as
though bent under a load.  Harry fidgeted, wondering
why Sherebiah was so long.  His reading had not cheered
him; his musing did but increase his gloom.  At last,
unable to endure inaction longer, he put on his cloak and
hat, took up the cudgel without which, in deference to
Sherebiah's advice, he seldom went abroad, and sallied
forth into the street, to walk off his fit of the dumps, if
that might be.

By the flickering light above the door he saw three
sailors lurching up the street.  He passed them, giving
them but a casual glance, turned into the Strand, and
spent some time looking listlessly into the lighted shops.
At the door of a coffee-house he noticed a group gathered
about a newspaper pasted on the wall.  A manuscript
supplement had just been affixed to it.  When he could
get near enough to see the writing, he felt a momentary
interest in the announcement he read.

.. vspace:: 2

"The Duke of Marlborough has rid post to Cambridge, call'd
thither by the desperate state of the Marquis of Blandford.  It is
now 'stablish'd beyond doubt that the young Lord is suffering
from the Small-Pox."

.. vspace:: 2

Even the great duke had his troubles.  Lord Blandford
was, as Harry knew, Marlborough's only son; he was the
Lord Churchill who had written to Godolphin with boyish
curiosity to know what his title would be when his father
became a duke.  Harry passed on, more than ever
convinced that the great man, beset by cares public and
domestic, could have no time to think of the small
concerns of a country parson's son.

He turned into the Savoy and came by and by to the
Temple Gardens, forlorn and desolate in the chill February
evening.  Not far behind him three sailors were sauntering
in the same direction, on their way perhaps to rejoin their
vessel in the Thames.  The damp cold air struck Harry to
the bone; he shivered and drew his cloak closer around
him, and was on the point of turning to retrace his steps
when there suddenly stood before him a woman, thin-clad,
bare-headed, with a whining child in her arms.

"Spare a penny, kind sir, to buy bread.  My lips have
not touched food the livelong day, and my little boy is
fair starved.  Oh, sir, have pity on a poor lone woman;
spare a penny, kind sir."

Harry stopped and looked at the thin haggard cheeks,
the dark-rimmed eyes, the hair hanging in loose damp
wisps over the brow.  The child's feeble moans stabbed
him like a knife; its poor pinched wizened face was a
speaking tale of woe.  Loosening his cloak, the woman
all the while continuing her monotonous complaint, he
untied his purse.  It contained a guinea and one crown
piece.  At that moment the three sailors passed him,
talking loudly, and laughing coarsely as they jostled the
woman in their path.

"The poor creature's need is greater than mine," he
thought.  "Sherry will bring back some money.  Here
you are," he said, handing her the guinea.  "And for
God's sake take your little one out of the damp and cold!
Good-night!"

Harry moved on, impressed by the spectacle of a misery
deeper than his own, and pursued by the voluble thanks
of the poor woman.  He had forgotten his purpose to turn
back; and was only recalled to it by the sight of the three
sailors rolling on ahead.  They were walking arm in arm,
and from their gait Harry concluded that the middle one
of the three was intoxicated, and needed the support of his
comrades.  One of them glanced back over his shoulder
just as Harry was turning.  The next moment there was a
heavy thud; the drunken sailor was on the ground, the
others bending over him.  A hoarse cry for help caused
Harry to hasten to the group.

"What is amiss?" he asked.

"Be you a surgeon, mate?" replied the man, a thickset
and powerful salt.  "Bill be taken wi' a fit, sure enough.
A's foaming at the mouth."

"No, I'm not a surgeon.  I thought he was drunk."

"Not him.  Belay there; let the gentleman see."

Harry went to the man's head and leant over, peering
into his face.  Instantly the fallen sailor flung his arms
round Harry's legs and pulled them violently towards him.
Unable to recover himself Harry fell backward, and before
he could cry out a cloak was flung over his head and a
brawny hand had him by the throat.  Through the folds
of cloth he heard the men with many oaths congratulate
themselves on the ease with which they had accomplished
their job.  For a few moments he struggled violently, until
he felt that resistance was hopeless.  Then the cloak was
tied about his neck, and he felt himself carried by two of
the three, one having him by the head, the other by the
heels.  They walked swiftly along, and, not troubling to
keep step, jolted him unpleasantly.  There was a singing
in his ears; he gasped for breath; and soon his physical
discomfort and his fears were alike annihilated.  He had
lost consciousness.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Flotsam`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII


.. class:: center large bold

   Flotsam

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

Under the Leads—A Thames-side Attic—A Man of Law—A
Matter of Form—A Question of Identity—A Fine
Mesh—A Dash for Freedom—Help in Need—For the
Plantations—Visitors on Board—Ned Bates—In the
Foc'sle—Sailor's Knots—An Old Coat—Odds and Ends—A
Soft Answer—Overboard—A Dead Heat—A Sea Lawyer—Grootz
Protests—A Stern Chase—Sherry's Story—To the Low Countries

.. vspace:: 2

When Harry recovered his senses he found himself tied
hand and foot, and with a cloth gag between his teeth.  It
was pitch dark; he could hear nothing save a faint scratching
near at hand; mice were evidently at their nocturnal
work.  He lay still perforce; he found it impossible even
to wriggle over on to his side.  Here was indeed a
culmination of his misfortunes.

He tried to think, but the sudden attack and his
subsequent unconsciousness had left his brain in a whirl.
Gradually the sequence of events came back to him: his
walk through the streets towards Blackfriars, the beggar
woman, the three sailors, the pretended fit.  What was
the meaning of it?  Had he been marked by the press-gang,
and trepanned to serve Her Majesty on the high
seas?  Had he been kidnapped, to be robbed or held to
ransom?  Hardly the former, for a knock on the head
would have served the kidnappers' ends.  Hardly the
latter, for no one could have taken the pains to waylay
for such a purpose a penniless youth with no friends.

Suddenly he remembered the vague uneasiness shown
at times by Sherebiah; his earnest warnings; the cudgel
which after all had proved useless.  Sherebiah, it seemed,
had had more definite reasons for alarm than he had
avowed; why then had the silly fellow not spoken his
mind freely?  Who was the enemy?  What motive could
any person in the wide world have for kidnapping one who
was even yet a boy and had, so far as he knew, done no
harm to a living soul?  The more he thought, the more he
was puzzled.

He was in pain.  The cords cut into his flesh; his throat
was parched; he could not swallow.  How long was this
torture to continue?  Where was he?  Where were his
capturers?  He longed for a light, so that he might at
least see the prison in which he was confined, and so
diminish even by one his terrible uncertainties.  But no
light came, no voice or footfall sounded gratefully upon
his ear; and presently a lethargy stole upon his mind
and all things were again in oblivion.

He was roused by a light flashed in his eyes.  Dazed
and still only half conscious, he saw an unknown face
bending towards him, and a hand holding a candle.  The
man grunted as though with relief to find the captive still
alive; then, setting the candle upon the floor, he removed
the gag.  Harry tried to speak, but no word issued from
his lips.  The man went from the room, leaving the candle
still burning.  By its light Harry saw that he was in a
narrow attic, with rough beams supporting a slanting
roof, and whitewashed walls.  There was a sky-light
above him; he could hear the first patters of a shower
of hail.

Presently the man returned bearing a can and a hunk of
bread.  Lifting Harry, he held the can to his lips.  The
prisoner drank the beer greedily.

"Where am I?" he asked, recovering his voice.

"Hold your jaw!" was the surly answer.  "You are
where you are."

"Why am I brought here?  What is to be done with me?"

"Hold your jaw, I say!  Ye'll get nothing out of me.
Keep a still tongue; for if ye raise your voice someone I
know will find means to quiet ye."

"But I insist on knowing," cried Harry in indignation.
"Why was I dogged and attacked in the streets, and
brought captive to——"

"Stow it!  Least said soonest mended.  Behave wi'
sense and ye'll be treated according; otherways—well, I
won't answer for't."

"Loose my arms then."

"Well, I'll do that for 'ee, and legs too; don't think ye
can run away, 'cos ye can't.  Here's your supper; dry, but
'tis drier where there's none.  I'll leave ye to't."

Untying the cords, the man gave the bread into Harry's
hand, took up the candle, and went out, locking the door
behind him.  Harry could not eat; his limbs were cramped
with his long immobility; when he stood his knees hardly
supported him.  But it was pleasant to be able to use
arms and legs once more, and after a time his aching
pains abated.  He groped round the room, shook the
door, and found it fast.  He could just touch the sky-light
with his outstretched hand, and he felt that the glass was
loose; but he could not remove it unless he stood higher,
and groping failed to find any chair or stool.  Escape was
impossible; he could but wait for the morning.

He lay awake the greater part of the night, but was
sound asleep when the same man re-entered with his
meagre breakfast.  The morning brought no comfort.  A
gray dawn struggled through the grimy sky-light, revealing
the nakedness of the room.  Cobwebs festooned the
beams; the boards of the floor were dirty and mouldered;
the walls in places were green with damp.  Harry took
silently the food offered him; he was not encouraged by
the previous night's experience to question his taciturn
jailer.  The morning passed slowly, irksomely; when the
man returned with another meal at noon, Harry ventured
to address him.

"How long am I to remain caged here?"

"I can't tell 'ee, 'cos I don't know."

"You're not one of the sailors who trapped me?"

"Lord, no.  I wouldn't be a dirty swab for nothing
'cept to 'scape the gallows."

"Who employs you in this turnkey business?"

"That's my business."

"Don't be surly.  I've done nothing to you."

"Well, that's true.  You ha'n't done nothing to me.
That's true enough."

"Will you do something for me, then?  You're a good
fellow, I'm sure."

"Nay, nay, you don't come over me, young master.
Soft speeches ain't no good for a tough un like me.  When
I goes out I locks ye in, and if ye holler till ye bust, 'tis no
good, not at all."

"I didn't mean that.  'Tis dull as death lying on these
rotten boards with nothing to do; bring me the morning's
paper and I'll thank you."

"Well, that's harmless enough, to be sure.  Gi' me
twopence and I'll buy ye a *Courant*."

"'Tis only a penny."

"True; t'other penny's for me."

Harry smiled and felt for his purse.  It was gone.

"Plucked clean, eh?" chuckled the man.  "Trust your
Wapping swab for that.  All the same you shall have the
paper."

He returned with the morning's *Courant*, already well
thumbed.  Harry ran his eye over the meagre half-sheet;
there was nothing that interested him except the
announcement of Lord Blandford's death at Cambridge.

"The duke has lost his heir," he thought.  "He was a
little older than myself.  Perhaps it is my turn next."

The day wore on.  In the afternoon the door opened
and a stranger entered along with the custodian.  By his
cut Harry guessed him to be a lawyer's clerk.  His
movements were soft and insinuating; his face was wreathed
into an artificial smile.

"Good-morning, sir!" he said softly, bowing.  "I have
waited upon you to complete a little matter of business; a
mere formality.  The document is quite ready; I have here
inkhorn and quill; I have only to ask you to write your
name at the foot."

He unrolled the paper he carried, and signed to his
companion to bring the writing materials.

"Ah! there is no table, I see.  You can hardly write on
the floor, sir; James, fetch a table from below.—Your
furniture is scanty, sir," he continued as the man went out;
"in truth, there is nothing to recommend your situation
but its loftiness.  You are near the sky, sir, and very
fortunately so, for 'tis murky and damp in the street.—Thank
you, James!  Now, sir, everything is in order; you will, if
you please, sign your name where I place my finger, there."

Harry took the pen offered him, and dipped it in the
inkhorn.  He gave no sign of his amazement.

"Yes," he said, "with pleasure—when I have read the paper."

"Surely, sir, at this stage it is unnecessary.  Why
delay?  I assure you that the document is perfectly in
order, and the phraseology of us men of law is—well, sir,
you understand that a scrivener is paid so much a folio,
and he has no temptation to be unduly brief: he! he!"

"Still, if you do not object I will read the paper.  It is
merely a form, as you say."

"Very well, sir," said the man with a patient shrug.

He lifted his hand from the paper, and Harry bent over
the table to read it.  The writing was clerkly and precise;
the sentences were long and involved, with no support
from punctuation; but, unfamiliar as he was with legal
diction, Harry had no difficulty in making out the gist of
the document so obligingly placed before him.  His heart
was thumping uncomfortably, for all his cool exterior;
and he deliberately read down the close lines slowly in
order to gain time to collect his thoughts.  The request
to sign the paper had been surprising enough, but his
bewilderment was increased tenfold when he found what
it was that he was asked to sign.

Stripped of its verbiage, the document stated that
whereas Christopher Butler, gentleman, lately residing
in Jermyn Street over against the Garter Coffee-house,
had been acquitted of all his debts by the good offices
of John Feggans, merchant of the City of London, the
said Christopher Butler hereby entered into an indenture
to serve the said John Feggans in his Plantations in the
island of Barbados for a period of five years.  There were
qualifications and provisos and penalties which Harry
passed over; then, having read the principal articles
again, he looked up and said:

"Why should I sign this?"

"Sir!" said the attorney in surprise.

"Why should I sign this?  What have I to do with
Christopher Butler or John Feggans?"

The lawyer looked round at the other man as though
asking whether he had heard aright.

"I am at a loss to give you better reasons than you
know already.  Who should sign it if not you?"

"I am afraid I must trouble you to explain.  See, I find
that Christopher Butler, having incurred debts to a large
amount, has assigned these debts to John Feggans, who
has paid them, and that Christopher Butler indentures
himself a slave to John Feggans, to win his release by
working in the Plantations.  I ask you, what have I to
do with all this?"

"Christopher Butler asks that?"

"Who?  What did you say?"

"Christopher Butler—yourself."

Harry laughed, so great was his sense of relief.  It was
all a mistake, then; he had been seized by mistake for
some poor wretched fellow who had lost all his money and
been forced to adopt this, the last resource of impecunious
spendthrifts.

"Pardon me," he said.  "There has been a mistake.
My name is not Christopher Butler."

He smiled in the attorney's face.  The little man looked
staggered.

"Not Christopher Butler?"

"Certainly not.  My name is——"

Harry stopped.  Some instinct of caution warned him
not to disclose his real name at present.

"My name is neither Butler nor Christopher," he added.
"Now, pray let me go."

"Sir, I have my instructions.  I must make enquiries.
This is unlooked for, most perplexing.  Pray excuse me
for one moment."

He hurried from the room, leaving the door open.  The
surly custodian, who had followed the colloquy with evident
interest, showed that he was not a bad fellow at bottom.

"I'm right glad, that I am," he said.  "'Twas my own
thought you was too young to be such a wild dog, or else
you was a most desperate wild one."

Harry did not reply.  Through the open door he heard
loud voices proceeding from a room below.  He could not
catch the words, but there was something in the tone of
the loudest voice that sounded familiar.  He had no
opportunity of forming a conclusion on the matter, for the
speaker's tone was instantly moderated, as though in
response to a warning.  Immediately afterwards the
attorney returned, accompanied by a low-browed fellow in
a lackey's livery.  The lawyer's smile was as bland as ever
as he came into the room.

"'Tis not unusual for a man to change his mind, Mr. Butler,
but in this case I fear 't will be a little awkward.
I am instructed that you are the Christopher Butler named
in this indenture, and have to insist on your affixing your
signature to it."

"Nonsense!" said Harry impatiently.  "I tell you my
name is not Butler, and I refuse to sign the paper.  'Tis a
preposterous error.  I never was in debt in my life; I know
nothing of Feggans; indeed, know hardly a soul in London;
why, I never was in London till a month or two ago."

"My dear sir, my dear sir," said the lawyer, as though
expostulating with a hardened liar.  Turning to the
lackey, he asked: "You see this young gentleman?"

"Ay, ay, I do so."

Harry started.  The accent was pure Wiltshire, and
fell on his ears like a message from home.  He scanned
the man's features, but did not recognize him.

"What is his name?" went on the lawyer.

"Butler; ay, 'tis Butler, sure enough."

"Where did you see him last?"

"In the Fleet prison, to be sure, ay, and on the
common side, too."

"You are sure of this?"

"Ay, faith, sure enough.  I seed the gentleman often
at maister's; many's the time I called a hackney for'n in
the darkest hour o' night, thinken as them as goo fast
won't goo long."

"And you were present with your master when this
little matter of business was arranged?"

"I was so, ay."

The lawyer looked with his eternal smile at Harry.

"Now, sir," he said, "you will no longer delay to put
your hand to this document."

Harry had been thinking rapidly.  He gave up the
hypothesis of error; the lawyer's visit was clearly part of
a deliberate plot; it mattered little whether he was privy
to it, or was innocently carrying out his instructions.
No doubt there was a *Christopher Butler* who had thus
sold himself to pay his debts, but somebody had
determined to substitute Harry for the real man.  He had
noticed that the name Christopher Butler was written in
pencil every time it occurred in the document, all else
being in ink; and it suddenly flashed upon him that the
object had been to entrap him into signing his real name,
which would then be substituted for the name pencilled in.
He gave the lawyer a long look, put his hands behind his
back, and said:

"It is waste of time.  I refuse."

Again the lawyer smiled and shrugged.

"'Tis immaterial, sir.  This is but a duplicate; the
original was signed three days ago in the Fleet.  I have
now to——"

"Liar!" shouted Harry, springing forward, his face
aflame.  The door stood open; only the lackey was in
a direct line between the prisoner and freedom.  Before
the man's slow rustic mind had accommodated itself to the
situation, he was sent reeling against the wall by a straight
blow between the eyes.  Harry was already out of the
room, at the top of the staircase, when the little attorney
seized him from behind and shouted for help.  The
taciturn jailer stood looking on.  There were cries from below
and a stampede of feet, and before Harry, with the lawyer
clinging to him, had descended more than four steps he
was met by the three sailors.  Swearing hearty oaths they
threw themselves upon him, and in five minutes he was
back in the attic securely trussed up.

Even his surly jailer, bringing him food, looked at him
with a touch of sympathy.  Harry's haggard eyes met his
with a mute appeal for help.

"Odsbud!" exclaimed the man, "'tis hard on a mere
stripling.  If your name bean't Christopher Butler, what
be it?"

"My name is Harry Rochester.  'Tis a vile plot.  You
believe me?"

"Ay, I believe ye.  Tain't in reason that a boy should
ha' got ocean deep in debt."

"Will you help me?  You see what a snare is about
me.  Will you go to the Star and Garter in Leicester
fields and ask for Sherebiah Minshull?  Tell him where
I am, and what they are going to do with me."

"But what'd be the good, mister?"

"He would find a way to help me.  You would know
that if you knew him."

"And how much might ye be willing to pay, now?"

"I haven't a penny, as you know, but he had some
money.  Lose no time; pray go now, at once."

"Well, the truth on't is I'm paid by t'other party."

"Who is it?  What is the name of the man who has
hired you?"

"Faith, I don't know, but he have a fine long purse,
and 'tis a fine swashing gentleman.  Howsomever, I'll go
to the Star and Garter as you say, and see your
man—what be his name?  Minshull; good; I'll go soon,
and—Coming, sir, coming," he added in answer to a hail from
below.  "I'll go afore 'tis dark, 'struth, I will."

He left the room, and Harry felt a momentary glow of
hope.  It was dulled immediately.  The three sailors
re-entered.  Without ado they again bound his arms, which
had been loosed to allow of his lifting his food, and carried
him downstairs.  Daylight was fading.  At the door
Harry looked eagerly around for some person whom a cry
might bring to his rescue.  Alas! the house was in a
blind alley, and no one but his captors was in sight.  He
did raise his voice and give one resounding call.  A gag
was instantly slipped into his mouth, and he was hurried
to the open end of the alley, where a hackney coach stood
waiting.  Into this he was thrown; two of the sailors got in
with him, the third mounted to a place beside the driver,
and the vehicle rumbled and jolted over the rough cobbles.

Some twenty minutes later it pulled up at the Tower
Wharf, where Harry had vainly sought for Jan Grootz
a few days before.  It was now night, and as he was lifted
out and borne towards the wharf side, Harry saw by the
light of naphtha torches a busy scene.  Sailors,
lightermen, stevedores were moving hither and thither; the
ground was strewn with bales and packages; the last
portions of a cargo were being transferred to the hold of
a barque that lay alongside.  No one paid attention to the
not unusual spectacle of a young fellow going unwillingly
to a vessel bound for the Plantations.  Harry's captors,
joking, chewing, spitting, shoved him with no tender
hands on to the gangway.  At the other end of it stood
a dark-featured, beetle-browed old seaman, the captain of
the vessel, bawling orders to this and that member of his
crew.

"Ha!" he cried, as he saw the new-comer hauled along
in the sailors' arms; "this be the springald?  Zooks! ye
are none too soon: tide turns in half an hour."

"Here we be, sir, true; and this be Christopher Butler,
mark you, for the Plantations."

"Papers?" roared the captain, spitting into the river.

"All taut, sir," replied the man, producing the document
that Harry had refused to sign; it bore a signature now.

"Obstropolous, eh?"

"Changed his mind, sir, it seems, since signing on;
ha' give us some trouble."

"Oons!  We'll cure that.  All aboard!  Stow the
cockerel in the foc'sle; strap un to a plank; we'll have no
'tarnal tricks."

As Harry was lugged forward he noticed two figures
standing beneath a lamp swinging to one of the yards.
He started, and involuntarily increased his weight upon
his bearers.  One of the two came forward a step towards
the captain and, tapping a snuff-box, said:

"Whom have we here, captain?"

"A young puppy as ha' run through a duke's fortune
and goes as redemptioner where I've carried many a man
before him."

"Indeed!  So young!  'Tis sad, the wastefulness of
young men in this age."

He took a pinch of snuff and stepped back again.
Harry had scanned his features and heard what he said.
His heart almost stopped beating with surprise, for the
speaker was Mr. Berkeley, the squire, and his companion
was Captain Aglionby.  "Did they not recognize me?"
he thought.  Surely if he could appeal to the squire he
might even yet, at the last moment, be saved.  He
struggled with his captors, but they tightened their hold
upon him and wrenched his limbs with brutal callousness.
He was carried to the sailors' quarters in the foc'sle.  His
bonds were loosed for a moment; then he was laid on
a plank and lashed to it.  There was a sudden commotion.
The captain roared an order to his men, then went to the
side to meet a custom-house officer who had just come
aboard with two men.  An observer would have noticed
that Mr. Berkeley hastily turned his back and retreated
into the shadow.

"Thought you'd forgot us, sir," said the captain.

"No, no.  But we won't keep you long; you want to
catch the tide."

The rummaging crew began a perfunctory inspection of
the vessel.  When they were out of sight Mr. Berkeley
came forward and spoke in a low tone to the captain.

"Right, sir," he replied, and sent a man forward with
orders to place Harry in a bunk in the darkest part of the
foc'sle and cover him up.  Consequently, when the custom-house
officer reached the sailors' quarters, where several
of the crew were lolling about, Harry lay hidden,
half-stifled beneath a tarpaulin.

"What's this?" asked the officer.

"That!" cried the ship's mate with an oath.  "That's
Ned Bates, come aboard mad drunk after a spree.  'Tis
the same every voyage, and the medicine's a dose of rope's
end to-morrow."

The officer laughed and passed on.  The inspection was
soon completed; the officer accepted a pinch of the
captain's snuff and left the vessel with his crew, watched by
Mr. Berkeley and Captain Aglionby from the corner of a
shed on the wharf.  In a few minutes the ropes were cast
off, and with creakings and heavings the ship moved into
the current and began to float down on the ebb-tide
towards the sea.

The tarpaulin was pulled off Harry by a man who took
the opportunity to curse him.  The gag was removed from
his mouth; then he was left to himself.  He thought he
had reached the lowest depths of misery.  Something he
had learnt of the awful fate in store for him in the
Plantations.  Many such poor wretches as himself had sailed
across the seas in the hope of redeeming themselves from
debt by years of unremitting toil.  On their arrival they
had become, body and soul, the property of their masters.
Treated as no better than convicts, they were put to the
most degrading labour, and their employers contrived to
keep them, even as labourers, so deeply in debt for clothes
and the common necessaries of life that the day of
redemption never dawned for them, and they lived and died in
abject slavery.  This was to be his fate!  What a declension
from the bright destiny that seemed to be before him
but a few months ago!

The foc'sle was dark and noisome.  The smell of bilge
water and the reek of the lamp affixed to the side
nauseated Harry.  Physically and mentally, he was desperately
wretched.  And through all his misery he was overcome
by sheer puzzlement.  Hitherto he had surmised that,
being young and strong, he had been marked as an easy
prey by the professional kidnappers who prowled the
streets of London, trepanning unfortunate young men
likely to fetch a good price with shipmasters or unscrupulous
colonial merchants.  But the unexpected sight of
Mr. Berkeley in Captain Aglionby's company on deck had
startled him into a new theory.  Many things recurred to
his mind.  He remembered the bitter feud that had
subsisted between his father and the squire; the disappearance
of Captain Aglionby after a quarrel, as village gossip
said, with Mr. Berkeley; the horseman riding after the
coach; the strange warnings he had received from
Sherebiah.  He could not but feel that these incidents were in
some way connected; he began to be convinced that his
present situation was due ultimately to the enmity of the
squire—the gaunt, sinister old man who was indirectly
responsible for his father's death.  But though this was
his conclusion, he was none the less puzzled.  Why should
the malignity of the squire pursue the son, now that the
father was removed?  What harm had *he* ever done, or
could he ever do, to the lord of the manor?  Was the
squire so unrelenting, was his malice so remorseless, that
he must bring black ruin upon a boy in vengeance for his
baulked will?  It seemed inconceivable.  Yet what other
motive could he have?  The more he thought of it, the
more puzzled Harry became.

The vessel was slowly threading its way down the river
among the many vessels, large and small, that lay at their
moorings.  At times it stopped altogether, and from the
deck resounded shouts and oaths at the obstacles that
checked its course.  By and by some of the sailors came
forward for a spell of sleep, and Harry, kept wide awake
by his hunger and discomfort, saw them tumble into their
bunks and soon heard their snores.

It would take several hours to reach the open sea.  Was
there a chance that, before the vessel left the Thames, he
might even yet escape?  To make the attempt was mere
instinct with a high-spirited boy.  The odds seemed all
against him.  To begin with, he was bound hand and foot
to a plank, so that it was impossible even to bend his body.
Suppose he rid himself of his bonds, there would be many
of the crew on deck while the vessel threaded the crowded
water-way, and he would be seen if he sprang overboard;
and how could he free himself from the ropes?  The idea
had not come to him for the first time.  When he was
being trussed up he had remembered an old trick taught
him by Sherebiah, acquired during his mountebank days,
when he had mystified rustic spectators by escaping from
ropes tied by the most expert hands in the village.  He
had so stiffened his muscles that he could wriggle out of
any ordinary knot.  But the situation was rendered more
difficult by the plank.  He could not lift himself, nor turn
on his side.  Lying on his back, he tried to ease the
pressure of the ropes by the muscular movements he had
practised with Sherebiah in sport.  But he found, not to his
surprise, that sailors were more skilful than anyone who
had previously experimented with him.  The tension was
so great that he had the barest margin to work upon.
Force was useless; it would only have the effect of cutting
into his flesh and causing his hands and wrists to swell.
But his whole mind was now bent upon one desperate
venture, and, while the men snored around him, he began
to strain on the ropes.

For some time all his straining was of no avail.  At last
he felt the rope about his wrists give a little.  Taking
advantage of the slackened tension, he contrived, after
what seemed an hour to him, to turn his joined wrists
outwards, and in a few more minutes they were free.  They
ached intolerably; he felt as if all power was gone from
them,—as if he could never grip anything firmly again.
He waited until the numbing pain was abated, then set to
work to free his elbows.  These had been separately tied,
and after many unsuccessful efforts he almost despaired.
At length, however, he managed to shift his elbows down
over the edges of the plank, which he was then able to
use as fulcrums.  Pressing as hard as possible, he forced
the ropes slightly slack, then jerked himself sideways and
almost on to his face.  In doing so he more than once
interrupted the snores of the man beneath him, and once
desisted in alarm as the fellow growled out an oath.  At
last his elbows were free, and he lay panting with exertion
and hope.

But now that the upper part of his body was unbound,
he found himself confronted by an unexpected difficulty.
The board to which he was strapped extended down to
his heels, and the knot being tied at the far end, he was
unable to reach it.  A man is never so agile with his
ankles as with his wrists, and the plank had effectually
prevented Harry from making use of Sherebiah's trick in
regard to his feet.  It was impossible to reach the knots
with his hands, for the roof of the foc'sle was so low that
he could not rise to an upright posture in the bunk.  He
worked away at the upper part of the rope, but it was so
taut that he could not ease it appreciably.  He found
himself making even more noise than before, and dreaded lest
one of the crew should awaken too soon.  Breathless with
his exertions, he lay still to think.  Was he to be baffled
after all?  Some hours must have passed since the vessel
left her moorings, and though her progress had been
interrupted and was always slow, yet she was drawing
nearer and nearer to the mouth of the river, bringing
him nearer and nearer to his doom.

A dull dazed hopelessness was gaining possession of
him.  He lay with wide-open eyes, staring at nothing;
then caught himself following the slight pendulous motion
of a seaman's coat that hung from a nail in one of the
beams.  To and fro it swung, with a regularity that
became at last desperately annoying.  But all at once
that rough stained garment became to him the most
interesting and important thing in the world.  It seemed
to shed a bright ray of hope.  Never a seaman but had
a knife; fervently did Harry pray that the owner of this
coat had not emptied its pockets.  Stealthily he bent over.
The right-hand pocket was easily within reach.  He put
his hand in, and drew out one after another a pipe, a
pouch, a flint, a steel, a tinder-box, a string of beads, a
corner of mouldy biscuit, a horn snuff-box, a tattered letter,
a plug of black tobacco, a broken comb, a red handkerchief,
and a nutmeg; but no knife.  He could only just
touch the left-hand pocket; he could not put his hand in.
He pulled at the coat, and held it with one hand, bringing
the pocket within reach; then he plunged the other hand
into its depths.  He touched a metal case; it clicked against
something, and he held his breath, hoping the sound had
not been heard.  No one spoke or moved.  He felt further;
his heart gave a great leap for joy, for he could not mistake
the touch of the rugged handle of a clasp-knife.  Eagerly
he drew it out; to cut the rope was the work of an instant;
he was free.

But he was not yet out of danger.  His limbs were
loosed, but he was still imprisoned in an outward-bound
ship.  There was only one way of reaching safety: to gain
the deck, spring overboard, and swim to land.  He knew
nothing about ships; he could row and swim, but till he
came to London he had seen no vessel larger than a
rowing boat.  He guessed that while the barque was still in
the Thames only a small portion of the crew would be on
duty; but he did not know at what part of the ship they
would be, nor where he would run least danger of
detection.  It was still dark; he might easily stumble as he
moved about amid unfamiliar surroundings, and there
was the risk that, even if he reached the bulwarks safely
and sprang over, he might never succeed in reaching land
alive.  He did not know the width of the stream; he
had been so long without food and had expended so
much energy during the last few hours that he was in
no condition to endure long fatigue.  It would perhaps be
better to rest for a little, and seize a moment as day was
breaking, when there would be light enough to guide his
steps.

His body was still tingling from the strain of the ropes,
but with the passing minutes his physical ease increased,
and he was able to think more and more calmly.  He
heard the clang of a bell.  Immediately afterwards a
sailor came into the foc'sle, woke the man below Harry,
and, when he had tumbled grumbling out of his berth,
lay down in his place.  It was a change of watch.

"Where are we, Bill?" asked the man who had been roused.

"Opening up Gravesend," was the reply; "and a dirty
night.  Raining hard, a following wind; we'll make a
good run out."

The man was asleep as soon as he had finished the
sentence, and Harry was reassured by his snores.  Gravesend,
he supposed, was a river-side village; if he could
make his dive there he might find helping hands on shore.
He wondered what the time was; the bells that he heard
at intervals conveyed no information to him.  He raised
himself on his elbow and glanced round.  It seemed to
him that, in the opening to his left, the darkness was
thinning; and the vessel was heaving to.  The time had
come for his venture.

He sat up as high as his confined quarters allowed and
surveyed his position.  There were five men within the
narrow space, all asleep, snoring in various keys.  From
above came now and then the sound of a voice and the
tramp of feet; nothing else was to be heard.  Slipping his
leg over the side of the bunk, Harry paused for a moment,
then slid to the floor.  His knee knocked the edge of the
bunk below; the seaman turned over with a grunt and
asked sleepily, "Be it time already?"  It was better to
answer than to remain silent, thought Harry.  Making
his voice as gruff as possible, he said quickly:

"No; keep still, you lubber."

"Lubber yourself; I'll split your——"

His threat ended with a snore.  Harry waited a moment
to assure himself that all was quiet again; then, divesting
himself of his long coat, which he knew would be a serious
encumbrance in the water, he groped cautiously towards
the opening, now showing as a gray patch in the gloom.
Rain and sleet beat in upon him as he halted for a moment
and threw a quick glance around before emerging on to
the deck.  In the waist of the vessel on the port side two
men were hauling up casks, probably belated provisions,
from a river craft lashed alongside; three or four seamen
were high up in the rigging, and the mate was bellowing
to them hoarse commands in what to Harry's landsman's
ears was a foreign tongue.  Harry felt that it was now or
never; but, even as he prepared to spring, there was a
heavy footfall above, and a man dropped from the foc'sle
deck and alighted a couple of yards away.  He swung on
his heel to enter the foc'sle, and the two stood face to face.

Harry recognized the broad coarse features of the sailor
to whose feigned fit his easy capture was due.  The man's
first impression was evidently that Harry was one of the
crew; he quickly saw his mistake, but before his thought
could translate itself into action Harry, who had the
advantage of being strung up for just such a meeting, sprang
upon him as a bolt from a bow.  Reeling under a deftly
planted blow the man slipped and fell heavily to the deck.
Harry was past him in an instant, gained the side of the
vessel, and, vaulting lightly on to the bulwark, had dived
into the river before the astonished seaman could recover
his breath to shout an alarm.  In a few seconds Harry rose
to the surface, shook the water from his face, and struck
out for the shore.

Behind him he heard the angry shouts of the sailors,
and afterwards the click of oars working in the
row-locks.  A boat was evidently in pursuit.  No doubt the
craft alongside had been cast loose, for there could not
have been time to lower a boat.  Could he reach land in
time?  His dive had been so hasty that he had not had
time to look around and select his course.  But now,
through the pelting rain, he gazed ahead to find the nearest
way to safety.  Judging by the noise of the oars, the boat
was rapidly overhauling him, for although he had left his
coat behind, he made but slow progress in his water-logged
clothes.  His view of the shore was intercepted by a few
small one-masted vessels lying at anchor, and by a large
brig moored about a hundred yards off the clump of trees
that formed the western boundary of Gravesend.  If he
could gain the other side of the brig he thought he might
dodge his pursuers.  But he doubted whether his strength
and speed could be sustained so long.  The seamen were
pulling with a will; the master himself was in the boat
urging them on with oaths and execrations.

Harry swam on gamely, changing his stroke in the
effort to husband his strength.  But he had only had a
couple of minutes' start, and looking over his shoulder
he saw that with the best will in the world he must soon
be overtaken.  Only twenty yards separated him from the
boat; he had just come opposite the poop of the stationary
brig; he wondered whether a shout would bring anyone to
his assistance, when a small skiff appeared from round the
stern of the vessel, only a few feet distant from him.  It
had just put off from the brig and was swinging round
towards the shore.  Harry gave a hail; the men in the
boat rested on their oars; collecting his remaining strength
in a few desperate strokes he got alongside, and clutched
the gunwale just as he felt himself at his last gasp.  At
the same moment the pursuing boat came up, and the man
at the tiller had some ado to avoid a collision.

.. _`At the Last Gasp`:

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   :alt: At the Last Gasp

   At the Last Gasp

"Back water!" roared the master.

The way on the boat was checked; it came to a stop
a few yards beyond the skiff and nearer the shore.
Meanwhile Harry had been dragged on board the skiff, and lay
drenched, shivering, gasping across the thwarts.

"Cotched, the villain!" cried the ship's master
exultantly.  "Pull alongside, men."

A few strokes brought the two boats together.

"I'll thank ye to hand un over," said the master.
"Zooks! he shall pay for this."

He received no reply, but instead a voice which Harry,
half dead as he was from cold and fatigue, recognized with
a leaping heart, ordered the crew of the skiff to pull back
to the brig.

"Hi!" roared the master, as the boats parted, "are ye
deaf or what?  Hand over that there runaway; 'tis a
deserter.  Pull after 'em, men."

The boat started in pursuit, the master shouting with
increasing anger.  The skiff came below the brig's stern,
where a rope ladder was hanging over the side.

"Gi' un up, d'ye hear?  Gi' un up, or 'twill be the worse
for ye."

"Gif him up!  Ja, ja; certainly, but not now, mine
vrient; not now, and not to you.  Dat is not my way.
We do not dings zo in Holland."

"What in thunder are ye gibbering about?" roared the
master—"you dirty swab of a Dutchman, you!  I tell you
he is a deserter.  Hand un over, or I'll have the law of ye."

"De law!  Zo, mine vrient.  We will talk over dis
matter as good vrients."

Grootz sat down, while the men on the brig prepared to
haul Harry, now limp with utter exhaustion, on deck.

"I, Jan Grootz, find dis young man in de river; ver
well.  He float in de river; well again; he is what de
law call flotsam—dat is zo.  Now, mine vrient,"—here
Grootz's fat forefinger began to waggle—"flotsam, say
de law, belong to de sovereign, dat is, to de lady Queen
Anne.  What is for me to do in such a case—for me, Jan
Grootz?  I render to Cæsar—who is de Queen—dat which
is Cæsar's—dat which belong to de gracious majesty Queen
Anne.  Derefore I gif up dis young man to de Queen's
officer at Gravesend—perhaps, when he is dry.  Zo!"

While this speech was being delivered in the Dutchman's
slow drawl, with a placid persuasiveness suited to a
discussion between friends who did not see quite eye to eye,
the master had been growing purple with rage.  He was
about to explode into invective when he saw that Harry
was being swung up.

"Give way, men!" he shouted.  "Run her alongside."

He held himself in readiness to board the skiff as soon
as he came within leaping distance.  But Grootz, with an
activity little to be expected in so burly a frame, seized
an oar that had been shipped by one of his men now
lending a hand in hoisting Harry on board, and, springing
to his feet, with a shrewd thrust sent the master spinning
over the side of his boat into the river.  He came up
nearly a dozen yards away; his crew pulled towards him,
and when he was at last hauled into the boat he was
fifty yards down the river.  He had evidently shipped a
good deal of water, for Grootz's blow must have knocked
the breath out of his body; the purple hue of his cheeks
had given place to a mottled sickliness.  He gasped and
puffed and swore; but Harry was by this time safe on
board the brig; to take him by main force was clearly
impossible; and the discomfited master had no alternative
but to regain his own vessel.

Harry was carried to the cabin, his wet clothes were
taken off, he was wrapped in blankets and forced to
swallow a good bumper of cordial before the Dutchman
would allow him to speak.

"Zo!" exclaimed Grootz when he was comfortable.

"You saved my life, sir," said Harry warmly.  "I was
nearly done."

"Zo!"

"They were taking me to the Plantations.  I never heard
from Lord Marlborough.  They trapped me.  All my
money was gone.  I went to the Angel and Crown to
find you, to ask you to give me work; you had sailed."

"Zo! talk no more.  Flotsam!  Gunst!  I tell you dis,
my vrient; put not your drust in princes: every man learn
dis zoon or late: better zoon.  Zo!"

The honest Dutchman left Harry to sleep while he
resumed his interrupted journey to the shore.  But he
had barely reached the deck when he heard himself hailed
by a stentorian voice from a wherry sweeping by under
full sail and the rapid ply of oars.

"Ahoy there!  Ha' ye seed a ship named the *Merry
Maid* a-sailen down-along this way?"

"Ja, ja!" cried Grootz, chuckling; "what for you ask?"

But the man gave him no answer; only called to the
two men rowing the wherry to pull more lustily.

"Hi!" shouted the Dutchman in his turn; and though
his voice was usually low he could roar at need.
"Hi! you be too late!"

The man did not turn his head.

"Hi! she is two mile ahead!"

Sherebiah gave no sign.  He was rapidly passing out
of earshot.

"Hi!" shouted Grootz still more loudly.  "Sherebiah,
stop!  Mynheer Harry is here!"

Sherebiah jumped up so violently that, heavy as the
wherry was, he almost upset it.

"Master Harry?" he roared.

"Ja!  I tell you."

The wherry slewed round and headed toward the brig.
Grootz lit his pipe and watched, his little eyes twinkling
with amusement.  Sherebiah looked positively aggrieved
when he came aboard.

"Oons! 'tis sinful to tear a poor mortal man's heart
out, 'tis so.  Here be I, a-chasen a villanous creature,
the *Merry Maid* by name, thinken as Master Harry were
a forsaken prisoner aboard on her, and 'tis all much ado
about nothen, and he a-laughen in his sleeve along o'
your cargo!  I wouldn' ha' thowt it, not I.  Where
be the deceiven trickster?"

"Asleep," said Grootz, with a puff of smoke.  "Flotsam!"  He
chuckled and guffawed; it was a joke that
would last his lifetime.

"What your meanen may be I don't know, Mynheer;
but 'tis me as ought to be sleepen.  No sleep ha' I had,
not a wink, since Master Harry played this trick on me;
ay, 'twas sinful.  And I'll punch Ralph Aglionby's costard,
I will so, first chance I gets."

"Tell me about it," said Grootz.

Sherebiah related how, on returning to his inn with
the money for which he had pledged Harry's trinkets, he
was surprised to find his young master absent.  As time
passed on, and he did not make his appearance, Sherebiah
became thoroughly alarmed.  About seven o'clock in the
evening he hurried off to Southwark, and enquired of
the porter at the White Hart whether Captain Aglionby
was within.  The captain had left a week before, said the
porter, in company with a tall, bent, shabby old gentleman.
Sherebiah's worst fears were realized.  For weeks
he had expected the stroke, and now it had fallen
suddenly, and at a time when he was not at hand to parry
it.  He hastened at once to the house in which, as he
had made it his business to know, Mr. Berkeley was
staying.  Neither the squire nor Captain Aglionby was at
home.  Sherebiah thereupon took his station at a
convenient spot near the house whence he could see without
being seen, and some time after midnight was rewarded.
The two men he sought returned together.  Allowing a
little time to elapse, he went to the house and asked to
see Captain Aglionby, giving the servant a vague message
which he believed would bring the captain to the door.
Instead of him, however, Mr. Berkeley himself appeared.
To Sherebiah's question as to what had become of Harry,
the squire replied coldly that he knew nothing about him,
and shut the door in his questioner's face.

"Ay, I were a fool to ask un," admitted Sherebiah
ruefully.  "I had ought to ha' thowt o' poor old feyther
o' mine."

Sherebiah was determined to have his question answered
somehow.  He was early at his post next morning, keeping
a careful eye upon the door of the house.  He saw the
squire and Captain Aglionby issue forth together and
visit a lawyer up four flights of stairs in a house near
Holborn Bars.  He followed all three to a house in a
blind alley farther east, never suspecting that Harry was
there confined.  He shadowed them when they left, saw
them enter a coffee-house, followed them when they came
out, and then lost sight of them.  Returning to his own
inn to enquire whether anything had been heard of Harry,
he found that a man had called an hour before and left
a message for him, asking him to call without delay at
an address in Smithfield.  Hastening there at once, he
learnt from Harry's late jailer how he had been kidnapped
and shipped off to the Plantations.  At full speed he rushed
to the wharf, only to learn that the *Merry Maid*, William
Shovel master, had just taken the tide and was now on
her way to the sea.

"You med ha' knocked me down wi' a feather.  I sat
me down on a box under a gashly torch, and thinks I,
'Rafe Aglionby be too much for 'ee this time, Sherebiah
Stand-up-and-bless.'  I stood up, I did; time an' tide
waits for no man; 'twas a sudden thought; I seed a
sailen wherry alongside wharf, and two big swabs hangen
round.  I showed 'em a crown a-piece, and said there's
more to foller, and mebbe summat out o' the Queen's
purse too; and here I be, all my poor mortal flesh
a-wamblen like a aspen.  'Tis tooken a year off my life,
ay, 'tis so."

Jan Grootz smiled.

"Mine good vrient," he said, "I tell you dis.  You
will come ashore with me; we will go to your inn and
fetch your goods.  It will delay us, but only one day.
Den my ship sails; Amsterdam; you will come?"

"Sakes!  What about Master Harry, then?"

"He alzo."

"Oons!  Be that th' order o' the day?  Well, 'tis a
long lane has no turnen.  Will there be time for me to go
and ha' a few words wi' Rafe Aglionby?"

"No."

"Well, I'll save 'em up.  A rod bean't none the wuss
for bein' salted.  Ay, and I were not always a man o'
peace!"





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.. _`Monsieur de Polignac Presses his Suit`:

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   CHAPTER IX


.. class:: center large bold

   Monsieur de Polignac Presses his Suit

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Scenes in Holland—Feeding an Army—A Tulip Bulb—On
the Road—The Captain's Man—A Break-Down—Double
Dutch—The Captain Again—A Diversion—An Entry—An
Exit—Hospitality—Confidences—Rejected
Addresses—Palmam qui Meruit—Persuaded—Adèle

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"Hundred barrels pork, tousand quarters flour, five
hunderdweight sausages, twenty gallon schnapps, for de
garrison of Breda.  Ver well, Monsieur de Tilly, de
order shall be done."

Mynheer Jan Grootz put down the paper from which
he had been translating, and pushed a pair of horn
spectacles up his brow.

"Mynheer Harry," he continued, "you will see to dis.
Such an order yesterday could not have been met—no.
But wid Peter Kolp's man coming from Helmund it is
to-day anoder ding.  In Helmund, wid Peter Kolp, dere
is pork, flour—plenty; yes, my poor vrient Kolp dink
dere is too much; he alzo would supply de army.
'Grootz,' he say, 'ask too high prices.  As for me,
Kolp, I am a cheap man.  But Grootz, he is a sad
rascal.'  But I tell you dis: dey say my poor vrient
Kolp forget his measures and weights, he dink fourteen
ounces weigh one pound, and sometimes, dey say, he dink
ten barrel bad pork make twelve good; so my poor vrient
is not now permitted to contract no more; and he sell me
his stores.  Truly, he is a cheap man!  Zo!"

There was a chuckle of satisfaction in the concluding word.

"You will start early in de morning, Mynheer Harry,"
he resumed, "wid ten carts; Helmund is twenty mile
beyond Tilburg, and Tilburg fifteen beyond Breda.  You
will get de stores from Kolp at Helmund and return
wid dem to Breda and hand dem over to the commissary
dere.  Take wid you your man Sherebiah, and Piet
Brinker to show you de road; he will pick drivers for
de carts.  We hear noding of forayers lately; zo I hope
you have a safe journey, And, Mynheer Harry, never
forget dat poor Kolp cannot count, and do not know
good pork from bad, and mistake chalk for flour.  You
will examine dese little matters wid much care; zo?"

The merchant replaced his glasses on his nose and
proceeded to dictate an invoice to one of his clerks.  He
sat at a desk in a low-pitched room next to the roof of a
gabled house near the Gevangen Poort in Bergen-op-Zoom.
The lower floors were devoted to the living apartments;
the warehouse and offices were at the top, goods being
raised and lowered by means of a crane-like apparatus
that projected from the wall like a yard-arm.  It was not
Mynheer Grootz's home; that was at the Hague; but
Bergen-op-Zoom at the head of the eastern arm of the Scheldt
was for the present his business head-quarters, conveniently
situated in regard to the scattered armies whose
wants he had to supply.

.. _`Map of the Low Countries in 1703`:

.. figure:: images/img-128.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: Map of Part of the LOW COUNTRIES in 1703.

   Map of Part of the LOW COUNTRIES in 1703.

It was early in the month of June.  For more than three
months Harry Rochester had been engaged with the
worthy Dutchman, who was kept busy morning, noon, and
night in provisioning the allied forces now entering upon
a new campaign.  He found his employment very much
to his taste, and his employer the best of friends.  Grootz
never alluded to the time when his offer of employment
had been slighted, and Harry often smiled as he
remembered the pride with which, in the days of his high
expectations, he had refused to cast in his lot with a mere
merchant.  The novelty of the scenes amid which he
found himself on his arrival in Holland had banished his
ambitions for the time.  The flat country, with its dunes
and dykes, its endless canals and innumerable windmills;
its quaint towns, in which chimneys and steeples and
masts seemed so curiously jumbled; the stolid, hospitable
people—the men with their big pipes and snuff-boxes, the
women with their characteristic head-dress, the girls with
the riband of maidenhood at their right brow; the strange
customs—the *spionnen* at the windows, an arrangement of
mirrors by which from the upper rooms all that passed in
the street below could be seen within; the placard at the
door when a child was born; the incessant scrubbing that
went on indoors and out; the *trekschuiten* and *pakschuiten*
that conveyed goods and passengers along the canals,
drawn sometimes by horses, more often by a stout mynheer
and his vrouw; the storks nesting among the chimney-pots;
the stiff formal gardens with their beds of tulips—everything
interested him; his low spirits vanished into
thin air, and he enjoyed life with a zest he had never
known before.

His duties had taken him into many parts of the country.
In March he was at the Hague when the Duke of
Marlborough returned to resume command of the forces, and
he did not even feel a pang when, a humble member of the
crowd, he saw the great soldier whose forgetfulness or
insincerity had so woefully disappointed him.  He knew
the potteries of Delft, and the cheese-factories of Gouda;
he had heard the great organ of Haarlem, and the sweet
carillons of Antwerp, and practised skating for the first
time on a frozen arm of the Y.  Finding it difficult to get
on without a knowledge of Dutch, the only language
understood by his teamsters and the country people, he
had thrown himself energetically into the study of the
language; and he had, besides, picked up a smattering of
everyday German phrases from one of his men, a German
Swiss.  After his natural British diffidence in adventuring
on a foreign tongue had worn off, he delighted to air his
new accomplishment with the comely juffrouws whom he
met in the course of his journeys.  He dropped into the
routine of the business so rapidly that Mynheer Grootz
once told him he was a born merchant—a compliment
which, to his own surprise, did not give the least shock
to his dignity.

His intelligence and energy completely won the old
Dutchman's confidence, and more than once he had been
entrusted with the delivery of supplies to the army in the
field.  It was not always possible for the military authorities
to furnish convoys for these consignments, and they
were therefore usually accompanied by well-armed men to
guard against the danger of surprise by robbers and
freebooters.  Many small bands of outlaws were abroad in
Holland and Germany, taking advantage of the disturbed
state of the country to prey upon the inhabitants, under
the pretence of making requisitions for one or other of the
contending forces.  These marauders terrorized the remoter
districts.  Hitherto Harry had been fortunate in avoiding
any danger of this character.  Grootz was as phlegmatic
and silent as ever, but he showed in his quiet way that
he was pleased with the lad's unvarying diligence and
success.

Harry woke early.  The sun was bright but the air cool,
and he felt full of vigour, eager to set off on this the
longest expedition he had yet taken.  Mynheer Grootz
was a bachelor, and his breakfast-table was served by a
buxom old housekeeper who, after a brief season of
jealousy, had capitulated to Harry's cheerfulness and
courtesy.  At breakfast the merchant in his slow, ponderous
manner repeated his customary warnings to Harry to
guard against surprise, and to be punctilious about getting
a formal receipt for his supplies from the commissary of the
force to which they were to be delivered.

"Here is de paper," he said, handing it to Harry.
"Make him sign it; he may be a count or marquis or
someding of de sort, and I trust none of dem."

Harry laughed.  "Put not your trust in princes"
seemed to be the prime motto of his host's business
career.

"Very well, Mynheer," he said.

"And here is a packet I wish you to deliver.  Not for
de army, dis; no; it is for a vrient of mine dat live a
few miles dis side of Helmund.  I promised her a tulip
bulb; dis is it."

He handed to Harry a small packet, on which the address
was written.

"The Comtesse de Vaudrey," he read aloud.  "That is
a French name?"

"Ja!  De lady is French, a widow, of a family dat
had to leave France because of the persecutions.  She is
French, but a vrient alzo.  If you need help, she will
give it."

"I hope she is not a very great lady.  I have met no
lady here higher in rank than a burgomaster's vrouw, and
I thought she rather looked down on me."

"The comtesse is mine vrient," repeated Grootz in a
tone that implied there was no more to be said.

A few minutes afterwards they left the breakfast-room.
At the outer door ten empty wagons were already waiting
with their drivers, and as Harry prepared to mount to his
place on the foremost, Sherebiah came up with the remains
of his breakfast in his hand.  Grootz repeated his
warnings; Harry smiled and waved his good-bye to Gretel the
housekeeper, who stood at the door with her hands folded
in front of her ample person, and the line of carts
moved off.

The Harry Rochester in charge of the convoy was a
different being from the pale thin youth who had left
England four months before.  His work had had the effect
of hardening his muscles and developing his physique; and
constant exposure to the air and sun had browned his
cheeks and brightened his eye.  But Sherebiah presented
a still greater contrast.  From the moment of landing on
Dutch soil he had ceased to shave, with the result that his
lips and cheeks and chin were now covered with a thick
growth of stiff brown hair.  Harry did not like the change,
but when he asked the reason of this departure from old
habit Sherebiah merely said that he had concluded shaving
to be a waste of time.  The reply was hardly satisfactory,
but Sherebiah was never communicative unless he wished
to be so, and Harry let the matter drop.

The roads were heavy, and the horses were of the
large-limbed variety that spell endurance rather than pace.
Empty as the wagons were, only twenty miles were made
that day, and Harry decided to stay for the night at the
Crown Inn at Breda.  The town was garrisoned by four
battalions of infantry, four regiments of cavalry, and a
regiment of dragoons, and it was for these that the
supplies were required.  Harry sought out the commissary,
and promising to deliver the goods within two days,
went for a stroll through the town, leaving Sherebiah to
bespeak supper at the inn.  He roamed through the winding
streets, one of which ended with a windmill; admired
the warm-toned old house-fronts; William the Third's
chateau, encircled by the river Merk; and the fine
Hervormde Kerk, with its lofty octagon tower and bulbous
spire.  On returning to the inn he was met by Sherebiah
in some excitement.

"What med 'ee think, sir?  Who'd 'ee believe I ha' seed?"

"Well?"

"John Simmons, sir, large as life."

"Captain Aglionby's man—the man who got a crack on
the head on the Roman road?"

"The very same."

"I have often wondered how he managed to escape
from old Nokes the constable.  'Twas whispered that the
captain himself had a hand in it.  I suppose he came to
this country for safety."

"Ay, not for riches, so 'twould seem," replied Sherebiah
rather hurriedly.  "A' was down at heel, more like a
ragged vagrom than the smart soul as drank his pint at
the Berkeley Arms.  Mother Joplady couldn' abide un."

"Did he see you?"

"Not him.  Nor I don't want to see un, the mumpen
cockney.—Supper's ready, sir."

Next morning Harry proceeded with his convoy along
the Eyndhoven road and arrived late at his destination,
Helmund.  Almost the whole of the following day was
occupied in loading his wagons and procuring extra carts
to carry the stores collected by Grootz's client, Peter Kolp.
At his first interview with that "poor friend" of Mynheer
Grootz, Harry made it clear that, as a matter of form, the
provisions would be carefully tested in quality and quantity,
with the result that they were found to be excellent and
full weight.  It was four o'clock before he was ready to
start for Breda.  He followed a different route on his
return journey.  Madame de Vaudrey's house, Lindendaal,
lay on the upper road toward Boxtel—a safer road to
travel, as a report had come in that the French had made
their appearance near Turnhout, to the south, and were
coming apparently in the direction of Eyndhoven.

Unluckily, the convoy had proceeded only a few miles
on its return to Breda when, as it was crossing the Aa
river, one of the horses took fright and toppled the cart
into the water.  Fortunately the stream was sluggish and
shallow, but Harry saw that it would take some time to
extricate the wagon from the mud and collect what part
of its load was worth saving.  Leaving Piet Brinker in
charge of the work, he decided to push on himself with
the remainder of the convoy, deliver the packet he carried
for Madame de Vaudrey, and wait for the rescued wagon
to overtake him.  He knew that, with the hospitality
universal in Holland, the countess would not allow him to
proceed unrefreshed, and he was in truth not a little glad
of the opportunity of seeing the lady whom Grootz had so
emphatically called his friend.  He therefore drove on.
The wagon wheels ploughed deep furrows in the heavy
sandy roads, and the big Dutch horses plodded on steadily
but slowly.  The road wound by and by through avenues
of elms, pruned of their branches in the Dutch way, and
looking to Harry's English eyes very starved and ugly.
At length he came to a wall on the right that appeared
to enclose a park of some considerable size.  A peasant
was passing, whom he hailed, asking in Dutch whether
this was the house of Madame de Vaudrey.  The man
looked stolidly at him without replying.  Sherebiah
repeated the question, using a different phrase.  The
Hollander answered at once that this certainly was Lindendaal,
the chateau of the French lady.  Harry sprang from his
wagon, ordered the drivers to draw up by the side of the
road, which was here parallel with a narrow canal, and
entered the gate accompanied by Sherebiah.

"I'll tell you one thing that puzzles me, Sherry," he
remarked, as they passed up an avenue bounded on both
sides by a breast-high balustrade of stone.  "You and I
have been in this country the same time, and seen each as
much as the other of the people, and yet you have beat me
altogether in picking up the language, hard as I have
worked at it.  I don't understand it."

"Ah well, Master Harry," said Sherebiah, "'tis like
that sometimes, so 'tis.  You be a scholard, with book
larnen and all that; I be, true, a poor common mortal,
but mebbe my ear be quicker 'n some."

"Still, the time is rather short for you to have learnt to
speak the language so well as you do.  Your knowledge
has grown as quickly as your beard."

"True now, mebbe so; Samson in the Holy Book
growed amazen clever wi' his locks; but I never thowt
afore as how it med be the same in these days."

Harry laughed.

"It looks very English, doesn't it?" he said, pointing
to the house.  It was square, with a veranda painted blue,
under which were several windows opening to the ground.
In front was an open semicircular space, around which
were parterres of brilliant flowers; these were separated
from the park and orchard by a prolongation of the
balustrades that lined the drive.  There were dormer windows
in the roof, and at one angle rose a kind of belfry
surmounted by a weathercock.

"Give me the packet, Sherry; you had better remain at
the door while I go in."

"Ay, or mebbe I med find my lone way to the kitchen?"

"No, no; remain at the door until I have seen Madame
de Vaudrey.  I can't have you coquetting with her maids."

Harry went to the door, which stood open, the
afternoon having been warm.  A spare, anxious-looking
man-servant came in answer to his ring.

"Is Madame de Vaudrey within?" he asked in Dutch.

The man's accent when he replied in the affirmative left
no doubt that he was a Frenchman.  Harry explained his
errand in French, whereupon the man said in the same
language that his mistress was for the moment engaged,
but that if Monsieur would wait no doubt she would see
him shortly.  He led Harry through the wide hall, up a
handsome oak staircase into a little ante-room, where,
begging him to be seated, he shut the door upon the
visitor.

Harry was immediately aware of voices engaged in
conversation on the other side of the folding-doors that
formed one wall of the room.  At first the sounds came to
him as murmurs in different tones, but after a time they
became louder, and though he could not distinguish the
words it was plain that one at least of the speakers was
very angry.  At length he heard the fierce clanging of
a bell below; a few moments after, the manservant came
running into the ante-room and threw open the
folding-doors.  Harry, looking into what was evidently the
drawing-room, saw a group of four.  One was clearly the
lady of the house, short, stout, dressed in a costume little
resembling the Dutch housewife's usual attire.  She was
very angry, talking vehemently, and gesticulating with her
plump white hand.  By her side stood a younger lady,
half a head taller, slim and graceful, perfectly still and
collected, though her cheeks were flushed.  Opposite to
the two ladies, their backs to the four windows which lit
the other end of the room, were two men, one very tall
and lean, with thin lips.  The other was but little shorter
and a good deal stouter.  Harry's attention had been at
first attracted to the ladies; the burlier of the two men
was the last of the four to be noticed; and it was with
a shock of amazement that he recognized in his figure and
blotched red face no other than Captain Aglionby.

"Allez-vous-en, allez-vous-en!" the elder lady was
repeating.  "Quittez ma maison, tout de suite; je vous
l'ordonne, je l'exige, je le veux absolument; retirez-vous,
messieurs, d'ici, et au plus vite!"

Aglionby laughed.  None of the four had yet caught
sight of Harry standing back in the darker ante-room.
The lady turned to the manservant and ordered him to
eject the unwelcome visitors.  The servant hesitated to
attempt a task clearly beyond his strength.  Aglionby put
his hand on his sword, and then laughed again brutally as
he recognized that he had nothing to fear.  All the time
the taller man stood quietly watching the scene, occasionally
moistening his lips; and the girl remained in the
same tense immobility, her eyes never leaving the face of
Aglionby.

Harry felt it was time to intervene.

"Perhaps I may be allowed—" he began.  At the first
word the captain swung round as if on a pivot and stared.
His puffed crimson face turned a sea-green as he saw
advancing towards him, fresh, lithe, confident, the youth
whom he fondly imagined by this time leading a slave's
life in a Barbados plantation.  The other man did not stir;
but the two ladies looked towards the speaker with a sort
of startled surprise.  Stepping towards the elder, Harry
continued:

"Perhaps I may be allowed to offer my services.  If
Madame will be so good as to retire, I will—reason with
these gentlemen."

Madame de Vaudrey clasped her hands and looked
indecisively at the new-comer, as though doubting the
propriety of accepting the intervention of a stranger.
Harry was on the point of explaining who he was, when
the matter was settled in an unexpected way.  The girl
moved to her mother's side and took her by the hand.
Then, turning to Harry, she said in clear, cold tones:

"If Monsieur will rid the house of these two men he
will do my mother a great service.  Come, Mamma!"  And
then, without another glance at any of the three,
she led Madame de Vaudrey, still half-resisting, from the
room.

The colour had been gradually returning to Aglionby's
face, and when the ladies had disappeared his purple hue
was deeper than ever.  But the surprise of Harry's
presence was so great that for the moment the doughty
captain was nonplussed; his anger was at boiling-point, but
he was clearly at a loss what course to take.  His
companion stood expectant, a slight smile still on his
face—a smile rendered peculiarly disagreeable by a twitching
of the mouth that drew one corner perceptibly upwards
towards the left ear.

The interval of silence seemed longer than it really was.

"I am sure, gentlemen," said Harry with great urbanity,
"you will see the propriety of at once relieving
Madame de Vaudrey of your presence."

Then the storm broke.  Glaring with rage, unable to
stand still, stuttering in his speech, Aglionby roared:

"You insolent puppy, you low-born cully, you—how
dare you speak to me!  What are you doing here?  Stap
me, I'll run you through the midriff and rid the world of
a bit of vermin!"

"I shall be delighted to give you an opportunity—outside,"
said Harry quietly.  "Meanwhile, the door is open,
and by making your exit you will please not Madame de
Vaudrey only, but me and, it appears, yourself."

"Adsbud, I'll—I'll——" stuttered Aglionby, half drawing
his sword.  Harry had his right hand on the hilt of his
own weapon, the third man was still watching the scene,
when an unlooked-for diversion occurred.  Harry was
between the two rooms, the two men opposite him with
their backs to the drawing-room windows, which were
open.  It happened that a flight of steps led up from the
garden to a balcony beneath these windows.  At this
critical moment a fourth man came suddenly into the room
from the outside.  Before any of the three could perceive
what was happening, the new-comer, with a long
acrobatic spring, simultaneously imprisoned in his arms the
necks of Aglionby and his companion, and half-throttling
them dragged them past Harry, through the ante-room,
into the corridor, and down the staircase.  Harry followed,
himself somewhat amazed at their helter-skelter
progress—bumping down the stairs, struggling vainly in Sherebiah's
vice-like grip, swaying against the balusters first on
one side then on the other, the wood-work creaking and
groaning under the pressure.  Half-way down the men
lost their feet altogether, and were incapable of resisting
the rush with which their captor hauled them across the
vestibule and through the open door, where he pulled up
with a sudden jerk and shot them down the flight of
shallow steps on to the drive in front.  The whole
proceeding scarcely occupied more than half a minute, so
sudden had been the onset, so helpless were the two men,
gasping half-strangled in Sherebiah's merciless hug.

Harry ran down the stairs, expecting to find his man
engaged in a battle royal before the house.  But when he
reached the door he saw Aglionby and the Frenchman
already halfway down the drive towards the road.  They
had not waited, then, to demand satisfaction of him.
Smiling at his recollection of their headlong descent, he
went upstairs again, and was met by Madame de Vaudrey,
who had come from another room at the sound of scuffling.
She was very pale.

"They are gone, Madame," said Harry at once, to
reassure her.

"Oh, Monsieur, I thank you, I thank you with good
heart!  Your help at the precise moment was so precious.
I cannot thank you too much."

"It was my servant, Madame—a very useful fellow.
He did it all himself.  I am glad we happened to be at
hand.  This unforeseen incident has prevented me, Madame,
from explaining my presence here.  I have called to leave
a packet entrusted to me by Mynheer Grootz, a friend of
yours, I think."

"Oh! it is my tulip bulb.  Mynheer Grootz promised to
send it me.  Yes, he is a friend of mine indeed.  But are
those men really gone?  Will they not overpower your
brave servant?  They are bad men—oh, they are bad!  I
fear them."

"I saw them going down the drive.  And my man knows
how to take care of himself," said Harry.  "They will not
trouble you again at present.  And now, Madame, as I
have Mynheer Grootz's packet in the ante-room, if you
will allow me to place it in your hands I will take my
leave and proceed on my way."

"Mon Dieu, non!" cried the lady.  "You must allow
me to give you some refreshment, and your brave man too—if
he is really safe!  Jean," she called to the servant,
"bring wine and cakes and fruit to the drawing-room.
But first see if this gentleman's servant is safe."

"He is, Madame," replied the man at once.  "The men
from the stables and the garden were coming to the door:
Mademoiselle had fetched them: and they were too many
for Monsieur de Polignac and the other."

"How thankful I am!  Bring the brave man up with
you.  Now, Monsieur—I do not know your name?"

"It is Harry Rochester, Madame; I am English."

"Indeed!  Come into the drawing-room and rest.  Jean
will bring something to eat and drink immediately."

She led the way into the room, gave Harry a comfortable
chair, and sat opposite to him, folding her plump
hands on her lap, and heaving a sigh of satisfaction and
relief.  The servant soon reappeared with a tray, and when
Madame de Vaudrey had seen Harry supplied with drink
and food that pleased him, she dismissed her man, read
the letter Mynheer Grootz had enclosed with his gift, and
began to talk.

"You are English?  That is interesting.  My dear
husband's mother was English, so that my daughter has a
little—a very little, of course—English blood in her.  I
cannot tell you how thankful I am that you came when
you did.  That is also another debt I owe to Mynheer
Grootz.  He writes very amiable things of you.  I was at
my wits' end, Monsieur Rochestair; I will tell you about
it.—Do you like that wine?"

"Thank you, it is excellent."

"I am so glad!  You speak French very well for an
Englishman.  My daughter wishes to learn English.  She
takes after her father, not after me.  I wonder where she
is?"

Harry followed her glance to the door; he too had
wondered what had become of the tall girl who had shown
so much decisiveness of character at an awkward moment.
But she did not appear.

"Well," continued the amiable hostess, "let me tell you
all about it."

Mynheer Grootz's recommendation was clearly a passport
to her favour.  She leant back in her high chair, and
in her clear, well-modulated voice told Harry what he was,
it must be confessed, curious to hear.  It was three years
since her husband, the Comte de Vaudrey, died.  He was
a student, not a man of affairs; and his fortune suffered
through his lack of business-like qualities.  The estate, a
small one, purchased by his father when as a Huguenot he
fled from France at the revocation of the Edict of Nantes,
was now much encumbered.  Monsieur de Vaudrey had
bought the best perspective glasses and other expensive
scientific instruments, had spent large sums on rare books
and specimens, and had so embarrassed himself that he
had to apply to the Amsterdam bankers, who advanced
him money on a mortgage of the estate.  Not long
afterwards he died.

"It is only a year ago," continued Madame de Vaudrey,
"that we learnt that we were to have a neighbour.  The
estate adjoining our own had been in the market for many
years, and we heard that it had at last been purchased by
a Monsieur de Polignac, a Frenchman, and a Huguenot
like ourselves.  We were rejoiced at the news; a neighbour
of our own race and faith would be so charming, we
thought.  And so indeed he was, at first.  I thought his
visits to his estate too few; he was so often at the Hague;
when he came to see us he was so debonair, so gracious,
that I liked him well.  With my daughter, quite the
contrary.  It was prejudice, I told her; but from the first she
looked on him coldly.  Then all at once he became a more
frequent visitor, and I saw—yes, a mother's eyes are
keen—that he had pretensions to my daughter's hand.  I did
not oppose him; he was rich, noble, a Huguenot; but
Adèle—certes, Monsieur Rochestair, no maiden could ever
have given less encouragement.  The first time he was
refused he smiled—he does not look well when he smiles,
think you?—and said that he would still hope.  But though
I thought the match a good one, I would not persuade my
daughter: she is all I have, Monsieur, and so young.  He
went away; then a few days ago I am astonished to see
him reappear in company with Captain Aglionby, who is
visiting him.  Now first I begin really to dislike Monsieur
de Polignac."

"Did you know Captain Aglionby before, then?" asked
Harry in surprise.

"Yes; that is why.  I know him, and I think no friend
of his can be a good man.  Captain Aglionby stayed for a
month in this house some five years ago.  No, he was not
a welcome guest; he was brought here to recover from a
wound he had received in a skirmish near by; ah,
Monsieur, he is an odious man!  I hate his loud voice, his
turbulence, his rodomontade; imagine, three times,
Monsieur, three times he intoxicated himself in my house, and
excused himself with the plea that he had done so many
times with the Czar of Muscovy.  He used to force himself
into my husband's study, meddle with his things, spoil
his scientific experiments—my husband was discovering a
plan to get gold from sea-water, and we should have been
so rich!  But the odious captain ruined all.  I am sure he
did, for the experiments came to nothing."

"Why did you put up with it?"

"Alas! what could we do?  My husband was a man of
tranquil soul who had lived so long with his books that
he could not deal with men.  As for me—you see me, a
poor helpless woman! and Adèle was then only eleven!
judge then my surprise and alarm when I see Captain
Aglionby in company with Monsieur de Polignac.  Still
more to-day, when Monsieur de Polignac comes once
more to urge his suit.  Adèle refuses him with scorn.
And then—oh, the villain!—he tells me he has bought
from the Jews of Amsterdam the mortgage on this estate,
and if Adèle will not be his wife, then he turns us
out—think of it, Monsieur; turns two defenceless women out.
This it is that changes me, a weak woman, into a fury, as
you see."

Harry forbore to smile at Madame de Vaudrey's placid
impersonation of a fury.

"They are a couple of villains indeed," he said.  "It
was truly fortunate that I came with Sherebiah at the
right moment."

"Yes, indeed; a thousand thanks!  And only think of it:
just before you came Captain Aglionby, odious man, had
dared to hint that when we were thrust out of our home he
would do me the honour to marry me.  Truly an honour!
No, I never forget my dear husband; no, never!  Ah, this
is the dear brave man, your servant?"

The door had opened, and Sherebiah came in awkwardly,
turning his hat between his hands.  Madame de Vaudrey
rose and, smiling upon him, said:

"I give you a thousand thanks.  You are a hero; how
strong! how bold!"

Sherebiah bobbed.

"Madame de Vaudrey thanks you," said Harry.

"'Tis handsome of the lady, sir, and I'm obleeged, and
axes you to put my sarvices into French lingo, sir."

He bobbed again.

"What about Captain Aglionby?" asked Harry.

"Well, sir, I reckon he be madder than a March hare.
Nigh to bust hisself, and hot as pepper.  Would ha'
slashed me, man o' peace as I be, if 'tweren't for half
a dozen Dutch coofs wi' pitchforks and other articles o'
warfare drawn up below, wi' the young lady at their head.
Ay, she be a warrior bold, sure enough: I never seed such
a piece of female manliness all my life long.  'Twas with a
flashen eye and a pink rose on each pretty cheek her stood
and ordered 'em out.  Ay, an uncommon upstanden piece
o' womankind her be, to be sure."

Harry was glad that Madame de Vaudrey's ignorance
of English could not fathom this plain-spoken tribute to
her daughter's charms.

"They are really gone, then?" he said.

"Why, yes, both on 'em; the long beetle chap as well.
He be a next-door neighbour, it seems, and a mighty
unpleasant neighbour he must be.—Thank 'ee kindly, mum,"
he added, as Madame de Vaudrey offered him a glass of
wine, "but if 'ee don't mind, I'd rather wet my whistle
with a mug of beer in the kitchen."

The lady smiled when this was interpreted.

"You English are like the Hollanders in that," she said.
"Certainly.  Jean, take the brave man to the kitchen and
treat him well."

Sherebiah pulled his forelock and departed with alacrity.

"We must shortly be going on our way, Madame," said
Harry.  "I have a convoy of provisions for the garrison at
Breda, and my wagoners are even now growing impatient,
I doubt not."

"But, Monsieur, I cannot hear of it.  You cannot reach
Breda to-night; and suppose those odious men return?
You must be tired.  Do me the favour to stay here for
the night; and we can find a bed for your man also."

"But the wagons?"

"Let them go on to the village; it is but half a league
away.  They can remain at the inn there.  Monsieur, I
insist; and besides, I have to write a letter of thanks to
my friend Mynheer Grootz."

Harry had no reason for refusing an invitation so cordial.
Madame de Vaudrey beamed when he accepted, and, begging
to be excused, went off to make arrangements with
her servants.  Left to himself, Harry looked round the
room.  It was richly furnished; the tables, cabinets, and
chairs were of French make, in highly polished rose-wood;
chairs and sofas were covered with crimson velvet, and
two cabinets were filled with beautiful porcelain and Dutch
china.  The pictures upon the walls were all French,
except one—a portrait, evidently by a Dutch hand and
of a comparatively recent date.  It represented a man's
head, with dark complexion and wistful melancholy eyes.
Harry was attracted to it by a slight resemblance to his
father; not in the features, which were quite unlike, but
in the curious sadness of the expression.  His thoughts
were carried back to his old home at Winton St. Mary,
and the quiet life with his father there; a mist came before
his eyes, and he fell into a reverie, standing thus before the
picture.

So rapt was he in recollection that he did not hear the
door open behind him, nor turn to see the entrance of
Adèle de Vaudrey.  For a moment the girl stood in the
doorway, holding the handle.  An onlooker would have
seen a strange shifting of expression upon her face as she
paused in hesitation whether to advance or retire, to speak
or to remain silent.  It was but for a moment; her lips
softened, her long lashes drooped down upon her eyes;
and closing the door as noiselessly as she had opened it
she slipped away.





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.. _`Bluff`:

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   CHAPTER X


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   Bluff

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A Stroll—A Fair Cook—Love and Duty—An Arrival—General
van Santen—Raiders—A Dozen all Told—Rallying the
Peasants—Desperate Counsels—The Masqueraders—Strategy—A
Ruse de Guerre—Stage Effects—Final Touches—In Sight—At
the Door—Ransom—A Turn of the Screw—Phantom
Forces—Dilemma—Discretion—Courtesies

.. vspace:: 2

"Ah, my dear Monsieur Rochestair, pardon me for leaving
you so long.  I have been to prepare your room."

"Thank you indeed, Madame!"

"You were looking at the portrait?  It is my dear
husband.  Is it not a fine head?  Can you imagine, after
seeing it, that I could put that odious captain in his place?
Not that I should think every man bad unless he resembled
my husband.  No, that would be unjust.  But come and
see my garden, Monsieur Rochestair.  It is beautiful
outside now that the sun is going down."

"I shall be delighted.  I have noticed how the scent of
the flowers comes to us here through the windows."

"Yes, I love flowers.  Mynheer Grootz knows that."

Madame conducted Harry through the grounds.  They
were laid out with more freedom than was usual in Holland,
and reminded him at many a turn of well-tended parks at
home.  The house was surrounded by its garden; beyond
this was an expanse of lawn and thin park bounded by a
wall.  Beyond this again, Madame de Vaudrey explained,
lay the orchard belonging to the far larger estate now
owned by Monsieur de Polignac.  At a considerable
distance from the house on the eastern side Harry remarked
a large open stretch of ground, roughly circular in shape,
covered with grass that grew wild and was left uncropt,
Across the middle of it ran a ditch, now apparently dry,
passing under the garden wall and the road, and evidently
connected with the canal.  Near to the spot where the
ditch disappeared beneath the wall stood a large dilapidated
building, like the storehouse usually attached to a
Dutch mill.

"You wonder at our neglect of this part of the grounds,"
said the lady with a smile.  "But that is our skating pond.
In winter we open the sluices at the canal end of the ditch;
it fills, the water overflows, and thus we flood the field.
Then comes the frost, and we have, I think, the finest
skating pond in Holland, and quite safe.  We used to
hold tournaments, people came from miles around; but
alas! since this terrible war has recommenced we have
almost forgotten those pleasant sports of winter.  I do
hope it will soon come to an end.  I never could
understand what men are fighting about.  My dear husband
used to speak of the balance of power; the French king
wishes to rule everybody, he told me; certainly King Louis
is a bad man; he has behaved disgracefully to us poor
Huguenots; and I dare say you English are quite right in
helping the Dutch to punish him.  But war is so terrible.
My dear husband was trying to invent something that
would enable one army to make another army senseless
without killing them; I know nothing about it, but the
idea was excellent; and if the truth were known I dare
say it was that odious Captain Aglionby who spoilt that too."

Thus the good lady kept chattering to Harry as she
conducted him over her little estate.  The evening was
drawing rapidly in; a light mist was rising, and Madame
shivered a little as she turned back towards the house.  A
moment afterwards her daughter met her.

"Mother," she said, "you should not be out in the
damp air.  You know it is bad for you."

"Yes, my dear," replied Madame de Vaudrey, submitting
to be enwrapped in a large woollen shawl which her
daughter's fair hands wound about her head and shoulders.
"I have been showing Monsieur Rochestair our little
property—alas! soon to be ours no more.  I told Monsieur
why, Adèle."

The girl's cheeks flushed, but she said nothing.

"I did not tell you, Madame," said Harry, "that I
happen to know something of Captain Aglionby."

"Indeed! nothing but what is perfectly odious, I am sure."

"I have reason to believe that he was concerned in an
attempt to ship me to our plantations in Barbados.  My
man tells me——"

"Monsieur," interrupted the girl, "my mother is subject
to chills.  You are staying with us to-night; will you
hasten to the house with my mother and tell us the story
at supper?"

"With pleasure, Mademoiselle."

Harry felt a little in awe of this very decisive young
lady, with her scornful lip and clear uncompromising tones.
She hurried in advance to the house, and was waiting in
the panelled dining-room when the others appeared.  The
table looked very inviting with its spotless napery, shining
plate, and vases of flowers, and Harry found the meal
much to his taste after the plain fare of Dutch hostelries.
Besides such staple viands as Westphalian ham and
bag-puddings—one variety of these, filled with raisins and
spices, was excellent—there were dainty French
dishes—confections of fruit and cream which surprised even
Madame la Comtesse.

"Ah, you rogue!" she exclaimed; "I see now where
you hid yourself this afternoon."

"Mademoiselle likes cooking?" Harry ventured to say.

"By no means, Monsieur, I dislike it exceedingly."

"Oh!"

"I knew we had nothing ready, Mamma," added the
girl, "and you would not have liked Monsieur to think
little of your hospitality."

During the meal Harry gave the ladies an account of
himself, speaking of his early hopes and ambitions, his
disappointments, the vain waiting for a message from
Marlborough, the strange animus of the squire, the
kidnapping, the interposition of Mynheer Grootz.  His
hearers were deeply interested; even Mademoiselle, though
she said little, and seemed to curl her pretty lip when her
mother's curiosity or indignation showed itself in little
vivacious exclamations,—Mademoiselle kept her eyes fixed
on Harry as he spoke, though whenever he happened to
glance towards her she was looking away and appeared
unconcerned.

"Ah, there now!" cried the comtesse, when Harry mentioned,
without a trace of bitterness, Marlborough's failure
to keep his promise; "that is my lord duke's character.
He is mean, he is selfish, he loves no one but himself."

"And the duchess," put in Harry.

"But that is his duty.  It is his duty to love his wife.
I did not say he was a monster."

"Did you love papa from duty?" asked Adèle simply.

"I never said that, Adèle.  Of course it is a woman's
duty to love her husband, but your dear father was so
good, so kind, so fond of me that no one could help loving
him."

"Mynheer Grootz is good and kind, but you don't love him."

Madame de Vaudrey flushed.

"You say such odd things, Adèle.  I can't think how it
is.  I never said such things when I was a girl.  Mynheer
Grootz is good, and kind; you are right; and if it were
my duty——"

"Oh, Mamma," cried Adèle, "do forget the word duty!
I am sure none of us either loves or hates from
duty.—Would Monsieur like some strawberries and cream?"

Harry went to bed that night very well pleased with
himself, his hostess, and her daughter.  He liked the little,
simple, talkative countess; he was piqued by Adèle's
reserve, coolness, indifference—he hardly knew what to
call it; the something which seemed to indicate that Harry
Rochester was a creature far too insignificant for the notice
of Mademoiselle Adèle de Vaudrey.  "And she is clever,
too," he thought.  "Faith, how she sent Aglionby to the
right-about!  Polignac is a scoundrel; what will they do
if he turns them out?  And how did he come across
Aglionby?  She will not marry him, at any rate; that's
one comfort."

It is very unromantic, but the truth must be told.
Thoughts of Adèle did not keep Harry one instant from
sleep.  His bed was a dark mysterious-looking box, with
brown damask curtains drawn closely round it.  Withdrawing
the curtains, he saw a magnificent quilt of crimson
satin, snowy sheets, a lace-trimmed pillow.  He scrambled
up, barking his legs against the high boards composing
the sides, and the moment he laid his head on the pillow
forgot Aglionby, Marlborough, Adèle, and duty.

When Madame de Vaudrey bade good-night to her
daughter she said:

"Eh bien, fillette; je l'aime, le bel Anglais.  Il est
brave, intelligent, modeste, parfaitement aimable, n'est-ce
pas?"

"Oh, petite maman, que voulez-vous?  Est-ce que je
*dois* l'aimer, moi aussi?"

And kissing her mother on both cheeks Adèle ran off
laughing.

Harry was awakened in the morning by the loud singing
of the birds.  He had left his window wide open, and
the scent of flowers and perfume from the fir wood at the
extremity of the estate gave him fragrant greeting.  He
sprang out of bed, and stood at the window inhaling the
luscious odours, listening to the song of the birds and
the incessant hoarse croak of the frogs, gazing at the
grass glistening with dew.  "I should like a week's
holiday here," he thought.  "Ay me! it is breakfast, and
then for Breda!"

But he had only just left his room when he heard below
a violent clanging of the bell, followed by a strange voice
speaking in the hall, and a hasty running to and fro.
Hurrying downstairs, he met Adèle de Vaudrey at the
foot of the staircase.

"Come with me, Monsieur," she said the moment she
saw him.  "Mamma is not down yet."

She preceded him through the hall door, at which he
now saw a light calash drawn up, and behind it ten
horses, nine of them sat by Dutch dragoons, the tenth
being the steed of the soldier who stood at the door, and
whose voice it was that Harry had heard.  From the
horses, clouds of vapour rose into the fresh morning air;
the pace had evidently been forced.  In the calash were
two men: the elder, in the uniform of a Dutch officer of
high rank, reclined on the cushions, half-supported by a
young aide-de-camp seated at his side.  He was deathly
pale; his eyes were closed.

As Mademoiselle de Vaudrey, followed by Harry, came
to the door of the carriage, the aide-de-camp without
changing his position addressed her in Dutch.

"It is as you see, mejjuffrouw.  It is General van
Santen; he is desperately wounded.  We hoped to reach
Breda, but the general swooned a few minutes ago and
I dare not drive farther."

"Bring him in at once," said Adèle.  "The soldiers can
lift him.  Never mind about explanations now.  One of
the soldiers must ride on to the village for the meester;
it is only half a league.  Monsieur," she added, addressing
Harry in her quick, decisive tones, "assist; I will warn
Mamma."

She ran back into the house.  The inanimate general
was carefully carried into the hall.  He was a fine
soldierly man, with a strong rugged face of English
rather than Dutch cast.  Harry remembered that Mynheer
Grootz had mentioned General van Santen as a friend of
his, and one of the ablest and most trusted of the
lieutenants of William of Orange.  Madame de Vaudrey
had by this time come from above, and stood in pale
expectation.  The general was laid upon a sofa in the
reception-room, and Adèle had already provided a basin
of water and a bottle of smelling-salts with which she
endeavoured to revive the wounded officer.

"What is it?" cried Madame de Vaudrey, who had left
these ministrations to the hands of her capable daughter.

The aide-de-camp explained that General van Santen
had left the Duke of Marlborough's camp late at night
on his way to the Hague.  In the faint dawn he had
suddenly come upon a French raiding-party which had
apparently made a dash from Lierre.  It was known that
Tserclaes had advanced from the main French army in
order to protect Antwerp.  The general had dashed
through with his men, but not rapidly enough to escape
a bullet which had lodged in his groin.  With great
difficulty he had kept the saddle as far as the next village;
but there, exhausted by the effort and by loss of blood, he
had been placed in a hastily prepared carriage and driven
on in the hope of arriving at Breda in time to warn the
garrison.  His wound had proved even more serious than
was supposed; he had lost consciousness, and his aide-de-camp
had deemed it necessary to halt at the first house
and ask for assistance.

"In what direction are the raiders coming?" asked Harry.

"In this direction, Mynheer," replied the aide-de-camp.

"And how far away were they when this happened?"

"About ten miles."

"So they may be here within an hour?"

"If they ride on at once, but they will probably stop
to plunder."

"Can they be checked?"

"Alas, Mynheer! there is no force near at hand."

"Surely they will raise the country?"

"But they are mounted, and the country people cannot
cope with them.  Even if the news is carried to Helmund
there are none but burghers there, and they are useless
against cavalry, except behind their own walls."

"And how many do the raiders number?"

"More than a hundred, as I judge, Mynheer."

Madame de Vaudrey stood in agitated silence while this
rapid colloquy was in progress.  Adèle was still bathing
the wounded man's temples; no one present had sufficient
knowledge to attempt more than the roughest of means
to bind the wound.  In a few minutes the general opened
his eyes.

"Where am I?" he asked, feebly.

"In the house of Madame de Vaudrey," said that lady.

"How far from where I was shot?"

"Only a few miles," replied the aide-de-camp.

"Then someone must ride to Breda for help, and
take my despatches.  They must be at the Hague to-night."

"I will write a note to the commandant," said the
aide-de-camp, "and send one of the troopers."

"No, no, lieutenant, you must ride yourself.  I can't
trust the despatches to a trooper."

"But I do not care to leave you, general."

"It is my wish.  The enemy can only capture me, but
they may do unheard-of mischief around.  Delay no
longer: ride fast."

The exertion of talking was too much for him, and he
swooned again.  Loth as he was to go, the aide-de-camp
could not ignore the general's express instructions.  Before
leaving he took Harry aside and asked him to consider
himself in command of the troopers.

"You're not strong enough to beat off the enemy," he
said, "but it will be well for the men to have someone to
look to in emergency.  Don't let the general fall into the
enemy's hands if you can help it."

Harry hesitated.  His first duty was undoubtedly to
secure the safety of the convoy, for the sake both of the
Breda garrison and Mynheer Grootz.  On the other hand,
he scouted the idea of deserting the ladies in their
predicament.  Further, the raiding-party were upon the road
behind him; they had clearly swept round Eyndhoven,
avoiding Helmund, and in all probability were on the
heels of the general.  Even if he got his convoy safely
away from the village it could only move at a walking
pace.  In an hour or two it must be overtaken, and he
would thus do no good either for himself or the ladies by
instant flight.  He therefore made up his mind to remain
at Lindendaal, and assured the aide-de-camp that he
would do his best.  But when the lieutenant had ridden
off, and Harry reflected on the position of the ladies, he
thought it worth while to suggest that they should start
at once for Breda in order to be out of harm's way.  Adèle
answered at once for her mother.

"Impossible, Monsieur!  We cannot leave the general;
we will not leave the house.  Consult your own duty."

Her tone was not to be gainsaid.  Harry went into the
hall, wondering what he could do for the best.  He met
Sherebiah at the door.

"Eh, sir, 'tis a pretty pickle o' fish."

"What are we to do, Sherry?"

"As a man o' peace, I say cut and run."

"Can't we defend the house?"

"Wi' ten Dutch dragoons and a gardener and a maid
or two?  And two hundred French, so 'tis said!"

"But men will come in from the villages round."

"Ay, on foot, and with pitchforks and flails.  Not much
good against swords and carbines."

At that moment a man galloped up from a village some
eight miles down the road, with news that the French were
already sacking and burning.  They had first demanded
a ransom, and the sum required not being forthcoming
within the short time allowed, they had begun their
ruthless work.  A few moments afterwards one of Harry's
teamsters rode up on a cart-horse.  He had heard the
news from the aide-de-camp as he passed through the
village where the convoy had put up for the night, and
come back to ask for orders.  Harry caught at the
chance of delay.  The French, it appeared, first demanded
a ransom; could they be put off and time be gained for
relief to arrive?  The question suggested a plan that
might be tried in default of a better.

"Ride back, Piet," said Harry, "and bring up the
wagons as fast as you can, and as many of the villagers
as you can muster—with arms, if they have them."

His idea was to barricade the road; every minute's delay
was a minute gained, and as the news spread he believed
that the Hollanders had courage and spirit enough to
strike a blow in defence of their homes.  In point of fact,
Piet had hardly departed to fulfil his errand when
Dutchmen came up in ones and twos and threes, some on great
lumbering farm-horses, others on foot, all hastening
towards Breda in the hope of escaping the devouring French
behind them.  A few had firelocks, some had bills, others
staggered along under the burden of household valuables
they hoped to save from ruin.  Harry set Sherebiah to
intercept them all as they came up and to bring them
within the grounds, and as their number swelled he
reverted to his original idea of defending the house.

It was a counsel of desperation.  The house had several
entrances, each one of which must be manned; it was too
large to be held by so small a garrison.  The outhouses
would afford cover to an attacking force.  Including the
ten dragoons, there were only at present fourteen
well-armed men among the ever-growing crowd; he could not
improvise arms, and little effective work was to be
expected from an untrained rabble, however courageous,
pitted against regular troops.  Further, to defend the
house from within would inevitably lead to its being fired
and blown up, and Madame de Vaudrey would profit not
a jot.  If the house was to be saved it must be by preventing
the enemy from reaching it.  What chance was there
of effectually barring the road against the raiders?  He
went out to investigate.

As he reached the park gate he was met by two men
who had just come on foot from the village.  One was a
yeoman, the other a soldier belonging to some infantry
regiment—a man probably on furlough.  Harry was struck
by the similarity of their costumes.  Their hats were almost
alike; their doublets and knee-breeches of similar dark
materials; but for the red collar and the bands around
the sleeves, there was very little at a distance to
distinguish the soldier from the civilian.  A sudden notion
flashed through Harry's mind.  It was a chance in a
thousand; the risks were great; the odds were all against
success; but on the other side there was the imminent
danger of destruction to the house, ruin to the owners,
the capture of the Dutch general, and the subsequent
burning of the village.

"We'll try it," he said to himself.  "Sherry, send every
man up to the house, and let me know the instant our
wagons appear."

"Ay, I will, sir.—'Tis a pretty ticklish time o' day for a
man o' peace," he muttered under his breath.

Harry ran back to the house.  The doctor from the
village overtook him on horseback, and they entered
together.  Mademoiselle de Vaudrey showed some surprise
when she saw Harry, but she made no comment.

"Mademoiselle," said Harry, "the general is in good
hands now.  May I ask your assistance?"

She gave him a keen glance, rose at once from her knees,
and followed him from the room.

"Mademoiselle," continued Harry eagerly, "have you
any red ribbon, silk, stuff, anything, in the house?"

"Perhaps.  Why do you ask?"

"Will you find all that you can, and with your maids
sew red bands round the collars and cuffs of the men?"

"To make them look like soldiers—is that what you
mean?"

"Yes," replied Harry, delighted that she seized his
meaning so quickly.

"I will do so at once.  Send the men to the hall."

Harry next called up old Jean, and bade him fetch the
gardener.  When the man appeared, Harry asked him to
gather as many sticks as he could, by preference wood
with the bark on, about five feet in length, and stack them
at the back door.  A few minutes afterwards a message
reached him from Sherebiah that the wagons had arrived.
He ran upstairs and, regardless of ceremony, called out:
"Mademoiselle de Vaudrey!"

Adèle came out of a room, holding a strip of red ribbon.

"Mademoiselle," said Harry, "I must go to the gate.
Will you make every unarmed man look as much like a
soldier as possible, and see that each is provided with one
of the sticks that the gardener is now collecting?"

"Yes.  Is there anything else?"

"Is it possible to run up a flag on the belfry-tower?"

"If you say it is to be done, it shall be done."

"I do not want the flag hoisted at present; but if you
will prepare to do so——'

"Very well," interrupted the girl.

Harry thanked her with a look, and ran downstairs
three steps at a time.  He called to one of the dragoons
to accompany him, and hastened again to the gate,
meeting on the way several men whom, in obedience to his
instructions, Sherebiah had sent up from the road.

"Sherry," he said, "ask this fellow if a cavalry troop
on the march is preceded by an advance guard.  He won't
understand my Dutch."

"I can tell 'ee that," said Sherebiah instantly.  "They
do so.  A patrol goos ahead, mebbe a quarter of a mile."

"Oh!  Now, mark my plan.  Mademoiselle de Vaudrey
is making some of the Dutchmen look like soldiers; we've
no muskets for them, but at a distance I hope sticks may
serve as well.  I am going to post these make-believe
soldiers around the wall of the estate among the trees;
it will look as if the orchard and woods are manned.
They will remain concealed until a flag appears on the
tower; then their sudden appearance will, I trust, make
an impression."

"Ay, sir, 'tis famous.  But if the patrol gets much
past the house, 'twill be labour lost, for they will be near
enough to see 'tis all my eye."

"Yes, that must be avoided.  What can be done?"

"I tell 'ee, sir.  Leave three o' the wagons on the road,
half a mile or so towards the village, where the road bends;
I reckon Piet and Hans and me can keep any French patrol
a-diddle-daddlen until the flag runs up.  Then—do 'ee see,
sir?—dragoons slip out of copse and trounce the Frenchmen,
Piet and me and Hans draws the wagons across the
road: and there be a barricade."

"A capital notion!  I will leave that to you, then.—Ah! here
is a man from the other direction.  He may have news
of the enemy."

A countryman, with his wife and family, had just driven
up in a cart.  From him Harry learnt that the French were
sacking isolated farms on the road, and might be expected
within the hour.  Harry at once went back to the house,
ran up the stairs, and again called for mademoiselle.

"May I go up to the roof and see if I can descry the
enemy?" he asked.

"I will take you."

She led the way to the turret stair, and in a few moments
Harry stood upon the roof, whence on fine days a clear
prospect for many miles could have been obtained.  The
morning was somewhat overcast, and the haze limited his
view.  But in one quarter he seemed to see a blackness
that could only arise from the smoke of burning houses.
Between him and the cloud appeared the gables of a house
larger than Madame de Vaudrey's chateau.

"That belongs to Monsieur de Polignac," said Adèle in
reply to his question.

"The French will come to that first; that will gain a
little time for us."

At that moment his eye caught the large barn-like building
at the extremity of the Vaudrey estate, just beyond the
ditch running into the canal.  In a flash a new idea set
his pulse leaping.  Hitherto his only aim had been to
delay or daunt the enemy until help could arrive from
Breda or some nearer point.  But the recollection of what
he had seen when going round the estate on the previous
evening suggested a daring scheme which made him tingle
with excitement.  Adèle looked at him in silent curiosity
as he stood for a few moments pondering the situation.
Then he turned suddenly to her.

"Mademoiselle, who opens the sluices of the ditch when
you make your skating-pond?"

"Jacques the gardener."

"Thank you!  I will go to him."

He turned at once to descend.  As he came to the head
of the staircase he noticed a mass of coloured stuff lying
at the foot of the belfry.

"Ah, the flag!" he said.  "Thank you, Mademoiselle!"

A glance upward assured him that the running-line was
in order; then without another word he went down.  Finding
the gardener, he hurried with him to the park entrance.
His wagons were drawn up outside.  He ordered three of
his teamsters to drive their carts into the thicket beyond
the outbuilding down the road.

"The enemy will have a rearguard," he said.  "As soon
as that has well passed, bring your wagons into the road
and block it between the wall and the canal.  I will send
a dozen men and two of the dragoons to remain in hiding
with you.  Now, Jacques, go to the ditch and open the
sluices.  How long will it take to flood the field to a depth
of seven or eight inches?"

"Not more than half an hour, Monsieur."

"Very well.  Stay; have you a boat anywhere on the estate?"

"A punt, Monsieur.  I go to market in it on the canal."

"Where is it?"

"In the old barn yonder, Monsieur."

"Bring it out and float it in the ditch half-way across
the field.  Moor it so that it doesn't drift."

The man hurried away.

"'Tis all ready, sir," said Sherebiah, coming up.  "The
road is blocked towards the bend, and the men be hidden
in the wood.  Med I ask, sir, if shouten would be any use?"

Harry smiled.

"We found it useful once, eh, Sherry?  Certainly; when
you see the flag go up, the more noise you make the better,
especially if you can make a din with garden tools, or
anything of steel."

"Trust me, sir; I ha'n't served wi' a travellen show for
nothen.  I'll show 'em the way, ay sure."

"Mind, not a movement till you see the flag.  Now, to
your places."

He returned once more to the house.  Adèle met him at
the door.

"I have done all you said.  Is there anything more that
I can do?"

"Thank you, Mademoiselle! nothing, I think.  I wish to
see Madame de Vaudrey now."

They went together into the reception-room.  The
general had recovered consciousness, and lay prone on
the couch.  The doctor was at the window talking to
Madame de Vaudrey, who was clearly in a state of
intense agitation.

"Oh, Monsieur Rochestair," she said as Harry entered,
"have they sent help to us yet?"

"No, Madame, I fear there has scarcely been time."

"What shall we do? what shall we do?  I fear we shall
all be ruined."

"Pray calm yourself, Madame," said Harry quietly.
"Doctor, is it possible to remove the general to another
room?"

"I do not advise it.  He is comfortable; I hope he will
sleep."

"Meester, let us take him to the dining-room," said
Adèle in Dutch.

"It would be a pity, and——"

"Do you wish it, Monsieur?" she interrupted, turning
to Harry.

"Yes, Mademoiselle."

"Then he shall be removed.  Meester, be so good as to
have the general removed at once.  The men can lift sofa
and all."

Adèle herself called four men in from the front of the
house, and the general was quickly carried across the hall
into the dining-room.  Harry was left with the two ladies.

"Madame," he said, "will you remain here with
Mademoiselle?  Be seated; take up your needle-work; try to
look as though there were nothing to fear."

"How can I? how can I? when every moment I fear to
see my house in flames."

"Mamma," said Adèle, "it is necessary.  Monsieur is
planning to save us; we must help him.  Come, I will
fetch your spinning-wheel.  Monsieur, we will do our
best, I give my promise."

"Thank you, Mademoiselle!  When the French arrive,
an officer will enter; I will bring him in here; show no
concern; leave the rest to me."

He went out, sent into the woods all the men who were
still about the house save two of the dragoons, whom he
placed in a cloak-room off the hall.  Then he ran up again
to the roof.

Looking eagerly down the road, he caught sight of four
horsemen approaching at a trot.  They were about a mile
away.  Beyond them the road was concealed from view
by a clump of trees.  He saw at a glance that Jacques
had fulfilled his instructions to the letter.  Where half an
hour before had been a bare field there was now what
appeared to be a broad lake, with a solitary punt floating
at about the middle of its surface.  Scanning the
boundaries of the estate he failed to descry a single human
figure.  He drew a long breath; all his preparations were
complete; what would be the outcome?

The four riders were drawing nearer, and behind them
he now saw the helmets and lances of the main body.
They were as yet too far away for him to estimate their
number.  Taking care to keep out of sight himself, he
watched the patrol of four, and saw two of them dismount
at the old barn and enter.

"They have left Monsieur de Polignac for the present,"
he said to himself.  "I wonder why."

After a few minutes the two horsemen emerged from
the building, remounted, and rode on with their
companions.  Then Harry slipped down the stairs, instructed
old Jean, who was trembling in the hall, to conduct to the
reception-room any soldier who came to the door, and
then walked quietly in and rejoined the ladies.

"They are coming?" said Adèle.

"Yes.  They will be here in a minute."

Madame de Vaudrey gave a gasp and let her hands fall
to her sides.  Adèle jumped up, slipped a skein of wool
over her mother's hands, sat on a stool opposite her, and
began to wind the wool into a ball.  A few seconds later
the clatter of hoofs and the clank of sabres came from
without.  Then a heavy tread was heard in the hall, and
a loud voice called for the master of the house.  There
was a moment's pause; Jean opened the door, stood on
one side, and in a quavering voice announced:

"Madame, Monsieur demande——"

His voice broke, he could say no more.  The ladies
looked up, Madame de Vaudrey with pale cheeks and
twitching lips, Adèle with unmoved countenance and
stony stare.  After one glance she placidly resumed her
winding; Harry, with his hands in his pockets, strolled
over from the window.

"Well, my man, what do you want?" he said.

The sergeant involuntarily saluted.  He looked by no
means comfortable.  His eyes went from one to another
of the silent group.

"Monsieur—Mesdames——" he began; then, recovering
his self-possession and putting on a swaggering air,
he continued: "To resist is vain.  The commandant will
decide.  I have warned you, Mesdames—Monsieur."

"It is very good of you," said Harry blandly.  "Your
boots are marking the carpet; perhaps you will wait outside."

The man's cheeks purpled; without another word he
abruptly turned and went out.  At the front door he
stationed two of his companions, and rode back to meet
the advancing troop, the sounds of whose approach were
now echoed from the surrounding woods.  From the window
Harry saw the sergeant make his report to the officer
at their head.  The commandant smiled and rode on.
Two minutes later his spurs rang on the stone steps, and
Jean showed him into the room.

"Madame, voilà encore un visiteur."

In obedience to a hint from Adèle, Madame de Vaudrey
rose and made a curtsy.  Harry smiled as he saw Adèle's
low mocking obeisance.  The officer doffed his cocked hat,
laid it with both hands upon his heart, and bowed.

"Madame—Mademoiselle—Monsieur," he said.

He was a tall, stout, florid man of some forty years,
with large nose and bloated cheeks.  His costume was
very rich, plentifully bedecked with gold lace and decorations,
spick and span in all its appointments.  "More like
a courtier than a soldier," was Harry's first impression.
His few words of salutation had been uttered in a strong
German accent.

"Madame, Monsieur," he said, "I have the honour to
be a colonel of dragoons in the service of his highness the
Elector of Cologne, who, as you are doubtless aware, is in
alliance with His Majesty of France.  I regret exceedingly
to have to discommode you; it is a painful duty; but
what would you?—war is war.  My duty, Madame,
Monsieur, is to levy contributions on the enemy's country.
Alas! that I am obliged to treat you, Madame, Monsieur,
Mademoiselle, as enemies, but duty is duty.  Not for all
the world would I render it more disagreeable than
necessary to such charming ladies, and to your excellent son,
Madame; but I must request you to hand over to me five
thousand florins—that, I am sure, you will regard as a
most modest estimate of the value of your delightful
house.  I regret that I can allow only five minutes for
the completion of this little transaction; in five minutes,
Madame, Monsieur, with five thousand florins I pass on
with my men.  It pains me to say it, but if the money,
or its equivalent—in plate or jewels, Madame, what you
please—is not forthcoming within five minutes, I must
with the very greatest regret take what I can find and
burn the place.  The notice is short, it is true; but
Madame will understand; we soldiers have no time to
spare, and my orders are positive; every house that is not
ransomed is to be burned.  Ah!" he ejaculated as he
caught sight through the window of smoke in the
distance, "I fear my men have already set fire to your barn.
It is an excess of zeal, but, as the proverb says, the
appetite grows with eating; we have had to light many such
bonfires of late!"

This speech had been delivered with the greatest
deference.  At its conclusion the colonel lugged out a big
timepiece, and held it open in his left hand.

"From now five minutes, Madame, Monsieur."

Madame de Vaudrey had listened with terror in her
eyes.  She was beginning to speak, but Adèle called
suddenly "Mamma!" in a warning tone, and the lady sank
back in her chair, looking at Harry as he advanced a step
or two towards the officer.  Harry's throat felt somewhat
dry; his heart was thumping unpleasantly; but he was to
all appearance perfectly self-possessed as he said:

"Mademoiselle, will you see what can be done?" adding
in an undertone the two words, "the flag!"

Adèle nodded.

"Pardon, Monsieur."  She curtsied to the officer as she
went past him into the hall.

"Before discussing the amount of our contribution,
Monsieur le Colonel," said Harry, "may I enquire by
what right you make this demand?"

The officer looked him up and down.

"Certainly, you may enquire, Monsieur.  I answer: by
the right of a hundred sabres, and the practice of war.
In my turn, may I beg of you to let this explanation
suffice.  Time presses.  But for the presence of
Madame"—he bowed to Madame de Vaudrey—"I should have
regarded your question as a mere impertinence, and
treated it—and you—accordingly."

Madame de Vaudrey looked anxiously from one to the
other, and heaved a sigh of relief as Adèle returned and
resumed her seat by her mother's side.

"I marvel, Monsieur," said Harry, after a quick
exchange of glances with the younger lady, "that a soldier
of your rank and experience, acquainted with the practice
of war, should, in your unfortunate position, permit
himself such language."

"Comment!  My unfortunate position!"  The big man
swelled, his red cheeks empurpled.  Turning to the ladies
he said: "Is the young man mad?"

"You shall judge, Monsieur," said Harry quietly.
"Do me the favour to place yourself at the window."

He had just caught sight of one of the colonel's dragoons
galloping up the drive towards the house.

"That is one of your hundred sabres, I presume.  He
is hastening to inform you that he has met Dutch troops
belonging to General van Santen half a mile up the road.
In the other direction—this way, Monsieur—you can just
see our men barring your retreat.  You observed, no
doubt, a canal on your left as you rode along; it is twenty
feet deep; and if you will condescend to come to the back
windows"—the captain followed him as in a daze—"you
will see a large Dutch force occupying yonder woods,
which, save the lake on our right, are your only line of
retreat."

The colonel's astonishment was no greater than Madame
de Vaudrey's.  She rose from her chair and moved towards
the window, but was checked by Adèle's restraining hand.
The girl's eyes were shining, a spot of red burned on either
cheek.  The colonel stared and stared at Harry, who stood
with a slight smile upon his lips, at the ladies, at the
figures which appeared among the trees beyond the wall—heads
and shoulders, with cocked hats and red collars, and
at every shoulder a musket.

"Comment! comment!" he spluttered; then without
another word he hurried from the room, followed by
Harry, just in time to meet the dragoon at the outer door.
The man saluted.

"Mon Colonel," he said in a fluster, "there is a barricade
at the bend in the road half a mile beyond us held by
Dutch troops.  My comrade Gustave was knocked off his
horse by——"

"Donnerwetter!" cried the colonel, relapsing into his
native language.  He sprang heavily into his saddle on
the charger held in waiting by one of his troopers.

"I suppose, Monsieur le Colonel," said Harry carelessly
at his elbow, "you are counting the cost of resistance?"

The officer was looking anxiously and indecisively about
him, clearly at a loss what course to take, but as clearly
eager to make a fight of it.

"I must warn you, Monsieur," added Harry, "that the
least resistance will rob you of all chance of quarter.  The
whole countryside is roused to fury by the news of your
exploits.  My general has with him not only his own men
but a large force of peasants from the villages.  If it comes
to a fight, he may not have the power, even if he had the
inclination, to protect you from their vengeance.  They
are barbarous in their methods, these peasants; but then,
as you know, Monsieur, they have been provoked."

At this moment there was a sharp report.  A cornet
of the French horse, seeing the barricade of carts suddenly
run across the road by the barn, had sent a party of his
men back to investigate.  One of the troopers as they
approached was shot from behind the barricade and fell
from his horse.  The echo of the shot had hardly died
away when there came two reports from the barricade up
the road, accompanied by a faint shout.  The colonel
gathered up the reins; a dragoon came galloping up
the drive crying:

"Mon Colonel, we are surrounded!"

.. _`"Mon Colonel, we are surrounded!"`:

.. figure:: images/img-165.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "Mon Colonel, we are surrounded!"

   "Mon Colonel, we are surrounded!"

"You see, Monsieur," continued Harry, "you are in a
ring fence.  It is for you to make your choice, and at once,
between surrender and—annihilation."

Harry had not misjudged his man.  Utterly bewildered,
the colonel gazed, like a caged animal, helplessly around
him.  At the end of the drive his men could be seen
rigid and expectant.  Behind him, beyond the wall, he
saw the figures as he supposed of Dutch troops armed,
and with all the advantage of position.  The sun,
breaking through the clouds, glinted upon steel which, at the
distance, he could not be expected to recognize as
bill-hooks, pruning-knives, and whatever other implements
the premises had afforded.  At a little distance down the
road he saw, through gaps between the trees that lined
the wall, his patrol galloping back to the main body.
Trying to collect himself, he at length set off at a slow
trot towards the gate.  Harry at once signed to the two
Dutch soldiers hidden in the cloak-room to come out, and
ordered them to stand at attention one on either side of
the door.  The leader of the French patrol pulled his horse
up on its haunches at the road end of the drive.

"The road is blocked, mon Colonel," he said, "with
a barricade of carts and beams held by a strong force
of the enemy.  We cannot estimate their numbers; they
keep under cover; but one of the men is killed by their
fire, and by their shouts there must be at least a hundred."

Without a word the colonel rode across to the brink
of the canal.  The lowness of the water and the height
of the bank showed at a glance that any attempt to swim
his horses across would be disastrous; they could never
scramble up the opposite side.  The men might cross and
crawl up, but a moment's reflection showed what the fate
of a small body of men would be, retreating on foot through
a hostile country.  The colonel looked down the road;
the blazing barn inspired uncomfortable thoughts.  He
had seen many such conflagrations of late, and knew well
that the peasants would take a full toll of revenge if he fell
into their power.  Wheeling round, he for the first time
caught sight of the two Dutch soldiers standing behind
Harry on the steps of the house.  This seemed to bring
home to him the hopelessness of his position; muttering a
curse he walked his horse slowly up the avenue.  Harry
came forward to meet the scowling officer.

"It is the fortune of war, Monsieur.  I see you have
chosen the wiser course.  You surrender to superior
numbers.  I am authorized by my general to accept your
surrender.  You will receive honourable treatment; he
knows how to appreciate a gallant warrior; but the
peasants——"

The colonel tried to smile.

"I am concerned—I say it frankly—for the safety of my
men.  With your troops,"—he shrugged—"we might
take our chance; but your peasants, your burghers—parbleu! we
know them; they are savages, they are tigers.
To whom, Monsieur, have I the honour of yielding my
sword?"

"Immediately, Monsieur, to me; my name is Harry
Rochester, an Englishman at present in the—in the
Dutch service; ultimately to General van Santen, to
whom I shall have the honour to introduce you in a few
minutes.  Now, Monsieur le Colonel, you will direct your
men to ride up the avenue, dismount, stack their arms in
front of the house, and fasten their horses to the garden
palings behind.  Sergeant," he added, turning to one of
the sentinel dragoons, "ride at once to the general and
acquaint him that Monsieur le Colonel——"

"Baron von Schummelpincken."

"That the Baron von Schummelpincken has surrendered.
Send a dozen men to take charge of the horses.  In twenty
minutes we shall be in camp."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Battle of Lindendaal`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI


.. class:: center large bold

   The Battle of Lindendaal

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

A Hitch—A Charge in Flank—Irregular Warfare—Called
Off—A Suggestion—Compliments—Thanks—Adieux—Luck—After
the Fair—A Triumph

.. vspace:: 2

To his credit, Colonel the Baron von Schummelpincken did
his best to put a good face on the predicament in which he
found himself.  He rode back to his men to inform them
of the arrangement.  The moment he had gone, Adèle de
Vaudrey came out, her face aglow with excitement.

"Monsieur," she said, "General van Santen asks what
the uproar, the firing, means; shall I tell him?"

"As you please, Mademoiselle."

"It is as you please, Monsieur."

"The day is not ended yet, Mademoiselle."

"I will say nothing, Monsieur."  She went into the
house.

The sergeant had spurred across the meadow behind,
through a gate in the wall, into the orchard and wood.
In a few minutes he reappeared with his comrades, who
came at a trot towards the house.  Their pace was
leisurely, but a keener observer than the colonel, who at
this moment was half-way up the avenue at the head of his
troops, might have noticed that the horses' flanks were
heaving violently.  The men had in fact galloped at full
speed from the horns of the position in obedience to the
sergeant's signals, and only checked the pace in response
to a suggestion of Sherebiah, who had made the best of his
way after them.  Harry ordered the ten dragoons to draw
up in line at right angles to the house.

"Sherry," he said, as the man came up puffing, "bring
me one of the dragoons' horses."

He mounted just as the colonel emerged from the
avenue.  Sherry stood by his side at the nearer end of
the line of dragoons.

The colonel, some dozen yards ahead of his men, came
to Harry and handed him his sword.  Harry politely
returned it, a compliment which the officer courteously
acknowledged.

"Monsieur," said Harry, "we understand the arrangement?
Your men will pile arms in front of the house, file
off to right and left, tie their horses to the palings, then
pass round on foot to the rear of the house."

"Certainly, Monsieur."

Harry watched eagerly as the troopers came two by two
up the drive and did his bidding with the precision of
automata.  Events had crowded so thickly that he had scarcely
had time to think; but now he could hardly sit still on his
horse, so intense was his anxiety to get the whole scene
over.  Everything appeared to be answering to his wishes;
his arrangement for the French dragoons to file off in
opposite directions was a precaution to divide the force; they
began to pass behind the house one by one.  About half
of the troop had thus piled their arms and fastened their
horses; the clock in the belfry-tower struck the first note
of noon, and Harry was already congratulating himself
that almost by the time the last of the leisurely Dutch
chimes was ended his ruse would have been completely
successful, when a loud voice was heard from the road.

"Mon Colonel! mon Colonel! they are only peasants
and burghers.  It is a trick, a trick!"

There was an instant halt.  Harry's heart was in his
mouth; Sherebiah muttered, "Zooks! 'tis hot 'taties
now!"  The colonel, his face aflame, spurred his horse
from the pillar at the end of the avenue, and, drawing his
sword, vociferated:

"A moi! à moi!"

For a moment Harry felt that all was lost.  But only
for a moment, for in that instant he saw that with his
handful of men in line he had the advantage of the troopers
debouching two by two from the balustraded drive.
Turning to the dragoons at his side he shouted "Charge!"
and dashed straight at the enemy.  It was in the nick of
time.  A few seconds later they would have been ready;
at this precise moment they were awkwardly placed.  Half
a dozen men of the nearer file were leading their horses
towards the palings; beyond them the armed and mounted
men were approaching from the drive, and eight files
presented their flank to Harry's little force of ten.  As he
charged, the dismounted men scattered like hares before
him, and the sixteen armed troopers had barely time to
wheel round to meet the onslaught before Harry and his
Dutchmen were upon them.  All the advantage of impetus
and direct attack was with the Dutch.  Harry, grasping
his sword, came full tilt upon a burly Alsatian.  Almost
before he had realized it he had passed over the dragoon
and his horse, and, parrying a swinging cut from the
man behind, had shortened his arm and thrust him through
the shoulder.  The man dropped his sabre and fell from
his horse, which wheeled round and plunged madly through
the dismounted men on the farther side.

In a trice Harry was through the mellay, and bringing
his horse up on its haunches, wrenched it round so that he
might take stock of the new situation.  He found that
the majority of his Dutch troopers had stuck close to him,
and with the readiness of old campaigners were already
wheeling round to face the discomfited enemy.  A dozen
men were on the ground, including the portly colonel;
several horses were careering wildly through the small
open space, impeding the movements of the dismounted
men who had made a dash for the piles of arms in front of
the porch.  The French troopers were still filing up the
drive, but the sudden uproar had startled the horses.  The
riders were too much occupied with their steeds and too
closely packed to make effective use of their pistols; the
one or two who fired aimed erratically, and no one was hurt.
But Harry saw that the only course open to him was to
charge again and again until the peasants, summoned by
the noise of the fray, could come to his assistance.  It was
fortunate that the remainder of the enemy's troop could
only debouch two by two from the drive; the stone
balustrade on each side of it prevented them from deploying
until they entered the open space in front of the house.
Two horses that had been rolled over near the entrance to
the drive were plunging and kicking, hindering the advance
of the leading troopers, who were now being pressed by
the men behind.  Once more the little band of Dutchmen
hurled themselves at the head of the enemy's force, and
with the same result, though Harry was instinctively
aware, when he again emerged from the mellay, that his
followers were fewer in number.  Among them, however,
he noticed Sherebiah, who had possessed himself of a
sword and pistol from the stand of arms and a horse from
the palings, and was comporting himself as though, so far
from being a man of peace, he had as much experience of
warfare as any trooper present.  Two of Madame de
Vaudrey's gardeners also had appropriated weapons, and
were holding at bay a group of the disarmed enemy who
hovered round, trying to dash in and recover their arms.

Harry saw little of this, however.  He wheeled his horse
once more to repeat the charge.  He was followed now by
only six men; at least a dozen fresh troopers had debouched
from the drive, but, like their comrades, they had not time
to form before the dauntless seven were upon them.  The
odds were heavier now; only two succeeded in getting
through; the rest were checked.  Then ensued a series of
fierce duels, the little group of Dutch being broken up and
driven back by the weight of the files pressing through as
rapidly as they might into the open space.  Harry, engaged
with a stout trooper, felt with a sinking heart that the
game was up; his arm was wrung with hacking and
thrusting; his opponent, fresh to the fight, closed with
him, leant over his saddle, and tried to grip him by the
throat.  At this moment there was a fierce shout, followed
by a perfect babel of cries.  The trooper fell from his
horse, transfixed in the nick of time by Sherebiah's sword;
and when Harry after a few seconds was able once more
to take in what was happening, he saw the place thick
with burghers and peasants who were falling upon the
enemy from both balustrades.  Some had leapt on to the
coping and were dealing heavy blows at the dragoons and
their horses with sticks, hooks, scythes, and all kinds of
strange implements; others were jabbing through the
interstices of the balustrades; all were shouting, smiting,
felling with a fierce vehemence that brooked no resistance.
A panic seized upon the enemy; the unarmed men bolted
to the stables behind the house and barricaded themselves
there; the last files of the dragoons threw down their arms
and begged for quarter; and, turning to Sherebiah, Harry
bade him cry to the peasants, with the full force of his
lungs, to hold their hands.

A lull succeeded the turmoil.  A crowd of the Dutch
were hastening towards the stables to burst open the
doors and make short work of the men sheltered there.
To them Harry galloped up.

"Men," he said, "halt! in the name of General van
Santen.  The victory is ours.  We must await the general's
orders."

The mob hesitated, then, with obedience compelled by
their young leader's mien, stood in sullen silence.  Harry
rode back to the opening of the drive, stationed two of
the Dutch dragoons there, and addressed the colonel, who,
with a lacerated cheek and contused shoulder, leant against
the palings, a picture of chagrin, pain, and baffled rage.

"Monsieur, 'twas not well done.  Your parole was given.
But you are hurt; go to the house—you will find tendance
there."

At this moment another horseman suddenly appeared on
the scene, galloping up from behind the house.  Wheeling
his horse in some surprise, Harry found himself face to
face with Madame de Vaudrey's neighbour, Monsieur de
Polignac.  He looked greatly perturbed; his mouth was
twitching; the air of cynical detachment he had worn in
Madame de Vaudrey's drawing-room had quite disappeared.

"Monsieur, what is this, what is this?" he cried.

"As you see, Monsieur—a skirmish," replied Harry.
"We have captured a raiding-party—and doubtless saved
your house from the flames."

"But—but—do you not see your peril?  You are not a
soldier; these men are not soldiers, the most of them; to
wage war is for you quite irregular; if caught by the
French—and I hear, Monsieur, rumours of a general
advance in this direction—you will all be hanged."

"I will take my chance of that," said Harry.  "I thank
you, nevertheless, for your warning, Monsieur."

"Bah!  I counsel you to release your prisoners—without
arms, it is understood—and send them back to their lines."

"That is a matter for General van Santen, Monsieur.
Would you care to repeat your advice to him?"

Polignac gave him a savage look, opened his mouth to
speak, thought better of it, and, setting spurs to his horse,
galloped away.

The scene of this tempestuous little fight differed greatly
from its appearance a short half-hour before.  Thirty men,
of whom twenty-four were French, lay killed or wounded,
with a few horses.  The stone balustrades were broken in
several places; the flower-beds were trampled; the gravel
was ploughed up; shattered muskets, swords, scabbards,
pistols, hats, cloaks, strewed the ground.

"Carry the dead to the garden," said Harry.  "Take the
wounded to the outbuildings and attend to them; there is
a doctor in the house.  A dozen of you take arms from
the pile there and guard the prisoners; lock them up in
the stables.  Sherebiah, I leave you in charge."

Then, hot, weary, hatless, his coat showing several rents,
Harry followed the wounded colonel into the house.

"Monsieur," said Adèle, meeting him, "the general
insists on seeing you.  He was with difficulty restrained
from rising and taking part in the fray.  You are weary;
a cup of wine will refresh you."

Harry gladly quaffed at the cup she presented to him.
Then he followed her into the dining-room.  The general
frowned when he saw him.

"I want to see the leader," he exclaimed testily.

"This is he, Monsieur," said Ad<ble.

"You, Monsieur!—Mademoiselle, a youth, a boy—absurd!"

"It has been my good fortune, Monsieur," said Harry.

The general looked blank with astonishment.  He half-raised
himself on his cushions, sinking back with a groan.

"They would tell me nothing, save that the French were
discomfited.  Explain, from the beginning."

Harry gave a rapid narrative of the late events.  He
spoke always of "we", seeming to include Adèle, the
general himself, and even Madame de Vaudrey, who had
joined them, among those who had planned the ruse.
Every now and then the general broke into his story with
exclamations of surprise and pleasure and praise.

"A daring, a clever scheme," he said as Harry concluded.
"You are an Englishman, they tell me; a soldier,
I presume?"

"No, Monsieur le General, I have not that honour."

"That is the army's loss.  You have shown great
quickness, great skill, and no less courage.  I compliment
you, Monsieur."

"I did what I could, of course, Monsieur; but things
would have ended very differently but for the peasants'
bold attack at the last."

"Bah!  I know them; they would have done nothing
without a leader, but with a leader they will fight—yes,
and well.  I doubt whether, in point of military honour,
the French colonel—whom I will tax on the subject
presently—did right to reassume command after he had
yielded his sword; still, much may be forgiven him;
naturally he was chagrined and perturbed; and he is
moreover wounded, as I hear."

The general spoke with difficulty; he was very weak.

"You have saved your convoy; that is well.  You will
wish to take it to Breda.  I fear I cannot move.  Madame
la Comtesse, I shall be your patient for a time——"

"Monsieur, I am honoured," said the lady.

"But the prisoners must be carried to Breda also.
Monsieur, that duty—that honour—must be yours.  You
have laid many under an obligation: Mynheer Grootz,
your excellent employer; the garrison at Breda; Madame
la Comtesse, whose house you have saved; and
myself—especially myself, for without doubt you preserved me
from capture, and in my wounded state capture might
very well have finished me."

"I hope for your speedy recovery, Monsieur."

"I thank you.  Now, you will take six of my troopers
with you; armed burghers will serve for the remainder of
your escort.  I marvel that help has not ere this reached
us from Breda; you will report to my aide-de-camp, whom
you will doubtless meet there or on the road.  Your name,
Monsieur, is——"

"Harry Rochester, Monsieur."

"Mademoiselle will note it down for me.  My friend
Mynheer Grootz will have a visit from me.  I am
fatigued; Mademoiselle, a little cordial from your fair
hand.  Monsieur, I bid you farewell."

Harry bowed and left the room, tingling with pleasure
at the general's praise.  He went to the reception-room
and gladly stretched his weary limbs on a low couch there.
Madame de Vaudrey followed him.

"How can I thank you!" she exclaimed.  "I do thank
you, from my heart, a thousand times.  How brave!  I
trembled, I wept when I heard the horrid sounds; I could
not look; Adèle looked and told me; I thought you
would be killed; I was overcome, I could only pray.  Oh!
Monsieur, what can I say?  I can say nothing; I can
only—yes; tiens!  I kiss you."

At another time Harry might have been embarrassed;
he was now so tired that he could but accept passively all
the motherly cares lavished on him by the comtesse.  She
brought him food with her own hands, smoothed his hair,
begged him vainly to accept a ring as a token of her
admiration and gratitude; offered to give him a coat of
her late husband's to replace his own torn garment.
Harry stood it all as long as he could; at last, parrying
another kiss, he sprang up and declared it was time he
set off with his prisoners and the convoy.

The prisoners capable of marching numbered eighty-five.
The remainder were too badly wounded to be
moved.  Gathering his escort, he had the stable door
unlocked and the prisoners paraded, and sent Sherebiah
to marshal the convoy.  All was at length ready.  It was
half-past one when he stood at the door to take leave of
Madame de Vaudrey.

"Adieu, Monsieur Harry!" she said.  "Au revoir!—that
is what I mean.  You will come and see us again?"

"Nothing would delight me more, Madame."

"And stay; convey my thanks to Mynheer Grootz for
the tulip bulb; you will remember that? and yourself take
the thanks of a mother and daughter.  Adèle!" she
called, "Monsieur Rochestair is departing.  Come and
bid him farewell."

"Adieu, Monsieur!" said Adèle, coming forward.  "I
add my thanks to Mamma's for the great service you have
done us."

"I could have done little, Mademoiselle, without your aid."

A flicker of pleasure passed over the girl's face; then,
with a return to her wonted coldness, she said:

"You are pleased to flatter, Monsieur.  But I see there
are still knights-errant in the world.  Adieu!"

There were tears in Madame de Vaudrey's eyes as she
put her arms up and kissed Harry on the cheek.  He
bowed over her hand, then sprang on to the horse of one
of the captured dragoons, and cantered after the line of
wagons and men already moving up the road.  As he
reached them he had the impulse to turn for a last look
at the chateau.  The turret was just visible above the
tree-tops, and upon it he saw a female figure motionless.

"One of the maids hauling down the flag, I suppose,"
he thought.

Then he set his face towards Breda; it was Adèle who
stood there watching until he was out of sight.

"What a lucky dog I am, Sherry!" he remarked to his
sturdy henchman as they rode side by side.

"Ay sure, Master Harry, 'tis better to be born lucky
nor rich.  But speaken for myself, I doan't zackly see
there be much luck about it."

"Oh yes! there is.  'Twas merely luck that Mynheer
Grootz had to send me this way; mere luck that he had
promised Madame de Vaudrey a tulip; mere luck that the
French chose that very day to come raiding; mere luck
that the place lent itself so easily to a trick——"

"Ay, and mere luck that 'ee happened to be born wi' a
headpiece; mere luck that 'ee can handle a sword and sit
a horse; mere luck that 'ee've got sojer's blood a-rompen
through your veins.  Daze me, if all that be luck—well,
Them above med as well ha' no finger in poor mortal
pies at all."

"Well, well, Sherry!  But confess, 'twas odd to come
upon Captain Aglionby again, and in that house; what do
you say to that?"

"Say!  I say 'tis old Satan hisself playen pranks, and
we'll ha' to keep an eye on the villain."

"I laughed to see their heads in chancery; 'twas
well done, Sherry, to haul them down the stairs as
you did.  What has become of the captain to-day, I
wonder?"

"Trust me, he be doen mischief somewheres.  I knows
Cap'n, ay, I do."

From the stout Baron von Schummelpincken downwards
the prisoners wore a crest-fallen air.  Save for the
colonel and his subalterns they all marched on foot, the
horses being tied head to tail as Harry had often seen at
English country fairs.  They had been marching for about
an hour when the head of the convoy met General van
Santen's aide-de-camp galloping at breakneck speed.
He reined up when he noticed soldiers among the men.
Harry cantered to his side.  Explanations were rapidly
exchanged.  The Dutchman laughed heartily when he
heard how the enemy had been fooled.

"To tell the truth," he said, "I should never have
thought the general capable of such a stratagem."

"Indeed!" said Harry.

"I wish I had been there.  It would have been more
fitting that I should take the prisoners to Breda than you,
a sutler, I suppose you call yourself."

"I don't think it necessary to call anybody names,
Mynheer, myself least of all.  The general expected
assistance; why has it not accompanied you, Mynheer?"

The officer explained that on reaching Breda he had
found that practically the whole garrison was engaged in
a reconnaissance in force towards Antwerp, where General
de Bedmar was showing signs of activity that gave the
confederate generals some concern.  Only two troops of
horse had been retained in the town, and these had strict
orders not to leave the place.  Infantry would be of little
use against the French raiders, and indeed it was
impossible that they should reach Madame de Vaudrey's
house in time.  The aide-de-camp had been accordingly
provided with a fresh mount and sent on to the main
body, from which a squadron had at once been detached.
But the corps, when he overtook it, was a good ten miles
beyond Breda, and the relief squadron could not start for
the Helmund road until the afternoon.  It was now some
twenty minutes behind the aide-de-camp, who had ridden
forward to convey to the general the news of the coming
reinforcement.

He continued his journey, and Harry cantered on to
overtake the convoy, which had moved on while the
conversation took place.  Some minutes later a cloud of dust
in the distance heralded the approaching force.  When the
two bodies met, Harry had reluctantly to tell his story over
again.  The commander of the squadron pressed him for
more details than the general's aide-de-camp had done,
and being a shrewd man he soon put two and two together.

"The honour of the day is yours, my friend," he said
to Harry, "and by my soul you shall ride into Breda at
the head of the column."

Harry protested; he did not relish the idea of heading
a sort of circus procession.  But the Dutchman insisted;
General van Santen had laid the duty upon Harry, and he
saw no reason to relieve him of it.  He sent a couple of
his troopers on in advance to announce the event.  Thus it
happened that when, in the dusk, Harry headed his convoy
through the gates, he was met by a great concourse of the
populace, men, women, and children huzzaing and waving
hats and kerchiefs with vast enthusiasm.  All the pretty
girls of the town, in their quaint bonnets and short skirts,
pressed around the horse to see the young Englishman,
and a comical little Dutch boy, with a toy drum slung
over his shoulder, placed himself in front of Harry's horse
and proudly tattooed him through the streets to the
burgomaster's house.  The burgomaster himself made a very
flowery speech of congratulation, to which Harry returned
the best acknowledgment he could; and he was heartily
glad when the tide of compliments ebbed and he had
leisure to make formal delivery of his prisoners.

He had not yet escaped, however.  He was resting
in his inn when a messenger entered with an invitation
to an impromptu banquet organized at the burgomaster's.
In vain Harry pleaded that he was in no trim for fine
company.  The burgomaster's own tailor undertook to
make him presentable; he had to sit through a long Dutch
feast and respond to the toast of his health.  Even then his
labours were not ended.  After the banquet the company
adjourned to the council chamber, where all the beauty
of the town was assembled.  Harry had to lead off the
dance with the burgomaster's wife, a stout vrouw of
forty-five years and fifteen stone.  He did his duty manfully,
dancing the stately dances of the day with unflagging
spirit, and winning universal praise by the modesty with
which he wore his honours.  The assembly broke up at
a late hour; Harry was dog-tired, and went to bed
convinced that it was mighty hard work to be a popular hero.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Harry is Discharged`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII


.. class:: center large bold

   Harry is Discharged

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

Rheum and Rum—Gall—Without Ceremony—A Question of
Precedence—Res Angustae—The Raw—To
Scheveningen—Punctuality and Despatch—From the Dutch
Side—Temptation—Renunciation—Gretel—Misgivings

.. vspace:: 2

"Atchew!—confusion!  This pestilent country—atchew!—will
be the death of me.  'Tis one eternal—-atchew!—rheum!
Stap my vitals!  I wish I were dead.  Atchew! atchew!"

Captain Aglionby sat in the topmost room of a high
house in one of the less savoury quarters of the Hague.
His nose was redder than ever; his cheeks more puffed;
his eyes looked like boiled oysters.  A thick woollen
comforter swathed his neck.  Though it was the height of
summer, a big log fire blazed in the hearth; window and
door were fast shut; and in a temperature of something
over eighty degrees the captain was doing his best,
according to his lights, to cure a cold.

He was seated at a table drawn close to the fire.  Upon
the table stood a bottle nearly empty, a beaker, a basin of
sugar, an inkhorn, a table-book of writing-paper, and a
sheath containing quills.  A kettle sang on the fire.  When
his sneezing fit was over, the captain poured the last of
his rum into the beaker, sugared it, filled up with boiling
water, and gulped half of the mixture into a throat inured
to fiery passengers.  Water streamed from his eyes, and
his blotched brow broke into a profuse perspiration.  He
wiped his face with a large red handkerchief, smacked his
lips, and, bending over the table, selected a quill.

"Hang writing!" he muttered.  "I never writ a letter
but I rued it.  Atchew!  And with this cursed cold!
Well, the sooner begun, the sooner done; so here's to it.
Atchew!"

He cut his quill, dipped it in the ink, and began:

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

"Mr. BARKLEY.  Sir."

.. vspace:: 2

It would have been quite evident to an onlooker that
the captain was not a practised penman.  He wrote very
laboriously, frowning at every stroke, and licking his lips
often.  Like most illiterate people, he repeated half aloud
the words as he wrote them, and being so unused to
giving visible expression to his thoughts, he commented
as he went along.  He was never at a loss how to spell
a word, for in those days men spelt as they pleased, and
bad spelling might almost have been regarded as one of
the marks of a gentleman.

.. vspace:: 2

"Sir.  This will, I hope, finde you well.  For myself, I am
afflicted [atchew!] with a voilent Rheum, the wch I feare will
turne to an inflamatn of the Longs.  [Egad! that'll please the
old niggard!]  I command the sarvices of the best Potticary
in the place, but finding his nostrums vain, for three dayes have
eate nought but Water Gruel.  'Tis said that Rumm is a speedie
Cure, but that I eschew.  [Atchew!]  My Hande shakes with
the feaver, & I shd not rite to you now had I not Surprizing
Nuse to give.  You must knowe that, visitting at the house of
Mme de Vodray, where your he sarvant is ever an honour'd
guest, [that's worth fifty guineas to me!] what was my vaste
Amazement to finde there that yonge Cockerell H—— R——
swaggering it as one of the beste.  It passes my wit to divine
how he escap'd from the *Merrie Maide*, & hope y may recover
the Passage Money, the wch methinks will be difficult.  [Atchew!
He won't get a penny o't.]  'Tis passing strange the boy is
here, not lesse that he is acquaint with the Vodrays; & moreover
with him is my pestilent cozn S—— M——, of whom more hereafter,
'twill be easie to deal with him, whereto I have already
things *in Traine*.  H—— R—— is employ'd with one Grootz,
a merchant of Substance, & one that hath large Contracks with
the confederate armies.  The boy being out of yr way, y have
belike no further cause against him, & wd wish no further stepps
taken, comming & going is like at any time to Cooke his Goose,
but if I mistake in this 'twould be well to sende 100 Guineas by
the same Hande as wont, & I wd endevour to bring the matter to
a safe and speedie End, in wch case I wd make bold to aske for a
further Summe of 200 Guineas for to requite my Zeale in the
sarvice of my honour'd Frende & Patron."

.. vspace:: 2

"Atchew!  Writing is plaguily dry work," he muttered,
breaking off at this point, "and the bottle's empty."

He tugged at a bell-pull, and resumed his letter.

.. vspace:: 2

"'Twill be no light Taske, seeing the yonge man hath captured
of late a Partie of above 100 French in an Affaire near Breda, the
wch I doubte not will give him some Consekence with the Dutch
no less than himselfe, of the wch Affaire 'tis like an Account will
be printed in the *Courant*.  [Sure 'twill give Nick a start.]  I
must add that Living is *verie Deare* here.  For my Creditt sake
and the furtherance of youre Ends, I have hired a Magnifficent
Appartment, for the wch I have to paye a sweete Rent.  Hence it
is verie nessessarie I have the Guineas without delai.  Waiting
yr commands & so subscribe myself yr ever humble and obediant

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent

RALPH AGLIONBY, Captain."

.. vspace:: 2

"Atchew!  There, 'tis done, and writ fair."  He flung
his pen on the table.  "And I'd fain know what the squire
has against the knave; 'tis more than pique, I promise
you.  Where's Simmons, confound him!"

He sanded the wet paper, folded it, sealed it with yellow
wax, and wrote the superscription:

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

*For Nicolas Barkley Esqre*
   *at his house*
      *Winton St. Mary*
         *nr Salisbury, England*

.. vspace:: 2

This done, he tugged again at the bell-pull, blew his nose
with sounding ferocity, and stuck his legs into the hearth
with the air of a man who had successfully achieved a
stupendous task.

The door opened, and John Simmons entered.

"Hang you, sirrah! why don't you answer my bell at
the very moment, sir?  Go get me a bottle of rum."

Simmons, pallid, frowsy, scared-looking, stood hesitating
in the doorway.

"Are you deaf, clodpoll?" roared the captain.  "A
bottle of rum, and instantly!"

"Yes, Captain, and the—and the money, sir?"

"The money, you dog!  Where is the crown-piece I
gave you this morning?"

"I had to buy the dinner, sir, and——"

"Zounds!  You'll answer me, will you?  You're the
most pestilent knave man ever had to serve him.  'Tis
money, money, all day with you.  Would that Sherry
Minshull had left you to the hangman!  Begone,
sirrah! and——"

"Pardon!" said a voice in French from the door.  "If
I am in the way——"

"Come in, Monsieur," said Aglionby, springing to his
feet.  "And you, booby, be off and do my bidding."

Simmons vanished precipitately.  Monsieur de Polignac
gasped as he entered the overheated room.

"Phew!  It would roast an ox."

"Shut the door.  I am nursing a pestilent rheum."

"So it appears.  You are in an ill humour, my friend;
I fear my news will not cheer you."

"Spit it out and have done with it, then."

"Well, this is it.  A commission has been made out,
I hear, appointing your young Englishman a cornet in the
Anspach dragoons."

"What young Englishman?"

"The young man whom we met at Madame de Vaudrey's."

The captain swore a hearty British oath.

"Where learnt you that?"

"A la bonne heure!  It is true.  I have it on authority
I cannot doubt.  Van Santen pressed it; his influence
prevailed.  There were several vacancies in the regiment; it
lost heavily in the action at Eckeren a few weeks ago.
This boy gets the senior cornetcy.  We owe it to
ourselves, Monsieur le Capitaine, that the junior cornets get
an early step."

"Peste!  We do owe it to ourselves; or, I should rather
say, we owe it to yourself.  For me, I have knocked about
the world too long to take umbrage easily; and look you,
Monsieur, my family, although gentle, indeed I may say
noble, cannot compare with yours in quartet-ings and such
fal-lals.  I understand your sentiments; as you say,
something must be done."

"And at once, for which end I have come to see you.
My position, as you perceive, is delicate; for myself, I
would seek a quarrel with the bantling and spit him on
my rapier without remorse.  But affairs of state—you
understand me; that alters the case.  I must not appear.
I propose to you this: to affront the boy, provoke him to
a duel; you a veteran, he a tyro; it will be a matter of
seconds.  Voilà!"

The captain gazed steadily at Polignac for a few
moments, then said:

"Look you, Polignac, no man ever accused Ralph
Aglionby, late captain in the Preobrashenski Grenadiers, of
lack of courage—no man, that is to say, that lived to tell
of it.  Had you made the proposition twenty years ago,
I should by this time have been half-way down the stairs
on the way to kill this young springald.  But twenty
years make a difference.  My courage is the same, look
you; but the years have enlarged my girth—and my
discretion.  On the point of honour I am as sensitive as ever
I was, but I have learnt to have patience—and consideration.
Say I engage this peddling fool; what happens?  I
kill him and baulk you of your revenge.  Where are you,
my friend?  Or suppose, by some vile contrivance, he kills
me; where am I?  No, no, Monsieur; the right of place
belongs to you.  Who am I, a broken soldier, a poor
unnecessary captain of grenadiers, to take precedence of
you?"

"You have most admirable patience," sneered Polignac,
"and I am overwhelmed by your consideration.  I thank
you, Monsieur le Capitaine, and bid you adieu."

"Stay, my friend; why this haste?  I have consideration,
as you say.  Would the world be better for the loss
of you or me? are there not more ways of getting even
with a man than making one's self a target for his pistol
or a sheath for his sword?  You remember Marillier, and
Aubin, eh?  Sit down, and let us talk this over like
reasonable men."

Polignac sat on one of the rickety chairs in silence.

"Your memory is jogged, eh?  You remember the dark
lane, and the light in the window, and——"

"Enough!" exclaimed the other impatiently.  "My
memory is as good as yours.  This is different.  I must
be circumspect.  Were we in Paris—then!  But here at
the Hague, I am not my own master; I have weightier
interests to consider.  An incautious step, even a chance
word, may ruin a dynasty.  My own life—I do not consider
it; but when one is playing for a crown one has duties,
responsibilities.  If you see your way—well, I am not
one to dissuade you; and if a few guilders——"

Aglionby's red eyes gleamed.

"Well, Monsieur, as you put it so, I own 'tis in a
measure a question of money.  In truth 'tis desperate hard
lines that I, who have ruffled it with the best and got drunk
with the Czar of Muscovy himself, should be so hard
driven as that I cannot offer due hospitality to a friend.
Look at this wretched lodging; was ever gentleman, by
no fault of his own, mark you, reduced to such straits!"

Polignac, glancing at the mean furniture and the empty
bottle, agreeably assented, but concealed a smile.

"Well," he said, "might I ask leave to send out for
a bottle of wine?"

Aglionby jumped up with alacrity.

"You say so?  'Tis the mark of a true friend."  He pulled
hard at the bell-rope.  "My man will be here instantly;
and, Monsieur, let it be sack—sack, as you love me."

Simmons reappeared without delay, and was despatched
for a bottle of sack.  With the energy of pleasurable
anticipation the captain pursued:

"Now, my dear Polignac, mark—before attempting the
house 'tis well to poison the dog; aha! that is only my
way of putting it, eh?"

"Of course.  A figure of speech; but from the life!"

Aglionby flung him a suspicious glance; at times he had
an uneasy feeling that Polignac was quizzing him.  But
after a momentary pause he went on as before.

"The dog in this case—and a low cur it is—is the
young cockerel's servant—the same that embraced you so
cordially at Madame de Vaudrey's.  Ha! ha!  I can relish
the comical side of it e'en though he embraced me
also!—and before the charming mademoiselle too!"

He guffawed uproariously.  He felt that he was now getting
tit for tat for Polignac's covert sneers, often rather
suspected than understood.  But he was not a little startled
by the effect of his words and laughter.  Polignac flushed
purple with rage; his mouth took a very decided twist
towards his left eye.  Springing up suddenly he cried:

"Morbleu, Monsieur, a truce to your pleasantries! and
keep the lady's name out of it, or by the——"

"No offence, no offence, my dear fellow," interposed
the captain hastily.  "I'm but a plain soldier—just an
honest, bluff, outspoken old campaigner; we blades don't
pick and choose our words like you fine gentlemen of the
courts; though in truth when I was in Russia my manners
were as good as the best."

Polignac resumed his seat reluctantly without a word.
After a short, strained silence Aglionby went on:

"The first thing, as I was saying, is to get this dog
out of the way.  Burn him! he follows his master like a
shadow.  The man removed, the rest is easy.  A week
from now, and he shall lie his length in six feet of good
Dutch soil, or my name isn't Ralph Montacute Aglionby.
Leave it to me, Monsieur; there will be necessary
expenses; say fifty guilders, a small sum, and at one
time——"

"Send to my chambers; you shall have the money.
And by the way, here is a packet for Captain Rudge of
the *Skylark*.  He sails with this evening's tide.  Bid him
have the greatest care of it; should he run into danger he
must destroy it.—It is arranged, then?  I shall hear from
you?"

"Within a week, on the word of a gentleman."

"Then for the time, adieu!"

When Polignac had gone, Aglionby looked curiously at
the packet entrusted to him.  The address ran:

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

*For Mistress Consterdine*
   *to be left at the coffee-house,*
      *by the Cockpitt, Whitehall, London.*

.. vspace:: 2

It was carefully but not conspicuously sealed.  The captain
turned it over and over in his dirty hands; they itched
to open it.  "To judge by his rage," he muttered, "he's
certainly smit with Mademoiselle de Vaudrey.  'Tis not
merely his interest is engaged."  He sat musing for a
moment.  Then his eye fell on a broadsheet, marked with
many circular stains, that lay on one of the chairs.  He
took it up and searched for a passage which he had clearly
already read.  Lighting upon it, he read:

.. vspace:: 2

"The report goes that Coy's Horse embark at Harwich for
Ostend on Friday the 16th current.  They will join the forces
now operating under General Lumley in Dutch Flanders."

.. vspace:: 2

"With a fair wind they'll make port to-morrow.  Then,
Sherebiah Minshull, my sweet coz, we shall begin to
square accounts,—you and I."

Stuffing the two packets into his capacious pocket, he
clapped on his hat, flung a cloak over his shoulders,
wound the comforter more tightly about his neck, and
made his way out, sneezing half a dozen times as he
met the cooler air of the street.  He walked along the
Lange Pooten, the chief business thoroughfare, into an
open space known as the Plein.  As he was crossing this
he caught sight of a figure hastening into one of the
larger houses, and almost involuntarily he stepped aside
into a doorway until all danger of being seen was past.

"What is the puppy doing here?" he muttered, passing
on his way to the old road to Scheveningen.  After a
pleasant woodland walk of two miles he reached that little
fishing village, and found, as he expected, Captain Rudge,
owner and skipper of the sloop *Skylark*, a fast sailer which
ran to and fro between Scheveningen and Harwich.  To
him Aglionby confided his own letter and Polignac's.
Then he retraced his steps, and at the Hague took horse
for Rotterdam.  It was near midnight when he returned
and wearily climbed the lofty stair to his attic room; but
though he was fatigued, and his cold perceptibly worse,
he seemed well satisfied with himself, and chuckled many
a time before he had drained to the dregs the bottle of
sack he had broached with Monsieur de Polignac.

The person from whose sight he had shrunk in the
afternoon was Harry Rochester himself, who had just
returned from a visit to Marlborough's camp at Hanneff.
Mynheer Grootz was up to his eyes in business, and the
wide area over which the confederate forces were spread
taxed his resources to the utmost.  He had now come to
the Hague to confer with a committee of the States
General and arrange further contracts, and had instructed
Harry to meet him there on the completion of his own
errand.

"Well, my boy," said Grootz on his arrival, "I did not
expect you zo zoon."  They were now on such friendly
and familiar terms that the Dutchman had dropped the
formal address.  "How have you fared?"

"Excellently, Mynheer," replied Harry.  "The
commissary was well content with your arrangements, and
said—'tis no harm to repeat it—that were all Dutchmen
like Jan Grootz he would be spared a peck of trouble."

"Dat is goot," said Grootz, evidently well pleased.
"Dat is how I do my business; always in time, always
ready, always sure."

"I had hoped to catch a glimpse of my lord Marlborough
himself, but 'twas not to be.  Whatever may be
said of his meanness and selfishness, Mynheer, 'tis certain
he is adored by his army.  The soldiers are full of courage,
confident in my lord's genius, and all afire to meet the
French.  They say, indeed, that if my lord were but free
of restraint, not bound to take counsel with your
politicians here, one campaign would see the end of the war."

"Dey zay!—Yes, well, it may be zo.  My lord is a fine
soldier—none would deny it—for all he dink little of de
rules of war.  But as for de field deputies—my
countrymen—dey alzo have reason.  To Lord Marlborough and you
English, my boy, a defeat mean much; dat is zo; but
to my country—ah! much more.  To us it mean ruin,
every village and town overrun, our polders spoiled, our
homes destroyed, everywhere black misery.  Dis poor
country know it all too well; we have suffered—ah yes! we
have suffered before too often.  For my lord, it is a
game wherein he can noding lose but glory; for us it is
a struggle of life and death.  True, for myself, I zay in
war, as in business, to follow a bold course is best; but I
do not derefore blame our statesmen dat dey move zlowly;
no, I do not blame dem."

Harry had seen more than once lately that beneath the
stolid exterior of the merchant beat a heart warm toward
his fatherland and his friends.  He could not but recognize
much to sympathize with in the Dutch point of view, and
began to realize what it meant to the Hollanders to have
their country turned into a cockpit for the political
contentions of rival monarchs.

A slight pause followed Grootz's earnest speech; then
suddenly, with a change of tone, he said:

"Now, Mynheer Harry, I have a ding to zay.  Dere are
reasons why I find it now necessary to discharge you from
my business."

Harry gasped and looked very blank.  The merchant
nodded solemnly; up came his fat forefinger; and he
continued with even more deliberation than usual:

"Dat is zo.  I tell you dis; I find no fault wid you;
none in de world; but all de same, I zay dat it is necessary
you go."

Harry was so much taken aback that he found it difficult
to speak.

"Why—'tis sudden—what can—surely—" his tongue
stumbled over half a dozen questions before, with an effort
to command himself, he said: "Of course, Mynheer, if
there is nothing more for me to do, I must perforce seek
other work.  You have been very kind to me; 'tis but poor
thanks I can give you for what you have done."

"What I have done!  Gunst! it is noding.  And you:
it needs not to zeek oder work; it is found.  Hearken
to dis."

He took up an official-looking paper that lay at his hand
and read in Dutch:

.. vspace:: 2

"Mynheer Henry Rochester is appointed to a cornetcy in the
Anspach dragoons in succession to Mynheer Lodewyk van
Monnen deceased."

.. vspace:: 2

Harry flushed to the eyes.

"'Tis a mistake, Mynheer, surely.  I have not sought
this; I know nothing of it."

"A mistake!  Not at all.  General van Santen come
to me and zay, 'Grootz, you have in your business a
young man dat has no business to be in your business; he
is a soldier, noding less, and we have need of such;' dat
is what he zay, and more, and he go straight off to put
down your name for a commission.  And here it is, in de
gazette.  Dat is why I discharge you, before—" (Mynheer
Grootz made a brave attempt to be jocular)—"before you
discharge yourself."

Harry was silent.  His nerves were tingling, his blood
sang in his veins.  Here was the opening to a career after
his own heart.  All his earlier longings came back to him;
the inward struggle with which he had acquiesced in his
father's desire that he should enter the Church; the light
of hope that shone on him at his interview with Marlborough;
the agonizing dissolution of his castle in the air.
And now, unsought, what he had sought in vain had come
to him, the aspiration of his boyhood was about to be
fulfilled.  All this flashed through his mind in a moment of
time,—and there was Jan Grootz, smiling out of his kindly
little eyes.  Jan Grootz!—what he owed to him!  But for
Jan Grootz he might now be a hapless slave in the Plantations,
with no ray of light upon the endless vista of the
years.  To Jan Grootz he owed his health and freedom,
his training in dealing with men; more than all, he had
met in Jan Grootz a man whose character compelled his
respect and admiration, and whom indeed he had begun to
love.  Would it not be the worst of ingratitude to leave
him now?

The temptation was strong, the inward struggle sharp.
But it was only a few moments after the staggering
announcement when he bent forward and said:

"Mynheer, I cannot accept this offer—this splendid
offer.  'Tis exceeding kind of General van Santen; I owe
him my hearty thanks; but 'tis not to be thought of, save
you yourself wish to be rid of me, and that I must doubt,
since 'tis but a week since you told me I was useful to you.
I will see the general, and explain to him the reason why I
decline this commission; I must do so at once."

He made towards the door, as though eager to avoid
dalliance.  Grootz's broad plain face was transfigured by
delight and pride and gratification.  Catching Harry by
the arm, he drew him back, laid his hand on his shoulder,
and said:

"No, Harry, my dear lad, I tell you dis; you must not
do dis ding.  I do not zay I shall not feel your
loss"—there was an unusual note of tenderness in his
voice—"true, it is not long dat we have worked togeder, but
already I regard you—jawohl, regard you as a son, and to
miss your bright face, your willing service——hoot! by
den donder, I am not myself to-day."

"'Tis too kind of you, Mynheer."

"Nay, nay; I am not zo weak.  I am at one wid
General van Santen: you are made for a soldier.  'Tis
de work you yourself would have chosen; now 'tis de
tide of fortune, dat you dare not miss.  I tell you dis; I
am made up in my mind, fixed, noding can move me.
I salute you, Mynheer Rochester, cornet in de Anspach
dragoons."

"Indeed, 'tis too good of you, Mynheer."

"Not zo.  And dis I tell you alzo.  You know me, Jan
Grootz; I prosper—God prospers me.  I regard you as
my son: well, 'tis a fader's pleasure to provide for his son
at de beginning of dings, just as 'tis a skipper's pleasure
to zee his ship sail taut and trim.  You will have heavy
charges: clothes, equipment, a horse to buy.  Dose
charges, you will permit me, zall be mine.  'Tis but
right you should take your place wid de best.  I have
no kith nor kin, nor like to have; de pay for dragoons
is little enough; I add a hundred guilders a month; dat
will suffice, dink you?"

"But, Mynheer——"

"Poof! no buts.  I zall do as please me.  Now, I am
hungry: let us go to de parlour.  And dere is your man
to tell; he will, no doubt, continue to be your servant."

They went from the room, Grootz keeping his hand
affectionately on Harry's shoulder.  The table in the
parlour was already laid, and in answer to the bell old
Gretel appeared with a tureen of soup.

"Gretel," said the merchant, "Mynheer Harry is about
to leave us."

"There!  Something inside told me, Mynheer, you
would not keep him long."

"'Tis not of my own will, Gretel," said Harry at once.

"No," added Grootz.  "The lad was not eager.  He is
to be an officer of dragoons."

The old woman curtsied and grunted.

"A rare exchange!" she said.  "To my mind 'tis better
to sell corn than to stand up to be shot at, and a deal safer.
But I wish you good luck, Mynheer."

"Thanks, Gretel, for that and for all your kindness to
me.  Is Sherry downstairs?"

"Ja, Mynheer."

"Send him up, if you please.  I must tell him the news."

"Oh! he will not be pleased.  He has a scorn of soldiers,
never a good word to say for them.  He is in the right."

Harry smiled as the privileged old housekeeper hobbled
out.  Sherebiah soon appeared.

"Sherry," said Harry, "I have a thing to tell you.
General van Santen has recommended me to the heads of
the Dutch army, and I am made an officer of dragoons."

"Zooks!" was the man's astonished exclamation.

"We shall still be together, you and I.  I shall want a
man, of course; and you will not object to the place?"

"Well, sir," said Sherebiah slowly, looking down at his
boots, "'tis an awk'ard matter for a man o' peace.  'Tis a
line o' life I ha' no love for.  To be sarvant to a man o'
war is next to bein' a man o' war yourself.  Not but what
I'd be proud to sarve 'ee, Master Harry; no man more; but
them as take the sword shall fall by the sword, as the
Book says, and I take that for a warnen to have none
on 't."

"A lame argument, Sherry."

"True, sir, haven no larnen I feel it so.  And will 'ee
go shoulder to shoulder with our English sojers?"

There was a note of anxiety in his voice.

"That I can't say.  I hope that my regiment won't be
left out in the cold."

"Well, sir, there's a providence in't.  Them above
knows what they're about, to be sure, in a general way,
and I bean't agwine to set up for knowen better.  I'll
sarve 'ee, sir, polish your breastplate, currycomb your
horse, oil your boots, clean your pistols, keep an eye on
the sutlers, and——"

"You seem to have a good notion of your new duties,"
said Harry, laughing.

"Pretty good, sir, for a man o' peace," said Sherebiah
imperturbably.  "And when do 'ee mount your horse as a
sojer, Master Harry?"

"Zoon," put in Grootz.  "General van Santen himself
will introduce him to his broder officers; he tell me zo."

"Ay, so.  Well, 'tis a world o' changes.  For you, sir,
'tis a change for the better, barren 'ee bean't killed; for
me,—well, the truth on't is, I fear 'tis the beginnen o' the
end for Sherebiah Stand-up-and-Bless."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Concerning Sherebiah`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII


.. class:: center large bold

   Concerning Sherebiah

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

A Summons—Coy's Horse—Vain Search—A
Clue—Sentenced—Confession—A Quiet Mind—A Friend
in Camp—The Informer—Intercession—Who Goes
There?—Hit—The Mantle of Night—In a Ditch

.. vspace:: 2

One evening, a few days after he had received news of his
commission, Harry returned home somewhat later than
usual from his customary stroll.  He was fond of walking
through the pleasant woods to Scheveningen, and watching
the herring-boats as they sailed out for the night's
work.  He would chat with the fishermen, and had indeed
by his frank manner, and perhaps an occasional gift of
tobacco, established himself as a favourite with them.

On this evening, feeling a little tired, he threw himself
into a chair in the parlour, and sat musing, gazing into the
glowing sky as the sun went down.  By and by old Gretel
entered and began to lay the supper.  She had gone in
and out two or three times in silence before Harry
bethought himself and said:

"Why, Gretel, how is it Sherry is not helping you to-night?"

"By den donder, Mynheer, you may well ask!  He
seems bewitched since the great news.  Not half so helpful
to my poor old bones as he was."

"But where is he?"

"He has not returned yet."

"Returned from where?"

"Why, Mynheer, he went out at once after receiving
your message, and——"

"My message!"

"Ja, Mynheer, the message sent by the boy."

"What boy?  Come, Gretel, I sent no message.  I
know nothing about a boy.  Tell me all you know."

"It was about four o'clock, Mynheer, a boy of twelve or
so came to the door—a stranger to me.  He asked for
Sherry Minshull—no mynheer to his tongue.  I called to
Sherry, and heard the boy say, 'Mynheer Rochester wishes
you to come——' then the big bell of the Groote Kerk
tolled, and I heard no more.  But Sherry reached down
his hat and said he was going to you, and he and the
boy went away together."

Harry was puzzled, and a little uneasy.  He rose from
his chair.

"Are you sure you heard the boy mention my name?"

"Quite sure.  And Sherry must have thought there was
need for haste, for he left his dish of coffee half full, and
he is too fond of mocha to do that without a reason."

Just then Mynheer Grootz came in to supper.  When
Harry had informed him of the strange message and
Sherebiah's continued absence, he was at first disposed to
make light of the matter.

"Gretel is growing hard of hearing," he said.  "Maybe
she mistook de name."

"Don't you think, Mynheer, 'twould be well to make
enquiry before it is dark?  I am strangely uneasy about
Sherry."

The merchant consented to accompany Harry into the
streets.  Everybody knew him and answered his questions
readily enough; but none of the porters of the neighbouring
houses, or the watchmen who patrolled the streets, had
seen Sherebiah or the boy, though some of them owned
that they knew the former well by sight.  By and by,
however, they came upon an old soldier smoking his evening
pipe outside his cottage—the lodge to one of the larger
houses in Gedempte Spui.  Grootz put the usual question.

"Did you see an Englishman—stout, with a beard, and
his hat on one side, pass by a few hours ago with a boy of
twelve or thereabouts?"

The soldier removed his long pipe, spat, and appeared to
meditate before replying.

"Yes—now I think of it; I believe I did see a man of
that cut, though I would not be sure.  He might not have
been an Englishman.  He was stout, certainly, and had a
beard; as for his hat, I didn't notice it, for the truth is, I
had been looking at some other Englishmen, a party of
Coy's Horse; my old corps served side by side with them in
'97.  Yes, and there was a man among them I knew too;
a paymaster—Robins, I mind, was his name—donder! what
a temper he had!  It was a curse and a blow with
him.  Ay, it is a hard life, the soldier's.  They halted at
the inn over by there, and I was just going over to drink
a glass with them for old times' sake when the Baron's
coach came up and I had to open the gates.  A lodge-keeper,
see you, is a sentry with no change of guard."

"Ja, ja!  But the Englishman and the boy—which way
did they go?"

"Which way?  Let me see.  They might have gone
down the road: no, now I bethink me, I believe they went
up the road; but there, I can't be sure.  The sight of the
English horse, men I fought side by side with in '97, before
I got my wound——"

"Ja, ja!  Thank you!"

They escaped his further reminiscences by walking on,
past the inn, past a row of cottages with the inevitable
bright green shutters, until they came to the watch-house
at the cross-roads.  Grootz put the same question to the
watchman.

"No," he replied.  "I saw no Englishman with a boy.
But I saw a party of English horse; they had come in
from Rotterdam, and I heard afterwards at the inn they
were on the track of a deserter."

It was now almost dark; to continue the search further
would be vain.  They returned home to their belated supper,
Grootz promising to set exhaustive enquiries on foot in the
morning.

That night, for the first time for many months, Harry
was unable to sleep.  He was oppressed by perplexity and
uneasiness.  From whatever point of view he looked at
Sherebiah's disappearance it seemed equally inexplicable.
He could divine no motive for a message sent to Sherebiah
in his name; the man appeared to be on very good terms
with Dutchmen and was unlikely to have private enemies.
Harry was almost forced to the conclusion that Gretel had
been mistaken, after all, and that Sherebiah would by and
by return with a simple explanation of his absence.  He
might have met a friend, and be spending a convivial
evening with him.  Perhaps—the thought came like an
illumination—one of the English troopers from Rotterdam
was a friend of his—a Wiltshire man, possibly.  The
suggestion allayed his uneasiness, and he fell asleep half
expecting to be called by Sherebiah as usual next morning.

But Sherebiah did not return that night.  It happened
next day that Mynheer Grootz was early summoned to a
conference with a committee of the States General, and
when after a prolonged discussion he was released he had
to start at once for Leyden on important business.  It was
late before he returned.  Harry meanwhile had lost no
time in pursuing enquiries in every likely quarter, but in
vain.  Sherebiah had not returned; nothing had been
heard of him; and there was nothing for it but to wait
yet another day.

He was again wakeful, and his thoughts turned to the
errand on which the party of English horse had come.  He
pitied the unfortunate wretch for whom they were in
search—some poor fellow, perhaps, who had escaped in
the hope that he would be less easily tracked in a foreign
land.  The punishment for desertion had become much more
stringent and summary of late owing to the prevalence of
the offence.  Harry himself remembered one bleak morning
in London when, having gone early into Hyde Park, he
had been the unwilling spectator of the shooting of a
deserter.  Had they caught the man?  he wondered.  "I
hope——" he thought, then suddenly a strange suspicion
flashed upon him.  Surely it was impossible; yet——  In a
moment slumbering recollections awoke.  He remembered
that many times, when approaching English soldiers in
London, Sherebiah had sidled away and disappeared.  He
remembered how, more than once, Sherry had shown a
knowledge of military matters singularly intimate for a
civilian; how insistently he had always proclaimed himself
a man of peace; how hardily he had behaved in the fight
at Lindendaal.  These facts, and many a slight hint
scarcely regarded before, combined to convert a chance
surmise, almost dismissed as absurd, into a strong
presumption little short of certainty.

He sprang out of bed, dressed quickly, ran downstairs
with his slippers in his hands, and, noiselessly drawing the
bolts, hurried along the silent street towards the inn on the
Rotterdam Road at which the patrol had halted.  Though
it was late, the people of the inn were still up.  He asked
for the landlord, and had not conversed with him for more
than a minute before he was convinced, from what was
said of the prisoner, that it was indeed Sherebiah.  The
troopers had brought with them a led horse; on this they
had mounted the deserter, strapping him on each side to
a dragoon, and then ridden off at once towards Rotterdam,
*en route* for Breda.  Returning to the house, Harry woke
Mynheer Grootz, told him of what he had learnt, and
proposed to start at once for Breda to allay or confirm his
suspicion.  From this the merchant dissuaded him.  A
night ride would be attended with difficulty and danger;
if he started early in the morning, he might still overtake
the dragoons before they reached Breda.  Accordingly he
went back to bed for a few hours.  At dawn he rose,
and by five o'clock was galloping towards Rotterdam on
the best horse in Grootz's stables.

At Rotterdam he learnt that a body of English horse,
consisting of units of several regiments, had left for Breda
on the previous afternoon.  Waiting for an hour to rest
and bait his horse he pushed on to Breda, arriving there
about one o'clock in the afternoon.  Without delay he
sought out the officer to whom he had delivered his convoy
of provisions a few weeks before, and enquired whether he
knew of the arrest of an English deserter.

"Ay, and a notorious character, it appears.  'Twas not
merely desertion they had against him, but mutiny, and
a murderous attack on an officer.  He fought like a cat
when he was arrested; 'twas a foolish trick, for they were
ten to one, and in a little he was overpowered.  He was
tried by court-martial this morning at nine, and the trial
was short."

"Was sentence pronounced?"

"Of course; he had no defence; he was sentenced to be shot."

"There is no appeal?"

"None.  The sentence will be laid before my lord
Marlborough for confirmation; a matter of form.  But pray
why do you take so much interest in the man?"

"He is my servant, comes from my village, has done
me right faithful service.  Good God! to think that he
should come to this end!"

The officer shrugged.

"Unhappy chance indeed.  'Tis seven years or more
since he deserted; doubtless he felt secure.  I am sorry
for you.  He'll get no more than he deserves."

"Could I see him?"

"Certainly; he is confined in the town-house; I will
take you to him myself."

In a few minutes Harry was ushered into a dark room
in the basement of the town-house.  A candle was lit; he
was left alone with the prisoner, and the door was locked
behind him.

"Oh, Sherry, my poor fellow, who would have thought
you would come to this!"

"Master Harry, 'tis good of 'ee to come and see me.
Ay; poor feller! you med well say so; but to tell 'ee the
truth, 'tis a load off my back."

"Yes, I understand.  I know now why you always
scouted the soldiers in London.  Why didn't you tell me?
I would never have brought you to this country, with our
soldiers here, there, and everywhere."

"Tell 'ee!  Not me.  Why, you and me would 'a had
to part company that minute.  Besides, 'twarn't zackly a
thing to be proud on, look at it how 'ee will.  'Twas
ill-luck I were nabbed, to be sure; but I've had nigh eight
year as a man o' peace, and I s'pose 'twas time the lid
were putt on the copper."

"And they'll shoot you!"

"Bless 'ee, I bean't afeard o' that.  I've been shot at;
ay, many's the time: at Sedgemoor, and Walcourt, and
other cities o' destruction.  I can stand fire wi' any man.
Nay, the one thing as troubles me is how poor old feyther
o' mine'll take it.  The poor ancient soul never dreams I
desarted; and zooks! 'tis that'll hurt un more'n my
bein' a corpse; his boy a desarter, and him a trooper of
old Noll's!  Ay, that'll hurt un, 'twill so.  And then
there's you, sir; how be I agwine to leave 'ee, wi' old
Squire and Rafe Aglionby a-seeken whom they may
devour, and no one you can trust to polish your breastplate
and oil your boots?  Ay, the way o' transgressors
is hard; the wages o' sin is death; many's the time I've
yeard they holy words from the lips of pa'son your good
feyther, never thinken in my feeble mind he were aimen at me."

Harry was at a loss for words.  Sherebiah was so perfectly
resigned to his fate that any attempt at consolation
would seem an impertinence.

"How came you to desert?" he asked, to gain time.

"Why, I'll tell 'ee about it.  I was a corporal in Coy's
horse; med ha' been a sergeant long agoo, indeed.  But
there was a paymaster o' that regiment, Robins by name;
a good sojer, true, but with his faults, like any other
mortal man.  He was hot in his temper, and crooked in
his dealens.  Us men was bein' cheated, right and left;
our pay was small enough, but we never got it: a penny
here and a ha'penny there bein' took off for this or that.
Ay, and he was a knowen one, he was.  All done so soft
and quiet-like.  We stood it a long time; at long last,
'twas more'n Minshull blood could stomach, and one
mornen I up and spoke out; you see, I warn't a man o'
peace then.  Well, Robins bein' fiery by nature, he got
nettled; I should myself; but 'tis one thing to get nettled,
and another to use yer fist.  Robins he used his fist, and
not bein' zackly meek as Moses, I used mine, and he
fell under.  Two or three of my mates standen by saw it
all.  Robins he raved and called on 'em to arrest me, but
they wouldn't.  But 'twas all up wi' me; I knowed that
well enough; if Robins took a spite agen a man he med
as well be a dead dog.  I had no mind to be a dead dog
just then, so I bolted; and that's how I come to be such
a man o' peace."

"But surely if you explained that, your punishment
wouldn't be so heavy."

"Explain!  Bless 'ee, 'twould be no good in the world.
To strike a officer be mortal sin.  Nay, I've nowt to say
for myself; I must just take my wages."

"How did you manage to elude them so long?"

"Oh! the regiment was out o' my way: been quartered
this many year in Ireland.  'Twas just my bad luck that
they should ha' been sent for on this campaign.  Ah,
well! a man can die but once; I've kep' the commandments, and
that's more'n Robins can say; and there's no commandment
'Thee shall let a man hit 'ee and say thank 'ee'.
I bean't afeard o' Them above, and I'll meet 'em with
head up and eye clear, like a English sojer."

"When is it to be?"

"They didn't tell me that.  'Twill not be long, you may
be sure.  My lord Marlborough has only got to scribble
his name on the paper, and he'll never remember 'twas
me as held his horse at Salisbury in '88 and got nowt but
a smile.—Master Harry, belike I sha'n't see 'ee again in
this world.  When you go home-along, you'll say a word o'
comfort to the old ancient gaffer, won't 'ee?  Tell un all
the truth; tell un I be main sorry to vex his old gray
hairs,—though not for punchen Robins.  Gi' him my dear
love: his boy, he calls me, poor soul: and say as how I
were quite easy in mind and not a bit afeard.  He's a
trooper of old Noll's, you see."

"I'll give him your messages," said Harry with a
gulp,—"if ever I get back alive."

"Ay true, ye med not.  The corn-dealen was a safer line
o' life.—What! time's up."—A sentry had thrown open the
door.—"Good-bye, Master Harry; God bless 'ee! and I
hope you'll get a man as'll polish your 'coutrements to
your mind.  This time to-morrow, belike, I shall be a
true man o' peace."

Harry shook his hand in silence; he could not trust
himself to speak.  He was angry at what he thought the
essential injustice of the sentence.  Sherebiah had only
struck the paymaster in self-defence, and in the original
cause of dissension had right on his side.  But Harry
knew what military discipline meant; it was rigid as iron.
Still, he could not help asking himself whether even now
it was impossible to get the whole circumstances
considered and the sentence revised.  He thought of making
a personal appeal to Marlborough, but soon dismissed
the idea, for Marlborough had doubtless forgotten him,
and he had no force of persuasion to bring to bear.
Suddenly, as he walked slowly along the street, he
remembered Godfrey Fanshawe; he was an officer in a
companion regiment, Schomberg's Horse; he would ask
his advice.  He enquired for the quarters of the regiment,
found that it was encamped a short distance out on the
Tilburg road, and hastened thither with an anxious heart.

The troops were under canvas, and Harry found Fanshawe
joint occupant of a tent with a fellow subaltern.

"Hullo!" he cried when he saw Harry.  "I wondered
when I should run up against you.  I have heard all about
your feat—rescuing beauty and all that.  What in the
world brought you to this country?"

"'Twould be long in the telling.  You shall know all
in season.  I am here on a very special errand.  You
remember Sherry Minshull?"

"As well as I do you.  Many's the trout we've caught
together.  A right good fellow!"

"At this moment he is lying under sentence of death in
the town-house at Breda.  Unknown to me, he had been
a soldier, and deserted after thrashing an officer——"

"D'ye know him, then?" interposed the other lieutenant.

"He is my man."

"Oh!  Sorry for you both.  I had heard about it from
an officer of Coy's—Cadogan's, I should say; their name's
changed."

"Do you know, sir, how he came to be smoked?"

"'Twas an Englishman peached—a soldier of fortune,
as it appears, who wished to be nameless.  He met the
men of Cadogan's when they landed at Rotterdam, and
arranged a trick by which they got him alone on the open
road.  'Twas rather cleverly managed."

"And a dirty mean thing to do," said Fanshawe warmly.

"Can't something be done for him?" asked Harry.

"'Tis hopeless," was Lieutenant Tettefall's reply.
"Robins was very vindictive; he painted the man in the
blackest colours in his evidence before the court-martial,
and not one of the officers of the court knew your man.
He has a double offence to answer for; 'tis certain he'll
be shot as soon as the forms are completed."

Harry's face was then the picture of blank despair.

"On my life, 'tis a thousand pities!" said Fanshawe.
"I fear there is not the ghost of a chance for him."  His
face gloomed for a moment; then his high spirits asserted
themselves.  "But come, Harry, 'tis no good taking on
about it; come and forget it over a bottle.  I want to
hear your story."

"No, I'm in no humour for racketing.  Would to God
I could do something for the poor fellow!  Would the
colonel intercede if we asked him?"

"Not he.  He would laugh and crack a joke.  If Sherry
were a Dutchman, now!  The duke is very sweet to the
Hollanders at this time, and a word from one of the States
might turn him."

"General van Santen!" exclaimed Harry.  "I had not
thought of him.  'Twas he I happened to be of use to,
and Sherry did his share too.  Yes, 'twould be no harm
to try him.  Do you know where he is?"

"At Lillo," said Tettefall, "full thirty miles away."

"I'll ride there.  Fanshawe, can you lend me a horse?
Mine brought me from the Hague, forty miles and more,
and is done up."

"I'll lend you mine.  I'd like to save Sherry, but 'tis a
poor chance.  Leave your horse; I'll send him and another
to meet you on the way back, in case you have to ride for it."

"'Tis good of you.  Do you know the road?"

"The easiest for you is by Bergen-op-Zoom.  You are
less likely to be interrupted that way than by the Antwerp
road; our forces are camped at Calmpthout on that road,
and you might be delayed in passing through the lines, to
say nothing of falling in with the French beyond."

"Thanks and thanks again!"

"You'll have to ride hard," added Tettefall.  "The
duke's at Thielen, twenty miles east of Lillo; and there's
no time to lose."

"No, I will start at once."

"And good luck go with you!"

Harry was soon riding at a smart pace along the road
to Bergen-op-Zoom, whence he made due south for Lillo,
reaching that small fortified place about seven o'clock in
the evening.  To his intense disappointment he found that
General van Santen was at the British head-quarters at
Thielen.  He had been absent all day, but was expected
to return before night.  Had it not been so late Harry
would have started to meet him on the road, but he did
not care to risk missing him.  He waited impatiently; the
general arrived soon after nine, and when he had heard
Harry's story he consented at once to write to
Marlborough, mentioning that the bearer of the letter had
earned some consideration by his excellent stratagem at
Lindendaal, where the condemned man also had done
good service.  Armed with the letter, Harry set off at ten,
hoping to cover the twenty miles to Thielen before the duke
had retired to rest.

Before starting, General van Santen warned him that
parties of French horse were out observing the movements
of the confederate army.  Finding that he was not familiar
with the road, the general sent one of his own orderlies
with him, warmly wishing him success.

The two riders struck across the fields and by narrow
bridle paths almost due east, and passing through one or
two ruined villages—among them Eckeren, the scene of
the Dutch defeat on June 30th—came to the site of the
French camp, vacated and burnt on the approach of
Marlborough some ten days before.  The air was murky, the
sky dark, and Harry was glad of his companion.  He was
oppressed by the louring prospect of Sherebiah's fate, and
the heaviness of the night was not apt to lighten his care.
They had ridden for about a third of the distance, and had
just left the highway for a cross-road that saved a mile,
when all at once, from behind a hedge, there came a sharp
challenge in French.

"Who goes there?"

"A friend," said Harry, and, pulling up, walked his
horse slowly forward.

"Halt, and give the countersign!" said the voice
peremptorily, and dimly, a few yards before him, Harry saw
a horseman come into the road.

"Now for a dash; keep close!" whispered Harry to the
orderly.

Setting spurs to his horse, he rode straight at the piquet,
hoping that when the inevitable shot was fired it would
miss him in the darkness.  As the horse sprang forward
there was a report and a blinding flash, and a choking sob
behind.  Harry closed with the Frenchman.  There was
no time to draw his sword, and he did not wish to raise
a further alarm by discharging his pistols.  Forcing his
horse against the flank of the enemy's, he struck the man
with all the weight of his fist, and, taking him by surprise,
knocked him from his saddle.  He turned to look for his
companion; he was prone on the ground, and his startled
steed had taken flight.  Dismounting in haste, Harry
found in a moment that the man was dead, killed by the
shot intended for himself.  At the same instant he heard
a sound of hoofs from behind on his right.  Springing on
to his horse he set him at the gallop across a flat grassy
plain, bearing, as nearly as he could judge, due east.
Suddenly he heard the thud of more hoofs, still on his
right, but this time in front of him.  Evidently he was
being headed off by another party approaching from the
south-east.  He swerved to the left, intending to make
a detour; as he did so, there was the report of a carbine
from behind a hedge a few yards away.  He felt his horse
quiver, but it galloped on, the man who had fired
plunging through the hedge in hot pursuit.

Harry's nerves were now at high tension.  It was clear
that he had stumbled upon a piquet or patrol, or even a
more numerous party of the enemy, and the odds were
in favour of his meeting the same fate as the poor fellow
his guide.  Unhappily his horse was beginning to flag.
Bending forward to encourage it, and patting its neck,
he felt that his hand was covered with blood.  The horse
had been struck.  Harry remembered how it had quivered.
The wound accounted for its laboured breathing; it was a
good horse, and, not having as yet been seriously pressed,
could have held its own with those of the troopers behind.
But it was plain to Harry that, with the horse severely
wounded, the race must now be short, and the result
inevitable.  The distance between himself and his pursuers
was already lessening; a glance behind showed him four
dark figures close upon his heels; a few seconds would
decide his fate.

At the moment of danger, some men lose their heads,
others are braced to the quickest exercise of their faculties.
Harry, fortunately for himself, was of the latter class.  He
saw that to ride on must mean speedy capture; the only
chance of escape was to dismount and slip away on foot.
But the country here was quite open, he would instantly
be seen.  He peered anxiously ahead; yes, there, against
the indigo sky, was a dense mass of black; it was a
plantation of some kind; could he but gain that, there was a
bare possibility.  He dug his spurs into his panting steed,
with pity for the poor wounded beast carrying him so
gallantly; but he dared not spare it; apart from his own
fate, another life hung in the balance.  A brief effort was
needed; the horse nobly responded, and by the time it
reached the edge of the wood had slightly increased the
gap between pursuer and pursued.  Pulling up suddenly,
Harry sprang from the saddle, struck the trembling animal
with his scabbard, and as he slipped among the trees heard
it dash forward.

Being wounded, Harry argued, the horse would certainly
slacken its pace when no longer urged by the voice and
spur of its rider, and must soon be overtaken.  The enemy
would immediately guess his device, and if the wood should
be of no great extent, they would probably surround it, wait
till morning, and capture him at their leisure.  He waited
breathlessly for the coming of the enemy; he saw them
sweep past, bending low in their saddles, two men abreast,
like phantom horsemen, so quietly did they ride on the
turf.  His heart gave a jump when he estimated them as
at least half a troop.  When they were past he left the
wood, and ran across the open plain at right angles to his
previous line of flight.

As he expected, his manoeuvre was soon discovered.
He heard the Frenchmen call to one another; then the
thud of returning hoofs on his right, and in a few minutes
he saw several dark forms approaching.  They were
spreading out fanwise.  Only the men at the right of the
line were directly approaching him at a trot, searching the
ground as they rode.  The sky was lightening behind them;
the moon was rising; fortunately, Harry being on foot, the
pursuers could not see him so clearly as he saw them.

In a moment he perceived that it was a race between
him and the man at the end of the line.  If he could get
beyond the point at which the trooper's present line of
march would intersect his own path, he had a reasonable
chance of safety.  To his dismay he noticed that the man
was edging still farther from his comrades, as though
suspecting that he was not taking a sufficiently wide sweep.
Harry was now panting with his exertions, and in a bath
of sweat; he could run no faster over the heavy ground;
he felt that the game was up, wondering indeed that the
"view halloo!" had not already been given.  Plunging
blindly, despairingly, on, he was almost at his last gasp
when he suddenly fell headlong.  He had stumbled into an
irrigation ditch.  It was overgrown with weeds; in the
stress of war the culture of the fields had been neglected;
the bottom was dry.  The weeds grew high on either side;
Harry scrambled on hands and knees into the rank vegetation,
and lay still, his flanks heaving, his breath coming
and going in quick pants which he felt must be audible
yards away.

For some seconds he heard nothing but his deep breathing
and the thumping of his heart; then the beat beat of
hoofs drawing nearer.  A horseman passed within a few
yards of him, luckily on the right.  Another few seconds,
and the Frenchman ejaculated an angry "Nom d'un
tonnerre!" as his horse struck the ditch and stumbled.  He
called to his left-hand man, and Harry, cautiously peering
through the enveloping weeds, saw him alight and begin
to examine the ditch.  But he moved away from the fugitive.
As soon as he was at a safe distance, Harry, who had
by this time recovered his breath, crept out and stealthily
crawled along the watercourse on hands and knees.  For
some minutes he continued this arduous progress, rejoicing
to hear the men's voices receding moment by moment.
Then, judging it safe, he rose and broke into a trot, left
the ditch by and by, and continued to pound over fields and
paths, through hedges and over ditches, for what seemed
to him miles.  Then he stopped.  All sounds had now
ceased save the chirp of crickets, the raucous cry of the
corn-crake, and the croak of frogs.  He had lost his way;
he knew not whether he was near a highway; he was dead
tired, his knees trembling under him.  But he remembered
Sherebiah spending his lonely vigil in the town-house of
Breda, waiting for the dawn of his last day, and he set
his lips and breathed a vow that the faithful fellow should
not die if the last ounce of energy would save him.





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.. _`Harry Rides for a Life`:

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   CHAPTER XIV


.. class:: center large bold

   Harry Rides for a Life

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The Hour before Dawn—A Trivial
Interruption—Recollections—Another Memorandum—The
Road to Breda—The Town Clock—Seven Minutes—Against
Time—Orange Wins

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Years afterwards, when Harry was a father and a
grandfather, and the children came about his knees clamouring
for a story, nothing held them more entranced, nothing
caused them such delicious creepiness, as his account of
the hours that followed his escape from the French.

"There was I," he would say, "in the dead of night, a
white mist rising from the fields, growing thicker moment
by moment—and I knew not where I was, knew not but
an unlucky step might bring me again among the enemy.
My knees were trembling under me; my mouth was
parched; my breast like to burst with the striving of
my breath; I was ready to drop and sleep as I fell.  But
the thought of my faithful servant in that prison; of his
being led out and blindfolded, and standing up helpless
to be the mark of bullets; of his poor old father that doted
on him—ah! my boys, those thoughts were like a goad to
me; 'twas as if I was urged on by some unseen power.

"I could not now see the stars, so thick was the mist.
I could not choose my way.  I could but go forward at a
venture, praying that my steps might be directed aright.
I staggered into slimy ditches; forced my way through
quickset hedges, waded weedy streams; once I came full
upon a river that I must needs swim.  There was never
a cottage light to guide me, for though I crossed many a
field of corn and flax, many a broad space of pasture land,
I came nowhere near a house or farm, and durst not turn
aside, feeling as if some strange power bade me go on and
on.  I know not for how many hours I struggled on thus,
taking no count of time; nor did I feel conscious of my
great fatigue, but moved on as though I was a soul
without body.

"It grew darker and darker.  The night seemed to
press upon me, the mist was like cold clammy hands
seizing me to hold me back.  Then all at once, going
blindly as I did, I well-nigh struck my head against a
low wall, and was immediately conscious of the smell of
tobacco.  'Twas like a breath of heaven to me, boys.  I
cried aloud, and the echo of my voice seemed that of a
startled ghost.  A rough voice answered me; I stood
still, my heart thumping against my ribs.  Footsteps
drew near, and I saw the blessed light of a lantern, and
in a moment a man had me by the sleeve, and drew back
his hand with a cry, for my garments were cold and wet,
and the light was flashed in my face, and I saw a big
Dutch farmer, who took his pipe from his mouth and bade
me tell whence I had come and what was my business.

"What I said I know not now, boys, but soon I was
wrapped in a cloak, lying upon hay in the bottom of a
jolting wain, and my new-found friend driving through
the dawn towards Thielen.  I fell asleep, and when the
farmer's heavy hand stirred me, I was in Thielen, and all
around me were soldiers and horses and wagons; 'twas
the great duke's camp.  The village clock was striking
four; the sky was already bright; the camp was astir, for
the duke purposed that day to bridge the Nette.

"What figure I cut you may imagine.  Wet, cold,
dishevelled, my face and hands and clothes all bemired, I
crawled as best I might from the cart, and staggered to
the house where the duke was quartered.  There was a
sentry at the door: when I said I wished to see the duke
he flouted me, laughed in my face, and was for turning
me away.  But I was in no mood to be delayed.  I took
from my tunic the sodden letter of General van Santen,
and showed it to the fellow, bidding him on peril of his
life to stay me.  'Twas enough: he called to a servant;
they talked together, eyeing me as though I were some
sorry cur: then the man roughly bade me follow him, and
within a little I stood in a small chamber, looking with
dazed eyes at the man seated at a table there: 'twas my
lord Marlborough himself."

.. vspace:: 2

"A letter from General van Santen, my lord."

Marlborough looked up as the servant spoke, but did not
straighten himself from his bent position at the table, nor
remove his hands from the pair of compasses that were
stretched on the map there outspread.  Several officers
were grouped about him; at a smaller table sat a gentleman
dealing with a mass of correspondence.

"Mr. Cardonnel," said the duke briefly; then resumed
his discussion with the officers.

The secretary turned sideways and took the letter.  He
broke the seal, ran his eye hurriedly over the paper, then
laid it on the table.

"It shall be looked to," he said, and bent again to his
writing.

Harry stood for a moment; all his blood seemed to run
cold.  Then, his whole body a-tingle, he stepped forward.

"Pardon me, sir, the matter is most urgent; 'tis a case
of life or death.  If you would be so good as to lay the
letter at once before my lord——"

Mr. Cardonnel turned and stared with a sort of
scornful wonder at the dishevelled, bedraggled object who
addressed him in an English and a cultivated accent.

"'Tis too late.  My lord's despatch left last night; the
man will be shot in a few hours; the matter must e'en
take its course."

"Sir, may I beg of you——"  Harry's voice, unknown
to himself, was raised to a tone of passionate entreaty.
"My lord——"

"What is it, Mr. Cardonnel?" asked Marlborough.

"General van Santen, my lord, asks the pardon of the
deserter Minshull, sentenced by court-martial to be shot.
'Tis too late."

"Write and tell the general so, and be done with it."

"My lord," broke in Harry, "do but read the general's
letter.  I have rid and run all night to deliver it; the
execution will not yet have taken place, and I know
well——"

"Who are you, sir?"

The duke looked puzzled at the discrepancy between
the tone of voice and the disreputable appearance of the
youth before him.

"My name is Rochester, my lord, the letter—I entreat
your lordship to read it—will tell the rest."

Marlborough signed to the secretary, received the letter
from his hand, and read it quickly.  It was not long, and
the last paragraph read as follows:—

.. vspace:: 2

"Perchance, my lord, you may feel that the man's gallantry
in the affair at the Comtesse de Vaudrey's may be set against
his offence, which though heinous was not unprovoked and is
now some years old.  If your lordship can reconcile it with the
demands of discipline to pardon this unfortunate man, you will
I trust find that your clemency is not ill-bestowed."

.. vspace:: 2

Marlborough fixed his eyes upon Harry.  "I understand
from this letter that the man is your servant?"

He spoke in the low pleasant tone that never varied,
whether he addressed peer or peasant.

"Yes, my lord, a very true and faithful servant."

"And your name is Rochester?  Have I not met you before?"

"Yes, my lord, well-nigh a year ago."

"Where?"

"At my lord Godolphin's."

"At my lord Godolphin's?"  A slight ruffle marked his
broad white brow.  He looked keenly at Harry.  All at
once his expression changed.  "I remember.  I had clean
forgotten it.  You are the young fellow who intervened in
my lord's roadside adventure?  Ah! and now I bethink
me, 'twas your man that did the shouting.  The same man?"

"Yes, my lord."

"That is enough.—Mr. Cardonnel, make out at once an
order pardoning the man—what is his name?—and
discharging him from the army.—The man whose lungs
saved the Lord Treasurer has decidedly a claim to
indulgence.  But I fear, Mr. Rochester, you are late.  These
little matters are usually determined by eight o'clock in the
morning.  It is near five: 'twill be some little time before
I can despatch an orderly, and there are fifty odd miles
to ride."

"With your leave, my lord, I will go myself."

"So be it.  Mr. Cardonnel will give you the pardon
and discharge.  It rests with you.  I hope you will be in
time.  Don't spare your horses."

"I thank you, my lord, from the bottom of my heart."

"There, no more: get to horse.  Yet one moment: did
I not—I seem to remember it—did I not promise to do
something for you?"

"'Twas not a promise, my lord."

Marlborough smiled, and looked at the boy with approval.

"But I intended it as such.  I wrote your name, I
recollect; papers have a trick of losing themselves: I
should have done something for you but for sheer
forgetfulness.—Mr. Cardonnel, will you please make a note?
Mr.—your full name, sir!"

"Henry Winterborne Rochester."

"Mr. Henry Winterborne Rochester for an ensigncy.—I
had heard of the ruse at the Comtesse de Vaudrey's:
naturally I did not connect it with you.  You are with
Grootz the contractor, I believe?"

"I was, my lord, but I have just been commissioned
cornet in the Anspach dragoons."

Marlborough and the group of officers laughed outright.

"Begad, my lord, you're behind the fair," cried Colonel
Cadogan, a big burly Irishman of twenty-eight,
Marlborough's quartermaster-general.

"Ay, indeed, an angel has stirred the pool.  But I am
delaying you, Mr. Rochester; you must ride hard.
Good-bye!"

Harry had been itching to get away.  Every moment
was of importance.  Bowing himself out, he hurried to
the inn where Fanshawe had promised to stable a horse.
It was there ready saddled, in charge of a trooper of
Fanshawe's regiment, who said that Harry's own charger
Orange was awaiting him half-way to Breda.  Harry
leapt to the saddle, flung a coin to the man, and in less
than two minutes was making his way at a sharp trot
among the press of villagers and soldiers thronging the
street.  Clear of the village he went at a canter through
the camp, where all was bustle in preparation for the day's
march: then, gaining the free highroad, he set his steed
to the gallop.  Some minutes later he heard a village
clock strike five.

Two hours after Harry started on his ride, Godfrey
Fanshawe left his tent in company with Lieutenant
Tettefall, and mounted his horse to ride into Breda.  He had
passed a sleepless and anxious night, his mind haunted
by the impending fate of Sherebiah, with whom he had
spent many a pleasant day on the banks of the Avon, or
in the coverts of his father's estate.  The execution had
been fixed for eight by the clock of the Hervormde Kerk
near the market-place, Marlborough's despatch
confirming the sentence having arrived late on the previous
evening.  Fanshawe had seen the major in command,
explaining that Harry had gone to see the duke with a
view to a remission of the sentence.  The major had
laughed at the idea, swearing that he would not delay the
execution a moment.

Galloping into Breda, Fanshawe's first care was to
enquire whether Harry had arrived, or whether any
message had come from Marlborough countermanding the
execution.  But nothing had been heard of the one or the
other.  Fanshawe made a last appeal to the major, but
Robins had that officer's ear, and had convinced him that
the condemned prisoner was a rascal of whom the army
would be well rid.

At a quarter after seven the regiment was paraded and
marched to the castle park, where the execution was to
take place.  Fanshawe meanwhile paced moodily up and
down, watching the inexorable clock.  Suddenly, as he
looked at its face for the tenth time, he remembered a
legend of the Civil War, which his father had told him:
the story of a Royalist trooper who, condemned to die
at the ringing of the curfew, had been saved by the
heroism of his sweetheart, who climbed the belfry tower,
caught the clapper of the bell, and with her delicate hands
had prevented the fatal sound.  His recollection suggested
an idea.  There was still forty minutes to spare.

At the park gate a knot of idlers had gathered to see
the condemned man pass to his doom.  Singling out from
among these a likely youth, Fanshawe held with him a
rapid conversation in whispers; and the two hurried away.

They went straight to the sacristan of the Hervormde
Kerk, whose cottage was known to the Dutch youth.  By
the aid of this interpreter Fanshawe explained to the old
man that, being much interested in church clocks, he would
like to climb the tower and see the mechanism, at the same
time slipping a coin into the man's hand.  The sacristan
was a feeble, tottering old fellow, and was persuaded
without difficulty to hand over the key of the tower, on the
promise of the English officer to return it within an hour.
Armed with the key, Fanshawe then hurried under the
boy's guidance to the chief clock-maker's in the town.
His shop was not yet open for business, but when he
learnt that a clock was in urgent need of attention he
agreed to send a young apprentice to oblige the
Englishman.  At twenty minutes to eight Fanshawe with the
young clock-maker ascended the church tower.  The boy
remained at the door.

The clock chimed the three-quarters.

"Pray God Harry arrive in time!" was Fanshawe's
thought as he returned to the park gate.

The clock was too far off for any movement of the hands
to be noted.  Had it been nearer, a close observer
comparing with his own watch might have seen that from this
time the long hand of the clock advanced one minute for
every two.

It still marked ten minutes to eight when Sherebiah,
with bound wrists, came up under guard.  He smiled
serenely when, entering the park, he saw Fanshawe,
whose pale anxious looks betrayed his suffering.

"Don't 'ee take on, now, Master Godfrey," he said.
"Let 'em aim well and ha' done wi't.  Bless 'ee, I bean't
afeard.  But, Master Godfrey, where be Master Harry?
To say good-bye, I mean."

"He—he couldn't come, Sherry."

"Ah!  Well, 'tis no sight for a man o' peace, and he
ha'n't donned the breastplate yet.  Gi' un my love and
respect, an 'ee please, sir; and axe un to remember the old
gaffer."  Fanshawe gripped his hand, and he passed into
the park.  "Nay, I won't ha' my eyes tied up," he said to
one of the firing squad who approached to bandage him.
"Must, must I?  Well, I'm not one to go agen the law at
the last.  Got a clean firelock, mate?  Ah! there's the
bell a-dingen.  Tell Robins—nay, I was gwine to forgive
un, but I won't; I'll leave that for Them above."

By this time he was standing, with eyes bandaged,
against the wall.  He ceased to speak; the last stroke of
eight had already sounded from several steeples; but the
clock of the Hervormde Kerk still wanted seven minutes
of the hour.  Fanshawe's eyes were riveted on the hands;
the soldiers stood at ease, waiting.

.. vspace:: 2

Meanwhile, what of Harry?

The road through Turnhout to Breda passes through
a wide moorland region and crosses the river Merk.  It
was a somewhat heavy road at the best, and the recent
passage of troops and baggage wagons had made it
rutty and uneven.  Harry had started at a stiff gallop; his
horse was fresh, and seemed to catch the infection of his
eagerness.  On he went, scarcely varying his pace, his
head low, his ears bent back for his rider's encouraging
words.  At that hour the road was free; Harry met with
no obstruction.  He dashed through Turnhout, crossed
the river to Hoogstraaten, and there found his own black
charger awaiting him.  He was not quite half-way to Breda.

"Orange, my beauty, you must go as you never went
before," he cried, as he set the animal at a gallop.  The
horse pricked his ears in response.  He galloped on for
mile after mile, scattering dust around him, getting many
a stare of wonderment from the peasants at work in the
fields.  As the miles slipped by, Harry anxiously watched
his gallant steed.  Great flakes of foam fell from the
animal's quivering lips; his nostrils were distended wide;
his white eye-sockets were rimmed with red; and still he
galloped, panting, striving nobly to respond to the
caressing pats and cheering words of his master.

"Twenty minutes more, old fellow!" whispered Harry
in the beast's ear.  "Twenty minutes; if you can only
hold out!"

He was nearing the end of his ride, but the poor horse
was in distress.  Spots of blood crimsoned the white
foam; Harry fancied that he saw despair in the animal's
starting eyes; and when, still a mile on the wrong side of
Ginneken, he heard the little church clock strike eight, his
heart sank within him.  He dared not press the horse
further; he might urge it to a short spurt, but the effort
would probably be its last; and he had still three miles
to go!

"Well done, Orange, my beauty!" he cried, patting its
ear.  "Good horse!  Near home now; a few minutes
more, old fellow, and then——"

Thus he rode on, inspiriting words on his lips, black
despair at his elbow.  He knew what military punctuality
meant; his ears were strained to catch the sharp rattle of
musketry.  How far could a volley be heard?  He could
not pause to speculate on the question; all he could hear
was the ringing of his flagging steed's hoofs.

He was a mile from Breda.  He saw the whole of the
little town before him, smoke rising from the chimneys;
he overtook a few carts slowly wending towards the
market, and heard the wondering exclamations of the
wagoners as his blood-flecked steed flashed by.  His eyes
were straining towards the church tower; pray God the
Ginneken clock was fast!  But he was too far away to see
the hands.  On he rode; he came to the open gate; the
sentry challenged him, but he was gone before the man
had finished the phrase.  Now he dug his spurs into the
horse's heaving flanks for a last spurt; he clattered
through the ill-paved street, shouting to the pedestrians
to make way; into the busy little market-place, cumbered
with the stalls of apple-women, poulterers, and other
purveyors.  Boys scurried like rabbits out of his path; women
raised shrill cries as stalls were thrown down and apples
rolled wide; dogs barked and girls shrieked; but he was
past; the church clock said one minute to eight!  Out
of the market-square, round the corner,—and there was
Tettefall, hastening to meet him.

"To the park!" cried the lieutenant.

Harry shouted in the horse's ear.  In half a minute he
was in at the park gate, and saw as in a mist the red
uniforms of the firing-party, the solitary figure of the
condemned man, and the officer in advance of the line with his
eyes on the clock.

"Saved!" he cried, flinging the duke's order into the
air.  In a moment he was off the horse, which sank a
trembling, heaving heap upon the ground.

"Just in time—thank God!" gasped Harry, as he sat
with the horse's head between his knees.

And upon his dazed ear there fell the first chimes of the
beneficent clock, mingled with the loud curt tones of the
officer in command as he gave his squad the order to
march.

.. _`The Stroke of Eight`:

.. figure:: images/img-218.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: The Stroke of Eight

   The Stroke of Eight





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Water of Affliction`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XV


.. class:: center large bold

   The Water of Affliction

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

The New Cornet—A Visit to Lindendaal—Fanshawe is
Presented—The Family Skeleton—Madame Protests—Mademoiselle
Insists—Mynheer is Mysterious—A Silent House—The
Law Allows It—Not in the Bond—In the Canal—Sherebiah
Owns Up

.. vspace:: 2

By his famous ride from Thielen to Breda Harry became
doubly a popular hero.  Neither citizens nor soldiers,
Dutch or English, felt any particular concern with
Sherebiah; but Harry's feat, coming before the memory of his
former exploit at Lindendaal had died out, raised him to
a pitch of estimation that might well have made him vain,
but which in truth he found only embarrassing.  Fanshawe,
on the other hand, whose ready device with the clock had,
as Harry was the first to acknowledge, really been the
means of saving Sherebiah, was regarded with cold
unfriendliness and even dislike by the townsfolk.  To tamper
with the town clock they regarded as a monstrous and
unpardonable offence, and there was some talk of laying
a formal complaint before the Duke of Marlborough.  The
proposal was warmly debated in the borough council, and
the burgomaster had to exercise all his tact to prevent the
hotter heads from carrying the day.

As for Sherebiah, he was a different man.  By his formal
discharge from the army the cloud that had pressed upon
him for nearly nine years was dissolved; and now that he
had become by official licence, as it were, a man of peace
in good earnest, he developed, not merely an unexpected
lightness of spirits, but a surprising partiality for the
company of soldiers.  Every leisure moment he now spent
in camp or barrack, retailing endless anecdotes of his
former experiences as a man of war, and basing on these
a right to criticise and instruct which younger men admitted
with humility, to the immense disgust and chagrin of Robins.

A few days after the incident, Harry's regiment marched
into quarters at Breda, and General van Santen himself paid
a flying visit to the town in order to introduce the new
cornet to his messmates.  Harry was welcomed with open
arms, less through the general's sponsorship than through
the fame of his own exploits and the proof he had given of
courage and daring.  One little fact also, which leaked
out in course of time, did much to consolidate Harry's
reputation as a thoroughly good fellow.  He made it his
business to find out the relatives of the man who had been
killed during the night ride from Lillo.  The poor fellow
had left a wife and six children, the eldest a boy of
sixteen—a slow, earnest, dogged youth who was overcome with
shyness when Harry, at the interview with his tearful mother,
asked to see him.  Harry liked the look of the boy, and
offered to apprentice him to an armourer.  The mother
gladly accepted; and Mynheer Grootz further undertook,
at Harry's persuasion, to provide employment for the
widow and those of her children who were of age to work.
This solicitude of Harry for the family of a man who after
all had only been killed by the fortune of war, and had
no claim upon him, made an impression on the officers of
his regiment; and though it was never mentioned in his
presence at mess, it doubtless accounted in large measure
for his popularity with officers and men.

For some weeks Harry was fully occupied in learning his
new duties, practising with sword and rapier, and
improving his knowledge of Dutch: Sherebiah's command of the
language was of course no longer a mystery.  Schomberg's
Horse, to which Fanshawe belonged, being likewise
quartered outside Breda, Harry often had opportunities
of conversation with his friend.  Naturally Fanshawe was
amazed to hear of the strange enmity of Mr. Berkeley,
and shrewdly guessed that the soldier of fortune who had
informed on Sherebiah was Captain Aglionby.

"And mark my words," he said, "'twas another move
against you.  Sherry seems to have been a sort of watchdog
to you; him out of the way, so much the less difficulty
in aiming at you.  Though what cause the squire has to
wish you ill it passes my wit to divine."

"And mine too.  'Tis a desperate revenge on me for
being my father's son."

"Have a care, Harry.  Having gone so far they will
not easily be baulked, and in these cut-and-thrust times
a blow in the dark, eh?—exit Harry Rochester."

"I'll be on my guard, never fear; and I still have
Sherry."

Harry had not forgotten his friends at Lindendaal.  He
rode over one free afternoon some three weeks after
joining his regiment, and found that the ladies had heard of
his promotion, and of his ride, from Mynheer Grootz.
Madame de Vaudrey was ecstatic in her congratulations,
and only deplored that his new coat was not more brilliant.

"It suits you well, mon ami," she said, "but for myself
I should like better the red than the blue."

"Indeed, Madame," replied Harry with a laugh, "I
hadn't given it a thought.  There's one advantage in a dull
garb: it presents a less conspicuous mark to the enemy."

"A point, Monsieur, to which also you had not given
a thought till this moment," said Adèle.

Harry laughed; then, changing the subject, he added:
"Have you heard or seen anything more of Monsieur de
Polignac and his friend?"

"Nothing, Monsieur Harry," said the comtesse.  "And
indeed we do not wish to.  I only fear lest his silence
augurs no good for us.  As for his friend, that odious
captain——prrrut!"

Madame's indignation was too great for articulate
expression.  The idea of Aglionby daring to pay his addresses
to her was too monstrous.  As was her wont in this mood,
she prattled away about her late husband, Harry listening
sympathetically and wondering at the half-smile on Adèle's
face.  When taking his leave, he said:

"An old friend of mine, an English officer, is in camp at
Breda.  May I bring him, Madame, to call on you one day?"

"I shall be charmed, mon cher ami."

"Fanshawe speaks little French, I fear, but——"

"Ah bah!" interrupted the lady, "that matters nothing
at all.  Adèle shall teach him."

"I shall be charmed, as Mamma says," said Adèle.

Harry smiled; nevertheless the suggestion set him
thinking as he rode back, and he felt a shade of
annoyance when Fanshawe, to whom he mentioned the
circumstance, laughed heartily and quoted:

"'Amo, amas, I love a lass'.  Is she pretty, Harry?
By George!  I like the notion."

The two rode out together in the following week;
Fanshawe made a good impression on Madame de Vaudrey,
and his stammering French and good-humoured laughter
at his own mistakes appeared to form a bond of union
between him and Adèle, for she was soon chatting and
smiling with a friendliness and freedom quite different
from her reserved attitude towards Harry.  Fanshawe
talked and laughed gaily all the way back; Harry on
the contrary was decidedly glum; and when Sherebiah
came to him at night as usual for orders his master's
unaccustomed moodiness did not escape him.

"What med be the meanen o' this?" he muttered as he
went away.

   |  "'Yanker didee dudel down
   |  Dida dudel launter——'

I must ride out-along to Lindendaal one o' these fine days,
and putt a question to Katrinka—ay sure."

One afternoon in the second week of September Harry,
having finished his duties for the day, paid a visit by
himself to Madame de Vaudrey.  He found the good lady in
tears, and Adèle with very pale cheeks and a suspicious
redness about her eyes.

"Oh, Monsieur Harry!" cried the comtesse as he was
shown in, "how glad I am to see you!  This is a moment
when I need a friend.  Look at this letter from that odious
Monsieur de Polignac.  My poor dear husband!  I am
glad—it is horrible to say it—but yes, I am glad he did
not live to see this terrible day.  Read it, cher ami."

Harry looked at the letter.  It was a curt and formal
note from Polignac intimating that, failing compliance
with his suit, he was resolved to foreclose his mortgage
on the estate one month from the date of the letter, as the
terms of the deed provided.  He still offered Mademoiselle
his hand and heart; did she accept him as a husband he
would immediately destroy the mortgage; he gave her a
week to decide.

"The villain!" ejaculated Harry.

"He is within his right, Monsieur," said Adèle.

"Right!  Legal right, yes; no doubt it is so; but who
but a villain would put the matter in this way!"

"What I do not understand," said Madame de Vaudrey,
"is his motive.  If Adèle were a great heiress, I can
understand that he should press his suit; but she is not; this
poor little estate would not tempt an ambitious man; and
as for herself, she has shown her aversion so plainly——"

"I hate him!" cried the girl, with a vehemence that
surprised Harry, so unlike was it to her usual cold
self-contained air.

"It is wrong to hate," said her mother; "but the dear
girl has no liking for him, and how should a man desire for
a wife one to whom he is so indifferent?"

"Tell me," said Harry, "is the mortgage for a large sum?"

"Alas! yes, for several thousand guilders; that is for
the estate alone: the house is separately mortgaged, and
the mortgagee in that case is content to receive his
interest."

"Have you no relatives who would advance the money?"

"Not one.  We are poor exiles, and have not, I believe,
one relative in the wide world."

Harry was greatly distressed.  It was clear that Adèle
would never consent to marry Polignac, even if her mother
wished it; and there was no escape from the dilemma save
by raising the money.

"Are you quite sure you are so fully in the man's
power?" he asked.

"I know it too well.  There is no flaw in the documents;
my dear husband's lawyer is a good man; we have no
way of escape."

"Of course you have consulted him?"

"Yes; he can do nothing.  It is law, he tells me; we
have no other property the sale of which might pay off the
mortgage; I have nothing but my jewels, the gifts of my
dear comte, and they would not bring one-tenth of the sum
we need.  The income from the estate would enable us to
pay off the mortgage in ten years if we were given time."

A ray of light struck suddenly upon Harry.

"Does Mynheer Grootz know?" he asked.

"Oh no!  Mynheer Grootz is indeed a friend, but he
could do nothing—nothing."

"I am not sure of that.  I think he should be told.  It
is a matter of business; he is a shrewd man of business;
he may be able to see a way out of the difficulty that we
are ignorant of; with your leave I will put the case to
him."

"No, Monsieur Harry, I forbid it.  I prefer that
Mynheer Grootz should not know.  He has enough to do,
I am sure, without being troubled with a poor woman's
affairs.  I do not say he has not a good heart; he has;
he knows how fond I am of rare tulips, and has so kindly
given me bulbs; but no, I could not seek other favours
from him, I could not indeed.  Besides, the lawyer has
said, nothing can be done; Mynheer Grootz can do
nothing against the law."

"True, Madame; and yet—it is a chance; it can surely
do no harm——"

"You do not understand, Monsieur; it may do the very
greatest harm."

Harry was mystified, especially as he fancied he detected
the glimmer of a smile on Adèle's face.

"I do not understand——" he began.

"Mother cannot explain," said Adèle quietly.  "I do
not agree with her; I think she is quite mistaken;
certainly Mynheer Grootz should be told."

"Adèle, you are a child; one cannot expect you to
understand."

"Maman chérie, do you think so?  You are a goose,
petite Maman.  Monsieur, believe me, it will be the very
best thing in the world to consult Mynheer Grootz."

"Adèle!"

"It will, Mamma.  It is a poor chance, I fear, but
ought we to neglect even the least? and you do not wish
me to marry Monsieur de Polignac?"

"Mon Dieu, non!  A thousand times no!  The odious man!"

"Then, Madame," said Harry, "I will venture to see
Mynheer Grootz as soon as I can,—or perhaps write to
him."

"Eh bien! it is against my will.  I protest; I can do no
more.  You will tell him I protested?"

"Certainly, I shall not forget.  I will let you know
what he says; perhaps he will come himself.  Madame,
have a good heart; why, if all else fails, there is my man
Sherry; you remember how he embraced the gentlemen?"

Adèle laughed, but the comtesse was too much distressed
to see any humour in the situation.  Harry was surprised
at the flutter into which his simple suggestion had thrown
her, and rode away feeling puzzled at the strange ways of
women.

He was spared the necessity of writing to Mynheer
Grootz, for on reaching his quarters he learnt that the
merchant had called during the evening, and had left word
that he might be seen next afternoon after his business
with the commissary was concluded.  He heard Harry's
story quietly.

"Leave it to me, Harry," he said, his little eyes twinkling.
"I will promise dis Monsieur de Polignac a little
surprise.  He is a noble; zo I guess by de name.  Dey
are all de same, dese nobles; and I promise Monsieur de
Polignac zall be made to know dat dis is Holland, not
France, and moreover dat one honest Dutchman is match
for a score of rascal French.  Dis man dink he have only
a woman to deal wid; well, he zall be undeceive."

"Will you see Madame de Vaudrey, then, or write to her?"

"No, neider will I zee her, nor write to her.  But you—you
will tell her by no means to answer dis Monsieur de
Polignac.  He will foreclose in a month, you zay?  Very
well.  He zall meet wid a surprise.  Now tell me one
ding.  Madame la Comtesse—did she ask you to come to me?"

"Quite the contrary, Mynheer; she did not wish it, I
did not understand why; the reasons she gave were
somewhat lame."

Then for the first time in Harry's knowledge of the
Dutch merchant he saw him excited.

"By den donder!" he exclaimed, slapping his thigh.
Noting Harry's glance of astonishment he chuckled again,
adding: "I tell you dis; you alzo zall zee someding."  He
wagged his forefinger knowingly.

"You have told me nothing," said Harry with a smile.

"No, dat is true.  In good time.  You do not yet know
me, Jan Grootz."

Harry gave Madame de Vaudrey the Dutchman's message,
and after that found only one opportunity of visiting
her for nearly a month.  On that occasion she showed him
a final letter from Polignac, announcing that on a specified
day he would attend at the house to receive payment of
his mortgage, or, in default, possession of the property.
The comtesse had heard nothing from Grootz, and was
in great distress, refusing to be comforted when Harry
assured her that all would be well.  On his return to
Breda he wrote to Grootz informing him of Polignac's
letter, and next day received a reply asking him to arrange
if possible to keep the day named free.

Early on the morning of that September day, Grootz
with Harry, Sherebiah, and two men with large bags
slung at their saddles, rode out from Breda to Lindendaal.
When the door was opened by old Jean, and they had
entered, Grootz bade him close it and slip one of the bolts
half-way into its socket.  After a short conversation with
the servant he went into the reception-room, had the bags
laid on the table, threw himself into the biggest chair, and
calmly lit his pipe.

"Madame abhors tobacco, Mynheer," Harry ventured to say.

"Huh!  Zo I now remember.  It is a pity; I must put
out my pipe, even though she be not here."

"She is gone from home, then?  I fancied so by the
manner of your entering."

"Ja!  At dis moment she and de juffrouw are, as I
suppose, fast asleep in Breda.  Dey come dere last night."

"Oh!  And we receive Monsieur de Polignac?"

"Dat is zo; we receive Monsieur de Polignac."

Deprived of the solace of his pipe, Grootz settled himself
to sleep in his chair.  An hour or more later he was
wakened by Harry.

"Here they are, Mynheer!"

"Zo!"

He was up in a moment, and from the window saw
Polignac, accompanied by Aglionby and two sturdy
henchmen, walking up the drive towards the house.

"Zooks!" exclaimed Sherebiah, "here be Rafe Aglionby
again.  'Twill be no cuddle this time if I lay hands on
him.  No thanks to he I be not a dead corpse to-day."

"Sherebiah, it is my turn," said Grootz solemnly.

"Zackly, Mynheer, all fair and no favour."

The four men came to the door, and the bell gave forth
a resounding clang.  All was silent within the house, and
Jean at Grootz's orders paid no heed to the appeal.
Again the bell sounded; again there was no response.
Then Aglionby with an oath began to hammer on the
door with his riding-whip.  Even this noisy summons
being disregarded, after a moment's consultation Polignac
ordered one of his men to burst in the door.  It yielded
easily to his force, and the four trooped in—to find
themselves confronted by Grootz, with Harry and Sherebiah
behind him.  At the same moment six of the men about
the estate came quietly from behind the house and arranged
themselves in two parties on both sides of the entrance,
outside, and out of view from within.  Jean had fulfilled
his instructions.

Polignac halted in some embarrassment when he saw
Grootz, and Aglionby looked far from comfortable at this
unexpected meeting with the two men he had injured.

"Messieurs, I ask you," began Grootz in slow, halting
French, "what is the meaning of this forcible entry?"

"Pardon, Monsieur," replied Polignac, recovering his
sang-froid instantly.  "I have not the pleasure.  I came
to see Madame la Comtesse de Vaudrey."

"Zo?  And permit me to ask, what is your business
with Madame la Comtesse de Vaudrey?"

"Before I reply, permit me to ask by what right you
question me, and what you are doing here?"

"Decidedly, Monsieur.  My name is Jan Grootz; I am
here by the power of attorney I hold from Madame de
Vaudrey.  I beg you see it is in due form."

He exhibited a roll of parchment which Polignac glanced
at; he was patently annoyed; his mouth twitched towards
his left ear.  Aglionby meanwhile had edged towards him,
evidently with the intention of whispering something;
but Sherebiah noted the movement and exclaimed:

"Keep a still tongue, Rafe Aglionby, 'ee were best, I
tell 'ee."

"You are aware, then, Monsieur," said Polignac, "that
I come according to due notice as required by law to
demand payment of a bond, or possession of this estate,
as provided in the deed?"

"Yes; I know it; what is the amount payable under
the bond?"

"Fourteen thousand guilders, Monsieur."

Grootz pointed through the open doorway of the
reception-room to the bags upon the table.

"There is the money, Monsieur.  You will please to
count it, and give me a quittance, and hand the bond to
me to be destroyed."

With disappointment and rage written upon his face,
Polignac proceeded to count the money with Aglionby's
assistance.  It was a longish process, and neither of the
men felt quite at ease under the gaze of the onlookers.
At last it was finished; Polignac wrote a receipt, and gave
the cancelled bond to Grootz.  Not a word was spoken
while these formalities were complied with.  Harry noticed
that Sherebiah had placed himself between Aglionby and
the door.

"Zo!" said Grootz.  "Wait one minute, Monsieur."  He
unrolled the deed, ran his eye over it, then looked up
and said with deliberate gravity: "Permit me to draw
your attention to the fact that the property named in this
document is the land belonging to the estate.  It does not
include the house and its appurtenances.  Wherefore it
appears, Monsieur, that you, with a band of ruffian
hirelings, have violently broken into the private house of a
lady who enjoys the protection of the Dutch flag.  That
is, permit me to observe, Monsieur, a breach of the law,
and subjects you to a penalty—heavy, no doubt; I do not
know the law.  But for the present, since the law moves
somewhat slowly, it would not surprise me if the servants
of Madame la Comtesse, who are devoted to their mistress,
should prefer to anticipate the sentence.  They may
be disposed to do what every honest and indignant
Hollander would certainly do in the circumstances."

At a signal the half-dozen Dutch servants moved to the
door and blocked the entrance.

"Men," said Grootz to them, "these gentlemen, who
are not Hollanders, have broken into your mistress's
house.  I do not give you any advice; but for myself I do
not think it would be a breach of the law if you should
throw these gentlemen into the canal yonder.—Do not be
alarmed, gentlemen; it is cold, I fear, and dirty, but as
honest Hollanders Madame de Vaudrey's servants will not
allow you to drown, for all their indignation."

Half-way through this speech Polignac and Aglionby
had both made to draw their swords; but the six
Hollanders seized upon them; in a trice they were
overpowered.  Their two men looked on, trembling.  Polignac,
white to the lips, held his peace; but Aglionby, after
wriggling vainly in the hands of his captors, turned his
head towards Sherebiah and cried:

"Zounds, Sherry, you will not stand by and see your
own cousin so misused.  'Tis a vile plot.  I have done
nothing; what are the ladies to me? what is Polignac to
me?  Sherry, unhand these boors; I shall catch my death
of cold; Sherry, I say, blood is thicker than water——"

"Ay sure, but it bean't so cold."

"Od rat you!" shouted the enraged captain as he was
hauled with Polignac out of the house.  He kept up his
clamorous entreaties and oaths until the very moment
when, with a sounding splash, he was heaved into the
canal, and with spluttering breathlessness struck out with
Polignac for the other side.  A moment's observation
sufficed to show the Hollanders that their victims could
swim; they watched the scene with Dutch stolidity, Grootz
placidly smoking his long-deferred pipe.

"Ay, 'tis the water of affliction, as the Book says,"
remarked Sherebiah sententiously as he watched the
swimmers gain the farther bank, clamber up, and slink
away, Aglionby obviously pouring out the vials of his
wrath upon the miserable Frenchman.  "'Tis the fust
time for many a day cold water have gone down Rafe's
throat, and mebbe he's changed his mind by now about
blood bein' thicker 'n this water."

"I admire your strategy, Mynheer," said Harry to
Grootz.

"Zo!  We must send dis money to Polignac; his house
is near at hand.  Dere is one ding to zay: de house is
mine, after all.  I paid off de mortgage last week—let us
zay, for a friend.  Dat is all dat Madame need know:
Grootz has paid de bonds—both bonds, house and land—for
a friend: a matter of business; you understand."

"Very well, Mynheer; I will be diplomatic if she asks
for more information."

But Harry was as much puzzled by Grootz's attitude as
he had been by the lady's.

"So Captain Aglionby is your cousin?" he said to
Sherebiah later in the day.

"Ay, to be sure: old feyther's sister's son.  A fine
loven feller for a coz, bean't he, sir?"

"He has got off too lightly, Sherry."

"Mebbe, but he'll come to his reckonen some day.  You
mind seein' me trounce un the day arter I shouted for the
noble lord?"

"Yes, and you would not tell me the reason."

"Nay, I was 'shamed for my blood.  Folks thowt 'twas
Rafe as loosed John Simmons.  'Twarn't him; 'twas me."

"You!"

"Ay.  I knowed as the highway business were a trick o'
Rafe's, and I knowed as how Simmons would split on un.
Fat'll be in fire then, thinks I.  Rafe'll go to hangman,
and poor old feyther o' mine'll die o' shame at such a
kicken end for his own sister's child.  I couldn't stand
that, sir, so when Willum Nokes was a-snoren I took
down keys from the nail and had Simmons out in a twink."

"But that doesn't explain why you fought the captain."

"Ay, but it do.  Here was I, goen agen the law, diddlen
Sir Godfrey and other high justices, cheaten hangman and
all—and what for, I axe 'ee?  'Cos Minshull blood was
cussed wi' mixen wi' Aglionby's.  Aglionby blood had got
to pay, someways, and so it did, to be sure, for I took a
half-pint or so out of Rafe that mornen."





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.. _`Knaves all Three`:

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   CHAPTER XVI


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   Knaves all Three

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Labour Lost—Elegant Extracts—Hard Hit—A New
Departure—Fishing—County Families—Sack

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Captain Aglionby sanded the paper he had just written
upon, and leant back in his chair with a sigh of
satisfaction.  He heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

"Here, Mynheer," said the voice of his landlord.

With an instinctive movement he covered the letter, and
turned on his chair, in time to see the door open and a
visitor enter.  He stared for a moment in speechless amazement;
then, attempting clumsily to shove the letter entirely
out of sight beneath a plate containing the crumbs of a fish
pâté, he got up and said:

"Why, Mr. Berkeley; adzooks! 'tis the last man I
could have expected to see, the last man—though a
pleasant surprise, an uncommonly pleasant surprise."

"Humph!" grunted the old man, with a glance round
the mean room.  "I feared you would resent my too
abrupt entry.  After what I had learnt in your letters about
your magnificent, expensive, modish apartment, I could
not suppose I was walking straight into your
parlour—h'm! study; h'm! bedroom and—pantry, h'm!"

"No apologies, my friend, I beg.  You take me at
a disadvantage, having but just consumed my modest
repast——"

"Fish!  My nose informs me.  'Tis the fortieth smell
that has offended my senses within a quarter of an hour.
'Twas somewhat difficult to discover your—mansion.  You
are not, it appears, so well known at the Hague as you
give out; and when I named you at my inn, with your
address, I was advised to bring an escort.  I came
alone——"

"Ah!  Nicolas Berkeley knows how to take care of
himself—eh, Squire?"

"But had I known to what an ordeal, to what a series
of ordeals, my nostrils would be exposed, I doubt I could
not have plucked up the courage."

"'Twas ill done to come upon me so suddenly.  The
smells—hang me, Squire, I have smelt worse when I was
the guest of the Czar of Muscovy.  But had you given me
a week's, a day's notice, I would have made ready an
entertainment worthy of you, my old friend."

"No doubt, no doubt——"

"And indeed I was on the point of writing you when
you entered."

"Ay, on the point of; you write to me twice a day, do
you? for unless I mistake, you have already writ once
to-day.  Under the plate, Captain Aglionby—surely I see
writ on the paper there some semblance of my name."

"'Tis so; what eyes you have for your age, Squire!  I was
just trying a new pen, and so full were my thoughts of my
generous friend and patron that the pen ran of its own accord,
mark you, into the familiar curves.  And as I know how
you abhor a letter, I will e'en tear up the paper and——"

"Stay!" cried the old man, taking a sudden step forward;
"knowing the pains you take in writing, 'tis pity
they should be wasted.  I set out designing to conduct
my son to the army: I find I am embarked on a voyage
of discovery; give me the paper."

The command was uttered in a tone that broke down
Aglionby's bravado.  He drew the letter from below the
plate, and handed it in sullen silence to the squire.  The
old man pressed his lips grimly together as he unfolded
the yet unsealed paper.  Aglionby stuck out his legs wide
apart, thrust his hands into his breeches pockets, and
hung his head in moody dudgeon.

"'Tis excellent pen-work; your hand grows fluent.  '*I
thank you for the hundred guineas received*'"—Mr. Berkeley
read aloud with deliberation and a dry emphasis that made
Aglionby wince—"'*and trust the two hundred for which I
beseeched you in my last will not tarry.*'  To pay your
landlord, I take it, for this—magnificent apartment."

"A man must live," said the captain sullenly.

"Ay, eat and drink, and sponge upon his betters for his
cakes and ale."

"Oons!  Squire, 'tis rum."

"A foul-smelling liquor.—What is this?—'*do violence to
natural affection in the service of a munificent
patron—inform on a cousin—Sherebiah Minshull condemned to be
shot—my lord Marlborough—young Mr. Rochester—rid up
in the nick of time.*'"—Mr. Berkeley's brow darkened as he
read.—"Let me come to the end of it.  '*A visit to the
Comtesse de Vaudrey in the interest of my patron—violent
assault—in the mellay stumbled into a canal—costume totally
ruined and cannot be replaced under ten guineas*'—I
observe 'tis shrunk at the sleeve; I thought maybe you had
grown, to match your magnificent apartment!  Now, sirrah,
how much of this precious epistle do you expect me to
believe?  A fine story, in truth, of the ills you suffer in
your constant zeal for your 'munificent patron': is it all
of a piece with your 'magnificent apartment'?  What have
you done with, and for, my hundred guineas?—what,
sirrah, your answer!"

Aglionby felt that he was being wronged; he had, in
fact, done all in his power; it was not his fault that failure
had dogged him.  Undoubtedly appearances were against
him, and the biting emphasis of the old man's delivery, the
cold sneer that lurked in every repetition of his pet phrases,
robbed him of speech.  He writhed under the lash.  Standing
over him, the squire gave rein to his temper.

"You take me for a fool, do you, with your cock-and-bull
stories!—you flam me off, rat me! with your
'magnificent apartment', your 'munificent patron', your
'constant zeal', which I—I, you swashbuckling villain—am to
pay for!  Where are the two hundred guineas paid to the
captain of the *Merry Maid*?—the fifty guineas to your
footpad friends in Wapping?—the hundred sent you but a
few weeks past?  How has your zeal furthered my interest?
Zeal, forsooth! there's a many of your cut-throat gossips
would sink you as a disgrace to the craft, for at least they
hold to their bargains and are not swindlers as well as——"

"Fire and fury!" shouted Aglionby, springing to his
feet and drawing his sword.  "'Tis not to be borne!  Clap
a bridle on your canting tongue or I'll run your bloodless
carcass through!—as I've done with many a better man.
D'ye hear, you old Pharisee!  Your white hairs under your
wig sha'n't preserve you if Rafe Aglionby is roused.  And
where would you be, rot you—Squire Berkeley of Winton
Hall—you and your guineas—if I told what I know?"

.. _`"Fire and Fury!" shouted Aglionby`:

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   :alt: "Fire and Fury!" shouted Aglionby

   "Fire and Fury!" shouted Aglionby

Mr. Berkeley had drawn at the same moment, and the
two stood glaring at each other over the chair.  The old
man, his face livid with passion, was in nowise daunted by
the other's threats; Aglionby's cheeks were purple, and
the veins on his brow stood up like whipcord.  For some
moments both stood tense, each leaning towards the
other; then the squire dropped his sword back into the
sheath, gulped, and said:

"Well, well, maybe I was hasty.  But you have a great
deal to explain, Aglionby—a very great deal to explain."

"As I could have done, had you but given me time
instead of treating me as you would a common pickpocket.
By George!  Mr. Berkeley, Rafe Aglionby is not the man
to stand that mode of dealing, as you well know, for all
the luck has been against me these late years.  Who
could have supposed that young Rochester, sink him! would
escape from the *Merry Maid*?  Was that my fault,
pray?  By what I can make out he jumped overboard
off Gravesend and got aboard a Dutch brig, and the
rascally Hollander—one Grootz, a smug corn-dealer—refused
to give him up.  Could I help that?  Then, when
I had my snivelling cousin Sherebiah fast in the net, could
I prevent my lord Marlborough from signing his discharge
and undoing all my work?  Could I?  I've had the worst
of luck all through; and foul words won't mend matters.
And, beshrew me, you were not over successful yourself
with the cockerel's father, for all your guineas.  The
youngster's a chip of the old block, and a precious hard
chip too, rot him!  But I've vowed to carry the thing
through; besides your affair, I've now one or two private
accounts to square with him; and if you have patience
and a trifle more courtesy—by George! you'll have no
cause to complain of Rafe Aglionby."

The words came from him in a torrent.  He felt that he
had a real grievance, and, as often with rogues, the
possession of a grievance lent him words if not eloquence.
But the squire still looking doubtful, Aglionby picked up
a stained copy of the *Amsterdam Courier* that lay on a
chair, and pointed to a paragraph giving in French an
account, somewhat distorted but substantially accurate, of
Harry's exploit on behalf of Sherebiah.  As the old man
read it he pressed his thin lips together in vindictive rage.

"There for you!" pursued the captain.  "'Tis the talk
of the town.  The youngster is making friends on all
sides; he owns a commission in the Dutch army——"

"What!"

"'Tis true; a booby general got him the commission,
and the lubber Grootz pays.  'Tis becoming more and
more difficult to get at him; but I have a scheme—a
pretty scheme, egad!—that can scarcely fail this time.
All I need is a small sum to go on with—rat me, Squire,
will you still sneer?  On my soul, I——"

"Tut, Captain, your skin is surely thinner than it was."

"And yours would be thin had ye not your guineas to
line it with.  Hang me, Berkeley, a word from me——"

"Come, come," said the squire quickly, "'tis not for
old friends to fall out.  You were talking of your scheme."

"I was saying that all I need is a small sum in
advance—the rest may wait till the thing is done."

"And what is your scheme?  You do not expect me—no
offence, Aglionby—to buy a pig in a poke this time."

"'Twere better, maybe——" Aglionby was beginning, but
just then a footstep was heard on the stairs.  He evidently
recognized it.  Hesitating for a second he lowered his voice
and continued hurriedly: "'Tis one of the men engaged
in the job.  I will call on you later at your inn.  'Twould
be amiss were he to know you had any concern in it."

Berkeley looked suspiciously at the captain, but, unable
to fathom his embarrassment, he picked up his hat and
slowly moved towards the door.  It opened in his face,
and Polignac appeared.  He stepped back courteously to
allow the older man to pass.  They bowed to each other,
with a mutual glance of keen scrutiny.  The squire bade
Aglionby good-day, refusing his attendance; and as he
passed down the stairs Polignac entered the room.

"Who is your visitor, captain?" he asked.  "An English
milord, by his appearance."

"Yes; a friend from England—an old friend of my
family: a neighbour: in fact, our estates join—or all but,
for 'tis but a narrow trout-stream divides 'em."

Aglionby's manner was still a little flurried.  His mind
was not very quick, and took time to adjust itself.
Polignac threw his hat upon the table, sat astride of a
chair, and went on with admirable gravity:

"And the fishing—it is often, without doubt, what we
Frenchmen call an apple of discord.  I have known so
many disputes."

"The fishing! oh!—yes!—well, that arranges itself.  It
is quite simple: we take one day, he takes the next."

"Tour à tour.  Admirable!  You English are the
people for transactions!  I must make the acquaintance
of your so accommodating friend and neighbour.  Is
he—how shall I say it?—one of us?"

"No.  He takes no part in affairs.  He cultivates his
estate.  His call now is merely in way of friendship."

"Ah! that is indeed amiable.  Parbleu, he has the
look!  And what is he doing in this country?"

Aglionby was growing restive under the cross-examination.
He had the air of a witness who fears that he may
be enticed into an admission against his will.  But he had
not the wit to fence with his visitor.

"Nothing," he replied curtly.  "He comes with his
son, that is in the army, and now joins his regiment."

"He has a son in the army?  My dear friend, certainly
you shall present me.  I desire of all things to extend my
acquaintance among your countrymen—in furtherance, it
is understood, of my cause—of our cause, pardon me."

"I fear you will find little encouragement with him.
He hates your countrymen as one hates a toad."

"The amiable man!"

Aglionby's constrained manner had betrayed him to his
astute visitor, whose curiosity was now effectually aroused.

"Then, my good captain," he continued, "it shall
be my pleasing task to convert him.  Indeed, you must
present me.  He shall be a recruit—a little aged, perhaps,
but what matters that?  In truth, it is an advantage, if his
estates are as large as you say."

"I did not say his estates were large."

"But they march with your family's—is it not so?  And
unless I deceive myself, the D'Aglionbys are—how do you
say it?—milords of the manor of half the comté of Viltshire.
You remark, my dear captain, what a memory I have,
even for your barbarous English geography."

The captain, more and more restive, fidgeted on his chair.

"Parbleu, monsieur," he said doggedly, "you must
allow me to be the judge who among my friends is likely
to be of use to us.  This one, I say, is not; you must be
content with that."

Polignac, seeing that nothing was to be gained by
pressing the matter in the captain's present mood, adroitly
changed the conversation.

"Eh bien!  As you will, my good captain.  You know
my zeal in the cause, and Tout fait nombre, as we say in
France.  Now, my friend, how goes our affair—yours and
mine, I mean?"

Aglionby's face cleared.  He was now on surer ground.

"Admirably, admirably, monsieur.  Look you, I have
arranged with some six stout fellows—every one to be
depended on.  Nothing remains but to choose the hour
and the place.  And besides, I have set Simmons on the
watch: he comes here to report at five o'clock."

"And it is now half-past two.  If it pleases you, mon
brave,—there is time—we will have in a bottle of sack
and drink success to our enterprise."

"If it pleases me!  Parbleu, Polignac, I've drunk
nothing but rum since Berk——since the last remittance
from my agent was spent.  A bottle of sack!  Many I've
emptied with the Czar of Muscovy, whose head, mark you,
is not as strong as mine.  Certainly, a bottle of sack—the
money, my friend?"

.. vspace:: 2

Some two hours later, Aglionby left the inn at which
Mr. Berkeley was putting up.  His mood and mien were
jovial; his rubicund cheeks even more ruddy than usual.
He was too old and tough a campaigner, and too well
seasoned by his experiences in Russia, to allow himself to
be overtaken in liquor; but he was certainly in an unusually
buoyant humour, and trod the street with a confident
swing.  As he passed along, he jingled the money in his
pocket, and appeared to take an uncommon pleasure in
the sound.  His brow was clear, his eye bright, and he
held half-audible communion with his thoughts.

"'Tis a hard world, Rafe my boy; odso, 'tis a hard
world.  'Tis not often a man gets paid for doing what he
would gladly do for nothing.  Ay, and 'tis less often he
gets paid twice, begad!  Rafe, my bully boy, you're in
luck.  Stap me, we'll break another bottle of sack and
drink to your success.  Nay, nay; hold a little: business
before pleasure.  A draft from our Hebrew friend—egad,
they're the one good thing I know in Amsterdam; that is
easily got; then a letter to the Elector's chamberlain;
oons! 'tis more difficult, but to be faced; I'm no scholard,
hang it, but I can pay some poor scrivener that is, whether
'tis to be Latin or French; and to be Captain Rafe once
more's worth a dollar or two for pen-work.  Then for a
bottle at the Goudenhoof'd.  And to-morrow, my friend
Rochester and my excellent coz with the scripture
name—to-morrow, by the lord Harry, our final reckoning!"





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.. _`In the Dusk`:

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   CHAPTER XVII


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   In the Dusk

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Katrinka—Filial—Fine Feathers—A Practical Joke—Up a
Tree—A Trap—In Waiting—The Last Minute—A Bolt from
the Blue—Ad Misericordiam—A Theory—With Thanks

.. vspace:: 2

Harry had for some time been itching for an opportunity
of active service in his new calling.  Garrison life, with its
drilling and exercising, was all very well, and he had much
to learn; but the business of a soldier was to fight, and he
was eager to take his share in the campaign, on the issue
of which so many important interests depended.  His
chance came at last, and though the result was too tame
for his active spirit, he felt that it was at least a beginning.

At the end of the first week in September his regiment
received orders to join a corps forming under General
Brulau to begin the investment of Limburg, a little
hill-town south-east of Breda.  On the 10th the force of
twenty-four squadrons encamped before the town, cutting off all
access, and occupying the approaches and the lower town
without resistance.  Some ten days later the Duke of
Marlborough arrived with his main force; batteries played
night and day on the upper town, and made so wide a
breach that orders were given for a grand assault.  At
this point, however, the French commander, seeing the
futility of resistance and the hopelessness of relief from the
outside, beat a parley, and in less than twenty-four hours
agreed to surrender.  On the 28th the garrison of 1400
men laid down their arms and marched out.  The duke,
having taken possession of the place, announced that the
campaign was closed, and the army would at once go into
winter quarters.  Harry therefore returned to Breda
without having drawn his sword, and had to reconcile himself
to the thought of a long winter of inaction.

One morning a messenger came to him from Mynheer
Grootz, bearing a present of tea and Japanese ware from
the merchant to Madame de Vaudrey, part of a cargo
from the east which had eluded the French warships and
privateers that scoured the narrow seas.  Since the
incident of Polignac's discomfiture at Lindendaal, Grootz had
been assiduous in paying little attentions of this kind to
the ladies, and often sought Harry's aid in conveying his
presents.  Harry was somewhat amused at this amiable
side of his former employer's character; Grootz was not
on the surface a likely squire of dames.  No doubt, Harry
thought, he was anxious about the welfare of the ladies
in their solitary position, with no master of the house, but
only a number of faithful though not too intelligent
servants.  He was nothing loth to be the medium through
whom these gifts reached Madame de Vaudrey, and he
found that Fanshawe was always very ready to accompany
him on these and other occasions.

It happened that on this day Harry was on duty, and
saw no opportunity of getting away until the evening.
Having been absent from Breda for nearly three weeks,
he was anxious to learn how things were at Lindendaal.
The proximity of Polignac always gave him some uneasiness,
and though that gentleman's hold on the ladies had
been effectually snapped, Harry felt by no means sure that
he would accept his rebuffs as final.  He therefore sent for
Sherebiah, and ordered him to ride over with Mynheer
Grootz's parcel.  Sherebiah's eagerness to set off amused
his master.

"You want to see Katrinka—is that it?" he said.

"Well, sir, her do have a good hand at griddle-cakes,
and I ha'n't tasted ne'er a one for three weeks."

"'Tis cupboard love, eh, Sherry?"

"The truth on't is, Master Harry, I be a-thinken o' old
gaffer at home.  He's had a deal of trouble wi' maids and
housekeepers; can't get ne'er a one to cook his bacon
to his mind, and besides has a sweet tooth for
griddle-cakes.  Katrinka be a rare buxom wench; not a beauty,
sure, though handsome is as handsome doos; and when
I found out her tidy ways and light hand wi' the
kickshawses—well, says I, she be the right maid to keep old
feyther o' mine above-ground for another ten year."

"Oh! and have you put the matter to Katrinka?"

"There's the rub, sir.  Her be in the main willen, but
there's a worm in th' apple.  The truth on't is, sir, her
have high notions."

"Indeed!  She wants to be something better than a
nurse-cook, eh?"

"Not zackly that, sir; her notions be husband high,
sir; her won't make griddle-cakes for feyther o' mine not
unless her be his darter, which is a backward way o'
sayen, marry me."

"That's terrible, Sherry."

"It med be wuss, Master Harry.  I ha'n't no fears
myself, but 'tis old feyther I be thinken on.  'Ee see, I'm
his boy; though I be forty-five by nature, to his old aged
life I be but a younker yet; and I be afeard he'd think me
a forrard youth did I venture a word about marryen."

Harry laughed outright.

"Take my advice, Sherry," he said.  "If Katrinka's a
good girl, get the knot tied; we sha'n't be home again
for a year at least; you can break it gently to the old man,
and sing the praises of your wife in respect of bacon and
girdle-cakes and other housewifely virtues."

"Thank 'ee, sir; and 'ee won't mind if I be a bit late
back, 'cos 'twill take a good time to talk over all that wi'
Katrinka; her be terrible slow wi' her mind, sir."

"All right!  Get along; and you may give her a kiss
from me.  'Tis the chubby one, isn't it?"

"True, sir; a apple face, wi' a dimple in the chin, and
eyes as blue as her chiney, and hair this side o' red,
and——"

"There, there.  You're in a bad way, Sherry; go and
get it over, man."

Not long after Sherebiah's departure, Fanshawe came in.

"What do you think?" shouted Harry.  "That old
oddity Sherry is in love with Katrinka, one of the maids
at Lindendaal, but was afraid to pop the question lest his
father thought him too young.  He has gone over to
Lindendaal to-day; I fancy 'twill be a settled thing by the
time he returns."

"Oh!"  Fanshawe appeared somewhat constrained.
"The fact is, Harry, I am riding to Lindendaal myself,
and I came to see—to ask—that is, have you any message
for the ladies?"

"No; as it happens, Sherry is taking them a parcel from
Mynheer Grootz.—You've got a new coat, surely?"

"Ay; you see my old one was faded; things bleach soon
in this country——"

"And a new hat, I declare!"

"The old one was too vexatious shabby.  Then you
have no message?"

"No; Sherry conveys my regards.  You'll have his company
back; I suppose you will be rather late, and 'twill be
no bad thing to have a companion; there have been one
or two robberies by night on the Helmund road."

Until the evening Harry was fully occupied.  The
regimental riding-master had begged his assistance in
training a number of recruits, and, since example is better
than precept, he had been for several hours on
horseback, showing the Dutch youths the manage of their
steeds.  When this was finished he had a turn at the
foils with the quarter-master, who had taken a fancy to
him, and was wont to declare him one of the best swordsmen
in the army.  After his evening meal he felt he should
like to stretch his legs, and, guessing that Fanshawe and
Sherebiah would soon be on the way home, decided to
walk out and meet them.  It was a fine still evening, the
road was dry, and a spin of a couple of miles, as far as a
big chestnut-tree that marked the limit of the Sunday
promenaders, would pleasantly end the day.

The sun was going down as he left the walls of Breda
behind him, throwing a long shadow on the road.  He did
not hurry his pace, but ambled easily along, musing as a
walker will, and paying little heed to things around him.
His thoughts were bright and clear, for he was in the pink
of physical health, and he felt that Providence was very
good to him.  It was just a year ago that his father had
died, and all the prospect looked black.  How strangely
things had turned out!  The very event that had seemed
to fling a pall over his life had really proved the entrance
to the career nearest to his heart.  He was already
impatient for the winter to be over; surely with the next
spring the war would be prosecuted more vigorously, and
the Dutch authorities would not hang like a drag upon
the wheels of Marlborough's plans!  He was ambitious,
as every young officer must be, to distinguish himself;
and in his ambition there was a spice of *amour propre*;
he felt that he should dearly like to prove to the great
duke himself that he would have done no discredit to his
sponsor if his commission had been an English one.  But
a Dutch cornet, he thought, would have little chance of
coming under Marlborough's personal notice; and, after
all, what did it matter?  Duty was duty, wherever and
for whomsoever it was done.

Thus weaving a chain of imaginings, he came to the
big solitary tree before he was aware of it.  He halted;
Fanshawe and Sherebiah were not in sight; the dusk
was thickening, and he did not care to walk farther; yet,
having come so far, he was loth to go back without them.
Surely they could not be long now!  Opposite the tree
there was a gate into a field.  He climbed on to that, and
sat with his feet tucked below one of its bars, intending
to wait their arrival.  From his higher position he now
descried two figures in the distance; in another moment
he saw that they were horsemen.  "Here they are at
last!" he thought.

A whimsical idea flashed into his head.  They would not
expect to see him; he felt sportive, the boyish instinct for
fun asserting itself.  What if he could surprise the
two—dart out on them unawares and make them jump?  The
tree opposite overhung the road for several yards, its
foliage was still fairly thick, for the season had been
mild; the autumn frosts and gales had not yet begun;
and it would provide ample shelter.  He sprang off the
gate, ran across the road, leapt the ditch at the side,
scaled the trunk with an agility bred of long practice in
Wiltshire, and was soon hidden among the leaves, some
fourteen feet above the road.  He filled his pocket with
burrs he found still clinging to the branches, laughing
inwardly as he pictured Fanshawe's consternation when he
should receive one of those prickly missiles on his head.

Soon he heard the measured beat of the approaching
horses.  Peering between the leaves, he was disappointed
to notice that the riders were not Fanshawe and Sherebiah
after all.  One of them, a bulky man, had a familiar
appearance, the other was masked; but in the first Harry
recognized Captain Aglionby, and the second in figure
and bearing unmistakably recalled Monsieur de Polignac.
Harry wondered what was the meaning of the mask;
knowing his men, he had little doubt that some villainy
was afoot.  His wonder gave way to uneasiness when
he found that, instead of passing the tree, they
dismounted and stood exactly beneath him.  They opened
the gate on which he had been seated a few minutes
before, and led their horses through into the field, along
the stone dike at the edge, and at some distance from
the gate, as Harry could just see in the gathering
darkness, secured them to the wall, after some difficulty in
finding anything to hitch them to.  Then they returned
to the road, talking in low tones, and looking expectantly
up and down.

"'Sdeath!" muttered Aglionby, "what has become of them?"

"Raté encore une fois?" sneered Polignac, inferring the
other's meaning from his tone.

"Parbleu!" growled Aglionby, adding in French:
"They ought to have been here a quarter of an hour
ago.  They cannot be long now."

Harry's curiosity was growing.  The two men were
clearly expecting somebody; for a moment he wondered
whether Aglionby was meditating another attempt on
Sherebiah, but it could hardly be that, for the captain
had looked towards Breda as he spoke, not in the other
direction.  He listened with all his ears.

"They may as well stay away altogether if the others
are here before them.  We are only ten minutes ahead."

"Nearer twenty, if you believe me.  They were riding
slowly when we saw them—a mile behind; and we saved
several minutes by the short cut through the wood.  There
is time yet."

As he spoke, three figures could be dimly seen coming
along the road from the direction of Breda.  Aglionby and
his friend at once shrank back behind the dike, but after a
moment's scrutiny, being apparently satisfied, came out
again and stood waiting by the side of the road.  The
three men approaching caught sight of them and hastened
their steps, to be received with curses when they reached
the spot.  One of the men, an Englishman, sullenly
defended himself.

"It is all due to that confounded church clock.  It has
never gone right since Mr. Fanshawe tampered with it.
But we are in time, Captain."

"No thanks to you," growled Aglionby.  "Where is
the rope?"

One of the other men opened a sack he carried, and
produced a stout rope some thirty feet long.

"Take one end," said Aglionby, "and fix it to the
gatepost; at the top, fool, not the bottom.  You, Simmons,
take the other end and loop it once round the tree.  And
quickly, do you hear?"

While the men were obeying his order, Aglionby put on
a mask, not, as in Polignac's case, as a precaution against
recognition by the hirelings, but by the victims.

By this time Harry's uneasiness had become real alarm.
Motionless in the tree, he durst not rustle the leaves to
make a peep-hole; he could only judge of what was going
on below by the words he heard.  It was clear that a
carefully planned attack was to be made upon someone; he
could not doubt that the someone was Sherebiah; both
Polignac and the captain had heavy scores to pay off.
Fanshawe would be involved in the same peril.  His
notion of playing a trick was forgotten; there was serious
work for him to do.

"Let the rope lie on the road," he heard Aglionby say,
"and you men remain at the tree ready to raise it and
draw it taut at my signal."

Harry saw through the scheme in a flash.  The rope
was to be pulled taut across the road to stop the progress
of the horsemen, and in the confusion the victim was
doubtless to be attacked, every advantage being on the
side of the ambuscaders.  And at this moment his ears
distinguished the faint distant beat of hoofs on the road.

"Captain," said one of the men, "what if I were to
climb the tree and pick them off from above?"

Crouching against the stem Harry felt his heart-beats
quicken.  The suggestion if promptly acted on would be
fatal to the project he had already formed to turn the
tables upon the unsuspecting party beneath.

There was a moment's pause.  Then another voice in
low tones interjected:

"I hear horses on the road."

"No," interposed Polignac, replying rapidly to the
man's proposal.  "We must have two men at the rope
if they are riding abreast; that leaves only three when
we stop them; it is easy to miss in this dark night, and
they are both ready with their weapons.  Remember,
there must be no noise; one volley, then cold steel, lest
we have the Breda garrison upon us."

Harry wore his sword, and had with him the pistol
without which he never stirred abroad.  He had been
rapidly deciding upon his course.  If he was to be of any
use, he must warn his friends before they came within
range of the ambuscade; yet he durst not fire too soon,
for the only result would be to bring them up at a gallop,
and they would then almost certainly fall victims.  Now
that almost complete darkness had fallen, he ventured to
make an opening in the foliage and to peer cautiously
down.

He saw Aglionby and Polignac on the other side of the
road crouching behind the gate-posts.  Two men had
concealed themselves behind the tree's thick trunk, holding
the slack end of the rope; the third waited near them,
pistol in hand.  Though Harry could not see weapons
in the hands of Polignac and Aglionby, he had no doubt
that they too had pistols, ready to be used as soon as the
riders were brought to a stand-still.  On the side
overhanging the road, the tree had been lopped of one or two
lower branches, but a fairly thick bough ran out on the
other side just above the man holding the pistol.  Quickly,
for time pressed, yet with great caution in order to avoid
the slightest noise, Harry crept from his perch over the
road, sliding backward down the branch until he reached
the trunk.  Then, holding his sword lest it clinked against
the tree, he straightened himself and turned round, steadying
himself with his free hand.  One careful step brought
him to the fork of the horizontal stem and the parent trunk.
He heard the hoof-beats coming very near; the riders could
be but a few hundred yards away; fortunately the growing
sound was loud enough to drown the slight rustle he could
not avoid; and besides, the men below were too much
preoccupied with their stratagem to have wits for anything but
their advancing victims.

Harry's feet were now wedged somewhat awkwardly;
he felt by no means secure, and was for an instant
perplexed how to dispose of his sword, for in drawing his
pistol with the right hand he would need the left to
maintain his equilibrium.  He hit on a solution.  Grasping the
lower part of the scabbard with his knees he prevented it
from rattling against the tree trunk; then, resting on his
left hand, he bent over to get as clear a view as the
circumstances afforded of the man immediately beneath.  For
a second he hesitated.  It went against the grain to fire
at the unsuspecting wretch; but the sound of the
hoof-beats now certainly within musket-shot banished his
hesitation and clinched his resolve.  It was life against
life: the lives of Fanshawe and Sherebiah against those
of the villains ambushing them.  Taking careful aim he
fired.  The cry of the wounded man was smothered by his
own shout:

"Stop, Fanshawe!  Jump the ditch and make for the tree!"

Without waiting to learn the result of his warning, he
sprang round, heedless now of what noise he made, and,
swinging by a branch to his right, dropped to the ground
just behind the two other men, who had let go of the rope
in their alarm and were transfixed with terror and
amazement, staring into the black depths of the tree above
them.  One of them faced round as he heard the thud of
Harry's descent.  Without pausing to draw his sword
Harry hurled himself at the man, hit out at him with all
his strength, and felled him to the ground.  The other,
the first moment of paralysis past, whipped out a pistol
and snapped it before Harry had time to recover himself.
It missed fire; Harry closed with the man.  There was a
brief, sharp struggle; in the midst came Sherebiah's voice:

"Where bist, sir, where bist?"

"Here; by the tree; get a grip of this knave!"

At the sound of Sherebiah's voice Harry felt his opponent's
efforts relax; the man tried to free himself; but
Sherebiah had ridden his horse up to the tree, and bending
low from the saddle to distinguish between the combatants,
he brought the butt of his pistol down on the man's head.
He fell without a groan.

Now Fanshawe dashed up.  His horse had slipped at
the ditch, thus giving Sherebiah a slight start.

"Two men on the other side of the road," panted Harry.
"Follow me!"

Springing across the ditch he gained the other side of
the road, and vaulted the gate.  Fanshawe and Sherebiah
had to dismount to follow him, for the road was too narrow
to allow of their leaping the gate.  Aglionby and his
companion had not waited; discovering that their plan had
failed, they had hurried away towards their horses.  But
they had not gone far.  Harry heard a noise ahead; there
was a chance of overtaking them before they gained their
saddles.  He dashed on over the stubble, and soon descried
a broad figure lumbering along; from its stertorous
breathing he guessed it to be Aglionby, an opinion confirmed
immediately by the mingled oaths and entreaties which the
captain sent after Polignac, who being lighter of foot had
far outstripped his fellow-conspirator.  Hearing Harry's
step just behind him, Aglionby at length halted, swung
round, and fired his pistol.  But hard running and breathlessness
flurried him and spoilt his aim; the ball whistled
harmlessly past.  So impetuous had been Harry in pursuit
that he had had no time to draw his sword.  He struck out
at Aglionby, who only half warded the blow, staggering
backward and endeavouring to parry this lively attack.
Seeing his opportunity, Harry closed and tripped the big
man up with a favourite fall taught him by Sherebiah;
and Fanshawe coming up with Sherebiah at this moment,
Aglionby was secured in a trice.

"That cursed coward!" he spluttered, as they led him
back to the road.  "Odsnigs!  I'll be even with him for
this."

"Nay," said Sherebiah, who had him grimly by the
collar, "'ee'll never be *even* wi' un, Rafe Aglionby.  Your
carcass'll need a longer rope."

"'Tis all a mistake, coz, on my honour," pleaded the
captain.

"Don't 'ee coz me, I disown 'ee.  I'll see a villain hung;
and that'll be no mistake."

"Leave him to me, Sherry," said Harry, "and go and
see to the man we hit."

A short examination proved that the man Harry had
shot was less seriously wounded than he who had fallen
to Sherebiah's pistol-butt.  The third man whom Harry
had knocked down had escaped in the darkness.  The
other two, injured as they were, were unable to walk, so
Harry had them hoisted on to the horses, where they
were held up by Fanshawe and Sherebiah.  With Aglionby
in his own keeping Harry led the march to Breda.  On
arriving there, all three prisoners were handed over to the
Dutch authorities, and Harry asked Fanshawe to his rooms
to talk over this adventure of the road.

"Faith," said Fanshawe, when Harry had explained his
presence on the spot, "'twas a mercy you had the thought
to walk out.  But it passes my understanding why that
fellow Aglionby should have been minded to waylay me."

"'Twas not you, 'twas Sherry that was the intended
victim.  I told you of the neat way he bundled the captain
out of Madame de Vaudrey's house; that was only one of
several affronts the bully has had to suffer.  And I rather
suspect that you were mistaken for me."

"How so?"

"'Twas part of the scheme of old Berkeley's to get rid
of me; of that I am sure.  And the other fellow, the
Frenchman, must be pretty sore at his two discomfitures."

"You will, of course, inform against him."

"'Twould be little use, I fear.  He was masked; I knew
him only by his voice, and my testimony would not suffice
to convict him on that ground alone."

"Did Aglionby say nothing as you walked into the town?"

"Nothing.  I plied him with questions, but he held an
obstinate silence; scarce opened his mouth except to say
'twas all a mistake."

"I am not sure you are right.  Don't you think it may
have been the Frenchman's plan—to get rid of me?"

"Why of you?"

"Well, you told me he is a suitor for Mademoiselle's
hand——"

"What then?"

"He may have looked on me as a rival."

"Come, that's a good joke.  You've known Mademoiselle
for little better than a month."

"Ah!  One can see you're young, Harry, and fancy
free; I wish I were.  But your Monsieur de Polignac
might have spared his pains."

"You're talking in riddles, Fanshawe; speak plain
English, man."

"Well, 'twas true."

"What was true?"

"She wouldn't have me."

Harry stared in puzzlement.  Then a light dawned, and
he smiled.

"You don't mean to say you've been on your knees to
Mademoiselle Adèle?"

"Indeed I have!  By George, Harry! isn't she a splendid
creature?  But she wouldn't have me: that's all over;
life isn't worth living now: I don't care how soon a bullet
puts an end to my miserable existence."

Fanshawe sighed lugubriously; Harry laughed.

"Poor fellow! is it so bad as that?  She didn't fall a
victim to your new coat, then?"

"'Tis all very well for you to laugh.  Wait till you
suffer just such a rebuff."

"Tell me what you said."

"How do I know what I said?  I only know what she
said.  She dropt me a curtsy, the hussy, and thanked me
for the honour, and said she had no mind to a husband
and would never wed, but stay with her mother.  And
then she opened the harpsichord and said: 'Don't let us
be children, Monsieur.  Sing me that amusing song of
yours and be amiable.'  And 'pon my word, Harry, I
couldn't resist; she has a masterful way; and when her
mother came in there was I trolling 'Widdicombe Fair' as
if there'd been never a word of love betwixt us."

"Cheer up! you were too sudden.  Wait a few months
and then try your luck again."

"Never!  I know she won't look at me.  And take my
advice, Harry.  If ever you fall in love with a girl, don't
make yourself cheap and sing cheerful songs.  Egad, if
I'd sung dying ditties and sighed like a furnace I might
have had a different tale to tell.  I'll go to quarters;
but I sha'n't sleep; I know I sha'n't; good-night!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A Little Plot`:

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   CHAPTER XVIII


.. class:: center large bold

   A Little Plot

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.. class:: noindent small

Father and Son—A Message from Breda—An Afternoon
Call—When Greek meets Greek—The Tug of
War—Pourparlers—The Merk—Two Men and a
Sack—Snatched from the River—Cousin Rafe—Scant
Gratitude—A Ray of Light

.. vspace:: 2

One afternoon Squire Berkeley sat solitary in his inn at
the Hague, warming his lean, withered hands in the blaze
of a log fire.  The air was cold, and it had been raining
heavily for hours.  The old man had laid aside his wig; a
black velvet skull-cap covered his white hair to the ears;
and, clad in the long cassock-like garment of rusty black
that he always wore indoors, he might have passed, with
his thin haggard cheeks, for an ascetic dignitary of the
Church rather than the prosperous lord of an English
manor.

He sat in a high-backed chair, staring into the fire.
His lips moved as he communed with himself, and the
expression of his face showed that his thoughts were none
too pleasant.  Once or twice he clenched his teeth and
brought his closed fist heavily down upon the arm of the
chair; he sighed often, and looked the very image of a
sad, anxious, embittered man.

Presently the door opened noisily and, with a gust of
keen air that made the squire shiver, a young man entered
the room.  It was Piers Berkeley, the squire's son.  He
was dressed as usual in the height of fashion, but
presented a bedraggled woebegone aspect now, his finery
effectually ruined by the rain.

"Split me, father," he cried in a peculiarly high and
affected tone of voice, "I'm verily the most wretched man
on earth."

"What is the matter?" said the old man, turning half
round.  "Why have you left your regiment?"

"Why!  Stap my vitals, 'tis what I wish to know.  I've
rid post from Breda through the most villainous rain ever
I saw.  Look, I'm splashed to the eyes; my third best
wig is utterly ruined; the colour of my waistcoat has run;
'twas a heavenly puce, and I'll be even with the tailor,
hang him! that swore the colour was fast.  As for my
new jack-boots—look 'ee, they're not fit for a ploughman.
And why!  You may well ask."

"Well, you have a reason, I suppose.  You want more
money for your drunken orgies—is that it?"

"Hark to that, now!  Was ever poor wretch so scurvily
used by his own father!  Why——"

"Come, a truce to your prating.  Your reason, sir, and
at once."

"A warm welcome, egad!  Well, sir, I've a something
for you, a billet-doux; ha! ha!"

The squire sprang up with an agility surprising in a
man of his years.  There was a look of expectancy, almost
of joy, in his eyes, and he held forth his hand eagerly.

"Give it me," he said.

"You will deal handsomely by me," said the youth;
"consider, 'tis not every son would ride through pelting
rain and spoil his garments withal for——"

"Give it me, I say," cried the old man passionately.

Piers took from an inner pocket a letter, sealed with
a big red seal.  The squire's eyes gleamed as he took it
and saw the handwriting of the address; his hand trembled
as he tore away the seal and unfolded the paper.  Then
came a sudden change.  The pallor of his cheeks became
a deathly white, his features were distorted with rage, he
muttered a curse and flung the letter to the floor.

"Gadzooks, 'tis not a billet-doux, then," piped his son,
stooping to pick up the paper.

"Let it lie!" shouted the old man.  "Lay not a finger
on it, you—you puppy!"

"Why, there now," said the youth in an aggrieved
tone.  "That is all the thanks I get for adventuring
myself in the fury of the elements, and ruining past cure as
fine a coat as ever was seen in Spring Garden."

"Silence!  Hold your foolish tongue!  You're a useless
fool!  You're a scented fop, the mock of every farthing
playwright in the kingdom.  Heavens! what have I done
that I should be cursed with a brainless, senseless
coxcomb that can do nothing but squander good money in
fal-lals and worse!"

"Odsnigs! 'tis most villainous injustice.  I can do
many things, egad.  I can make a good leg, and trounce
a watchman, and pink a cit, and——"

"Out of my sight, out of my sight!" cried the exasperated
father, stepping forward with uplifted hand as though
to strike the poor fool.

"Zoons!  I protest this——"

But he left the sentence perforce unfinished, for the
squire caught him by the shoulders and exerting all his
strength thrust him from the room, turning the key, and
standing for a moment with hand on heart to recover his
breath.  Then he suddenly opened the door again, caught
the young man before he had gone three steps, swung him
round, and holding him in a firm grip said:

"See that you say nothing of this.  You know nothing
of that man, that Aglionby, except that you met him on
the packet-boat; you hear me?  Presuming on that
acquaintance he sought your assistance; you have wit
enough to remember that?  And you are not to go near
him again."

"Egad, I've no wish to.  Once is enough.  A prison
cell is no place for me.  I had to hold my nose; and egad,
to use a whole bottle of scent afterwards."

The old man pushed him contemptuously away, returned
to his room, and again locked the door.  He picked up
the letter, sat down in his chair, and, crouching there,
seemed to have shrunk even to less than his former
meagre bulk.  He read the letter again.  It ran:—

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

"SIR,

"Fate is against me.  In pursuit of the Businesse you
wot of, I am at this present layd by the heels, in Jail, under
sentence to be Hang'd.  Young Rochester & my Cozen have
done it.  'Tis nessessarie for you to pulle me out of this Hole, &
speedilie, or *I'll tell All I knowe*.  The Meanes I leave to you; I
advize to comunicate with Mr de Poliniac at his house in the
Plein; he will helpe: he has *Goode Reasone*, for at a Worde from
me he'll *swing too*.  No more at this Present from yr humble

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent

"RALPH AGLIONBY.

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.. class:: noindent

"P.S.—I knew your Sonne was in Breda.  He *knowes Nothing*."

.. vspace:: 2

The squire tore up the paper and flung the pieces on the
fire.  For a few moments he sat in thought; then he rose
and went into an ante-room, returning soon in his
outdoor attire—wig, cocked hat, and long cloak.  A few
minutes later he was walking at a brisk pace through the
rain towards the house mentioned in Aglionby's letter.
He knocked at the door; there was no answer; the green
shutters were closed, the house had the appearance of
being shut up for the season.  He knocked again, and yet
again, with growing vehemence, attracting the attention
of passers-by.  At length the door was opened for a few
inches.  Mr. Berkeley pushed it, but it was on the chain.

"Qu'est-ce que Monsieur demande?" said a voice.

"Monsieur de Polignac."

"Monsieur is not within," said the same voice in English,
the speaker having detected the squire's nationality
by his accent.

"Where is he?"

"Pardon, Monsieur, I am not sure where my master is
at this moment; but if Monsieur will leave a message——"

Something in the man's manner assured Mr. Berkeley
that he was lying.

"Look 'ee, my man," he said sternly, "I counsel you
to bethink yourself.  I will walk for five minutes, in the
rain; you will have time to acquaint your master that an
English gentleman whose name is probably unknown to
him desires to see him on a very urgent matter—in the
interest, mark you, of himself.  An urgent matter, mark
you.  In five minutes I will return."

On returning Mr. Berkeley was instantly admitted.
The manservant, cowering beneath his stern look, led him
meekly to a room off the hall, where he found Polignac in
long cloak and jack-boots, evidently on the point of
departing on a journey.  The squire gave him a keen glance,
and was not surprised to find that it was the same man
whom he had met at the door of Aglionby's attic some
months before.

"Monsieur de Polignac?" he said.

"That is my name, Monsieur."

"My name is Berkeley.  I met you at Aglionby's.  It
is for him I come.  I desire a word with you."

"I am at your service, Monsieur.  Shall we be private?"

"It will doubtless be better so."

Polignac shut the door, and offered Mr. Berkeley a seat.

"Thank you, I will stand; I need not detain you long."

"As you please, Monsieur."

"You have heard, Monsieur, of the plight into which
our friend Captain Aglionby has fallen?—I say *our* friend."

"I will not dispute the phrase, Monsieur.  I had heard,
as you surmise."

"Pardon me—as he is our friend—am I right in assuming
that the news may have some little connection with
your purposed journey?"

"Since, as you say, he is *our* friend, I do not deny it,
Monsieur."

"So that it will be, let us say, not disagreeable to you
if some means of—of cheating the hangman—I am a plain
blunt man, Monsieur—should be discovered?"

"Pardon me, Monsieur, I do not follow you."

Mr. Berkeley looked at him keenly.

"I have had a letter from our friend," he said slowly.

"And I also, Monsieur."

"He solicits my assistance."

"And mine."

"I came at once to see you."

"And I, Monsieur, leave at once for Paris."

"Ah!"

Polignac, leaning against the window-frame, had an
inscrutable smile upon his face.

"I will sit down," said Mr. Berkeley, placing a chair
with its back to the door; "I find our interview will last a
little longer than I looked for."

"As you please, Monsieur.  You will permit me?"

Polignac seated himself at the table.

"It appears, Monsieur," said the squire, "that I should
have said *my* friend."

"Again, Monsieur, I will not dispute the phrase.  His
family estates join yours, I understand?"

"What?"

"I do not know; I only repeat what your friend told me."

"Yes, I understand," said Mr. Berkeley hurriedly,
feeling that by his unguarded exclamation he had lost
one point in the game.  "Not precisely adjoin, but the
phrase is sufficiently exact: we are neighbours."

"And naturally you are concerned at the hapless situation
into which your neighbour's evil star has brought him."

"That is so, Monsieur."

"Especially seeing that his evil star's influence extends
also to you; is it not so?"

"As a neighbour and friend, you mean, Monsieur?"

"No, I do not mean that.  I cannot say, like you,
Monsieur, that I am a plain blunt man, but I think with
small effort you will understand my meaning.  I put myself
in your place.  Suppose, I tell myself, a neighbour of mine,
whom I had found useful, had in the course of some
enterprise on my behalf been so unlucky as to come into the
grip of the law; naturally I should feel deeply concerned
in his fate, and certainly I should do all in my power to
save him, especially if I knew that the said enterprise was
one that the law would look unkindly on.  Such would be
my sentiments, Monsieur, and I do not suppose myself
different from other men."

"The case is so well put, Monsieur, that it would seem
to fit your situation to a nicety."

"Appearances are then deceitful, Monsieur.  Strange
to say, I had the same thought with regard to you.  Your
friend the captain is not a hero, certainly not a martyr,
and even though a few vindictive words at the last would
not save his neck, yet to a man of his disposition it would
sweeten his end to know that another shared his fate."

Mr. Berkeley had been growing visibly restive.  How
much did this suavely malicious Frenchman know?  He
dared not question him plainly.

"You speak, Monsieur, of a few vindictive words.  It
is clear to me that Aglionby has threatened you——"

"And I care not a jot for his threats," interrupted
Polignac.  "As you are aware, I am about to depart for
Paris; eh bien!  Monsieur le Capitaine's threats will not
reach me there."

"But if I save him, Monsieur?"

Polignac's mouth twitched.

"He is a vengeful man," pursued the squire.  "I should
have no object in concealing from him your notions of
the obligations of friendship; and since it appears that
you, on your side, permit yourself to talk of an 'enterprise'
and 'the grip of the law', does it not occur to you
that the captain, and I myself as his friend, might make
things—well, very unpleasant for you?  And remember,
you are not in Paris yet."

There was a moment's silence, taking advantage of
which Mr. Berkeley leant forward and, tapping Polignac's
knee, added:

"Come, Monsieur, let us understand one another.  It is
to my interest that Captain Aglionby should not die—by
the hangman; it is to your interest—correct me if I am
wrong—that he should not live, or you will find this
country shut to you.  Our interests appear to clash; but
is it not possible—I throw out the suggestion—to reconcile
them—to gain both our ends?"

Polignac smiled.

"Let us talk as friends, Monsieur," he said.

An hour passed before Mr. Berkeley left the house.  It
was still raining, but his gloomy expression had given
place to one of fierce satisfaction.  Polignac bade him a
cordial adieu at the door, and as soon as he was gone
called his servant.

"Antoine," he said, "unsaddle my horse.  I do not ride
to-day."

.. vspace:: 2

One evening, at dusk, Harry Rochester, whom no experience
could cure of his habit of taking solitary strolls,
was seated on a bridge spanning the Merk at a short
distance outside Breda.  His thoughts were anything but
pleasant.  Aglionby and his associates, though defended
by the sharpest criminal lawyer in Holland, had been
condemned to death, and the execution had been fixed for the
morrow.  Harry knew that the captain richly deserved his
fate; his action in betraying his cousin Sherebiah in itself
put him beyond the pale of pity, to say nothing of his
persistent offences against Sherebiah's master, which Harry
was more ready to forgive.  But despicable as the man
was, Harry, almost in spite of himself, felt a certain
compassion for him.  He had learnt from Sherebiah something
of his history.  His mother, old Gaffer Minshull's sister,
had died when Ralph was very young, heart-broken by
her husband, one of Cromwell's Ironsides, yet a hypocrite
of the most brutal type.  Aglionby had received a fair
education, but had run wild from boyhood, and as a mere
youth had decamped or been driven from his father's house
and gone out into the world to seek his fortune.  Sherebiah
had lost sight of him for years; suddenly he had
reappeared at Winton St. Mary, seared with travel and
hard faring, and full of stories of adventure and prowess
in all parts of Europe, especially in the service of the
Czar of Muscovy.  Harry knew as much as Sherebiah
of his subsequent career, and shared the surprise of the
whole village at the strangely close acquaintanceship
between the captain and the squire.

This was the man who was to die next day, and Harry,
sitting on the bridge, one hand clasping his knee, almost
wished that he had let the villain go.  He had been brought
up in the worst school; all his life long he had been an
Ishmael, his hand against every man, every man's hand
against him.  His mother had been a Minshull: surely
there was some seed of good in him; mayhap his villainies
were only the desperate expedients of a man who had no
means of livelihood; certainly he could have no cause of
enmity against Harry, and his machinations must be put
down to the man who employed him.  His approaching
fate weighed also upon Sherebiah, who had for days gone
about with restlessness and anxiety printed upon his
usually jocund face.  Certainly the good fellow had no
reason to love Aglionby, but after all they were of the
same blood, and Sherry appeared to fear keenly the
shame and disgrace.

Looking over the glooming river, idly watching the rolling
water and the scattered buildings upon the bank, Harry
suddenly perceived a small door open in the face of a store
or warehouse some few yards to his left.  The door was
some thirty feet above the river, and gave upon a narrow
platform to which goods were hoisted by a crane from
barges below.  As the door opened, inwards, a head
appeared.  The owner looked for some time up and down
the river, over which darkness was fast falling.  All was
quiet; no traffic was passing; no craft indeed was to be
seen save one small boat, moored to a post on the bank
some yards on the other side of the bridge.

The head disappeared, but immediately afterwards two
men emerged from the doorway, coming sideways through
the narrow opening.  Between them they carried a large
sack which their exertions showed to be heavy.  They
came to the edge of the platform; they laid their burden
down; then, giving a quick look around, with one push
they toppled it over, and it fell with a sounding plump
into the water.  It disappeared below the surface; after a
moment the two men returned into the warehouse, and the
door was shut.

The rivers were such common receptacles of rubbish
that Harry would not have given a second thought to this
incident but for a certain furtiveness in the manner of the
two men.  He wondered what the sack contained.  All
at once he saw it reappear on the surface, several yards
nearer to him; the stream was flowing fast in his direction.

"'Tis maybe a superfluous dog," he thought, for only
an animal was likely to rise after such an immersion.  Yet
it was large for a dog.

The sack came steadily towards him: it was about to
pass under the single arch of the bridge: he leant over
to watch it: and with a start of amazement saw dimly a
white human face.  At that same moment the bundle
sank again.  Harry could not know whether it was man
or woman, whether alive or dead, but without an instant's
hesitation he ran to the other parapet, sprang on it, and
dived into the river.  A drowning man rises three times,
he had heard; perhaps there was a chance to save this poor
wretch, whoever it might be, and foil his murderers.

Coming to the surface with a gasp, he looked around
for any sign of the dark bundle, fearing lest in the
blackness of the encroaching night he might lose it altogether.
For some seconds he saw nothing; then, a few yards
away, it bobbed up.  Three or four vigorous strokes
brought the swimmer to it just as it was going down
once more.  He seized it with his left hand and,
supporting the head above the water, made for the bank,
luckily no more than seven or eight yards distant.  He
hauled the heavy object up the sodden slope, stooped down
to examine it, and saw that it was a man tied up to the
neck, and with a gag about his mouth.  It was the work
of a moment to tear away the gag.  He placed his hand
over the man's heart: did it still beat?  He could not tell;
all feeling seemed to be deadened within him by his
excitement and strain.  The man made no sound or
movement.  Harry shivered and thought he must be dead; of the
means to resuscitate a half-drowned man he knew nothing.

A few seconds passed; then he heard hasty footsteps
behind him, and turned just as Sherebiah sprang down
the slope.  The faithful fellow had been again playing his
part of watch-dog; he had seen Harry's plunge into the
river, and raced round the embankment in alarm.

"Fecks, you give me a jump, sir," he panted.
"What's amiss?"

"Ah!  Sherry, look; 'tis a man, in a sack; the poor
wretch is drowned, I fear."

"'Tis murder then.  Let's see, sir."

He stooped down, cut the fastenings of the sack, and
pulled it off the body.

"Now sir, lend a hand.  Fust thing is to pour the
water out of un."

"He was gagged, Sherry."

"Then that saves our time.  A gagged man can't ship
many gallons o' water.  Leave un to me, sir."

He quickly opened the man's coat and vest, bent over
him, and pressed heavily beneath his lower ribs.  Then he
sprang back, and again bent forward and pressed.  After
repeating these movements several times, he went to the
man's head, took his arms and pulled them back till they
met behind, then jerked them forward upon his breast.
A gurgling sound came from the man's lips.

"He be alive, sir," cried Sherebiah.  "Another minute
or two and we'll have un on his feet."

A great sigh escaped from the prostrate form.

"Well done, master," said Sherebiah, ceasing from his
exertions.  "You've got your breath again, thanks be.
Now, take your time, and don't get up till 'ee feel
disposed: only bein' drippen wet the sooner you be dry the
better, so——Sakes alive!  Master Harry, 'tis my
good-for-nothen cousin Rafe Aglionby, and no one else."

"Good heavens!"

"Rafe, man, can 'ee open your eyes?  'Tis me and
Mr. Rochester; you be safe."

Both Harry and Sherebiah were now stooping over the
captain.  His eyes opened; the same choking sound came
from his lips.  For some minutes he lay gasping,
wriggling, endeavouring vainly to rise, the others watching
him the while with mixed feelings.  His recovery of
consciousness was slow: at last his movements ceased,
he heaved a great sigh and looked up with intelligence.

"How be'st come to this?" asked Sherebiah.  "Thowt
'ee was ripe for hangman this time, coz."

"Rot you!" spluttered the captain, struggling to his
feet.  "Hands off!  Shall I never be quit of you!"

"Zooks!  That's your thanks!  Come, Rafe, blood's
thicker nor water, as 'ee said yourself: you've broke prison
sure enough, but they'll be after 'ee afore mornen.
Mr. Rochester ha' saved 'ee from drownen, but you must put
a few miles betwixt 'ee and hangman afore you can rest
easy.  How be'st come to this, man?"

"Let me go, I tell you."

"But you be drippen wet, Rafe; you'll cotch your death
o' cold;—and faith, so will Master Harry.  Better get
home, sir, and change your things."

"No hurry, Sherry.  Captain Aglionby, believe me, you
must make yourself scarce.  You've done me many an
ill turn, for what reason I know not.  But that's past
now; I have no wish to give you up to the hangman.
There's a boat moored to the bank a few yards down:
you had better take that, and row through the night.
Sherry, you're dry; change clothes with the captain."

"I'll have none of his clothes.  I'll take the boat.  Out
of my way!"

Escaping from Sherebiah's grasp, Aglionby stumbled
away in the direction of the boat, the other two
watching him in silence until the darkness swallowed him.

"Unthankful viper!" muttered Sherebiah.

"To save a foe's life is an injury never forgiven," said
Harry with a shrug.  "I'm shivering, Sherry: let us get
back."

"Ay sure.  But I'd like to know what be the true meanen
o' this.  To be saved out o' jail and then chucked into
river—why, in a manner o' speaken 'tis out o' fryen-pan into fire.
One thing 'tis sure: my coz Rafe bean't born to be hanged nor
drownded neither: question is, will it be pison or a
dagger-end?  But you be mortal cold, true; we'll home-along, sir."

They returned to the city, and were passing a large
inn in the market-place when Harry suddenly touched
Sherebiah on the arm.

"Sherry, you see that man at the door of the coach
there?  'Tis one of the men I saw fling Aglionby into the
river.  I know him by his cap."

"I' feck, we'll have a nearer sight on un, and see who
he be speaken to in coach.  Keep close, sir, and we'll take
a peep at 'em unbeknown."

Crossing to the other side of the street, and keeping
well in the darkness, they quickly made their way towards
the coach, and reached a position whence, by the light of
the inn lamp, they could see into it without being seen.
Each turned to the other in silence, astonishment and
conviction in their eyes.  The occupants of the coach were
two: Mr. Berkeley and Monsieur de Polignac.  It was to
the latter that the man at the door was speaking.  They
were clearly at the end of their conversation; the man
touched his cap and withdrew, and as the coach drove off,
a look of gratification shone in the faces of its two
occupants.

"What do you make of that, Sherry?"

"Make on't! 'tis plain as a pikestaff.  Dead men tells no
tales; that's what I make on't, sir.  Rafe Aglionby knows
a mort too much for they two high-liven villains; that's
where 't is: they got un out o' jail to stop his tongue at
scaffold foot, and then pitched un in the river to cool it
for ever.  'Tis a mortal pity we let un go, sir, for't seems
to me we ought to know what he knows, and get to the
bottom o' the squire's desperate work agen you.  But you
always was a tender-hearted Christian, like your feyther
afore 'ee."

"I couldn't let murder be done before my very eyes,
Sherry."

"Ah, you'll have to see wuss now you be a man o'
war, sir.  Well, 'tis heapen coals of fire on his yead, as
the Book says, and mebbe Them above'll reward 'ee
for't; ay, so."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Marlborough's March to the Danube`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIX


.. class:: center large bold

   Marlborough's March to the Danube

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

A Foreigner at the Hall—War Again—Good-bye!—Comparisons—Up
the Rhine—A Bold Stroke—Marlborough's Way—Despatches—A
Mission to Eugene—Fanshawe Missing—The Road to
Innsprück—Zum Grauen Bären—Mein Wirth—Breakfast at
Three—The Second-best Room—A Trap-Door—Midnight
Visitors—A Hasty Toilet—A Sound on the Stairs—Through
the Copse—Stampede—The Lieutenant of the Guard—At
Obermiemingen—The Little Abbé—Max Berens—A Surprise
Visit—Mein Wirth Explains—Injured Innocence—In the
Net—Hobson's Choice—The Missing Messengers—In Terrorem

.. vspace:: 2

No soldier worth his salt ever endured the long idleness
of winter quarters patiently, and Harry Rochester was not
an exception to the rule.  As the weary months passed
slowly by, he grew tired of the endless drilling and
exercising, varied by marching and sham fights.  He was very
popular with his captain, Willem van der Werff, and the
other officers of the regiment, but found himself unable
to take much interest in their amusements.  Beer-drinking
was not to his taste; the Dutch comedies performed at the
theatres were dull, and the paternal government prohibited
the performance of lighter French pieces.  As the winter
drew on he had opportunities of skating, and became
so proficient as to win a prize at a regimental match;
but the frost was not of long duration.  He was not a
fellow to allow time to hang on his hands.  He practised
broadsword and sabre with Sherebiah, read a great deal
of Dutch, studied all the military histories on which he
could lay hands, and spent many an hour poring over
maps until he had the geography of all central Europe
at his finger-ends.

No great news came from the outside world.  In
November the Netherlands suffered in some degree from
the fierce storm that swept through the Channel, strewing
the English shores with wrecks, ripping off trees at the
roots, blowing down churches and houses.  In the same
month also the Archduke Charles passed through Holland
*en route* for England and Spain, to assume in the latter
country the sovereignty which was the bone of contention
between his father the Emperor and King Louis of France.

Almost the only relaxations in Harry's life were his visits
to Madame de Vaudrey's house, where both he and
Fanshawe were always welcome guests.  They formed with
Mynheer Grootz a little house-party there during the New
Year week.  It happened that on the last day of the year
1703 Sherebiah received a letter from his father: a rare
event.  One piece of news it contained was much discussed
at Madame de Vaudrey's table.

.. vspace:: 2

"And now I must tell you," wrote old Minshull, "as Squire
hev had a Visiter for a matter of munths.  'Tis a tall blacke
Frenchman by his looks and Spache, a tarrible fine gentleman,
with a Smile & a twitching Mouthe.  Squire & he be alwaies
together, moste particler Frendes it do seeme.  None of us soules
can't abide him, nor the Qualitie neither.  For myself, I don't
like his Lookes, not me, & 'tis luckie he can't understand
English, for being a Man to speake my Minde I say things nowe
and again as would turne his blacke Hair white."

.. vspace:: 2

Harry had already mentioned having seen Polignac drive
away from Breda in company with the squire.

"The odious man!" cried Madame de Vaudrey, when
Harry translated the gaffer's letter.  "I only wonder that
the other man, that insolent captain, is not with them.
I wonder where he is?"

"I don't know," said Harry, who had kept his own
counsel regarding the last he had seen of Aglionby.

"I hope he will never cross my path," said Mynheer
Grootz.  "He is truly a villain, a dastard: to inform on
his cousin, and to plan the attack on Harry, and to have
the insolence to pay court to Madame la Comtesse!"

"Yes, indeed," said the lady, "and my dear husband
not four years dead!  Who is the squire that your old
friend writes of, Harry?"

"He is lord of the manor at my old home, Madame.
His son is in one of our foot regiments, and Mr. Berkeley
came over to Holland with him: it was then he met
Monsieur de Polignac."

"Qui se ressemble s'assemble.  What is the name of
the bad old man, Harry?"

"Berkeley."

"Berkeley!"  Madame de Vaudrey puckered her brow
and appeared to be reflecting.

"How ugly your English names are!" exclaimed Adèle,
"and how difficult to say!  I cannot even yet say
Rochestair properly."

"You say it better than you say my name," said
Fanshawe gloomily.

"But then I have known Monsieur Rochestair longer,"
returned Adèle.  "Shall we go into the drawing-room,
Mamma?  I do so want to hear Monsieur Fanshawe sing
that amusing song of his again."

Fanshawe glowered.  He knew that Adèle was teasing
him, and wished with all his heart that he could recall the
luckless moment when he had first amused her with the
song of "Widdicombe Fair".  Harry's eyes twinkled.

"Yes," said Madame de Vaudrey, "you young people
can precede us to the drawing-room.  I have a little matter
of business to talk over with our good friend Mynheer
Grootz."

Then Adèle's eyes caught Harry's, and they both smiled
as at some secret known to them alone.

Time passed away, and at length, when the winter was
gone, and the gray Dutch sky was rifted with the blue of
spring, came the welcome news that Marlborough had
arrived at the Hague and that a great campaign was to
open.  No one knew what the duke's plans were, but there
was a general feeling that stirring events were preparing,
and a universal hope that the long series of small
engagements, sieges, marches and counter-marches would be
brought to an end by a decisive pitched battle.  Mynheer
Grootz was working night and day at commissariat
business, and for weeks there was a continual bustle of
preparation: the cleaning of arms, the testing of harness, a
thousand-and-one details that employed countless people
beside the soldiers.

At length a day came when, all preparations completed,
the eager troops were ready to march out.  Harry and
Fanshawe, accompanied by Sherebiah, rode over to
Lindendaal one evening to take farewell of the ladies.
Fanshawe was in the dolefullest of dumps.  Notwithstanding
Adèle's refusal of him, he had still nursed a hope that time
might prove on his side, but found every hint of a
sentimental nature adroitly parried, and now feared that with
his absence his last chance would disappear.  His spirits
were raised a little by the warmth, and indeed effusiveness,
with which she bade him good-bye.

"I shall hope to hear great things of you, Monsieur,"
she said, "and to learn that you have come through the
campaign unscathed."

"Your good wishes shall be my talisman, Mademoiselle,"
said Fanshawe gallantly, bowing over her hand.

Harry meanwhile had taken leave of Madame de Vaudrey,
who held both his hands and spoke to him with a quite
motherly tenderness.  Then he turned to say good-bye to
Adèle.  She had disappeared.  Fanshawe had already gone
out to the front of the house to see that his horse's girth
was rightly strapped, and Harry followed, thinking that
Mademoiselle had perhaps accompanied him to the door.
But as he passed through the hall, he saw through the
open door of the dining-room that Adèle was there,
standing at the window with her back to him.

"There you are, Mademoiselle," he said, entering the
room; "I was looking for you.  It is a longer good-bye
this time."

She turned round slowly, and her back being to the
sunset glow he could scarcely see her features.  She held
out her hand, and said slowly, with perhaps a little less
cordiality than he had unconsciously expected:

"Adieu, Monsieur Harry!"

He took her hand, hesitated for a moment, and then
was gone.

As he left the porch he saw Sherebiah coming round
from the garden with his arm unblushingly about the waist
of Katrinka, the prettiest maidservant of the house.  The
honest fellow led the girl up to his master.

"I've done it, sir," he said.  "Her've said it.  Feyther
o' mine may think what a' will, but, an't please Them above
to bring me through, by next winter there'll be a Mistress
Minshull once more to comfort his old aged soul.  Eh,
Katrinka, lass?"

The girl looked shyly up and dropt a curtsy.

"'Pon my soul, Sherry, you're a lucky fellow," said
Harry.  "My old friend will be pleased, I promise you.
And look 'ee, I'll give you five minutes to say good-bye
to Katrinka while Mr. Fanshawe and I ride on."

"Thank 'ee, sir!  I'll catch 'ee up, soon as her be
done."

"Sherry has had better luck than you, Fanshawe," said
Harry with a smile, as they rode off.

"Yes, confound him!  But hang it, Harry, I'll not give
up hope yet.  She was very kind to me when she said
good-bye, and, by George! if I only escape a Frenchman's
bullet and can manage to come off with flying colours and
a neat little sabre-cut—who knows? she may be Mistress
Godfrey Fanshawe yet."

Harry was silent.  He felt a little surprised, perhaps
a little hurt, that Adèle should have shown more warmth
to Fanshawe, a friend of later date.  He did not know
what he had expected; he could not, indeed, have put his
thoughts into words; but the coldness of Mademoiselle's
farewell, so strongly contrasting with Madame's affectionate
manner, had left him vaguely dissatisfied and made
him disinclined to talk.  Fanshawe, however, was in high
spirits, and chattered freely as they went side by side at
a walking pace along the road to Breda.  Sherebiah by
and by overtook them, and kept a few yards behind.  He
too was in capital spirits, and, having no one to converse
with, was humming as he rode:

   |  "So Tom Pearce he got to the top o' the hill,
   |    All along, down along, out along lee;
   |  And he seed his old mare a-maken her will,
   |    Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan
   |        Whiddon, Harry Hawk, old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all,
   |  Old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all.

   |  "So Tom Pearce's old mare, her took sick an' died,
   |    All along, down along, out along lee,
   |  And Tom, he sat down on a stone, an' he cried,
   |    Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter——"
   |

"Confound you, Sherry!" cried Fanshawe, who had
been so busy talking that not till this moment had he
recognized the song.  "Hanged if you are not always
singing that wretched 'Widdicombe Fair'!"

"Beg pardon, sir.  No offence.  'Tis a favourite ditty
o' mine, and, axin' your pardon, I thowt 'twas one o'
yourn too."

"Nay; anything else, anything else, my good fellow, not
that, as you love me."

"Very good, sir.  I be in a mind to troll a ditty, 'tis
true, and if my tenor tones don't offend 'ee, I'll try a stave
o' 'Turmut-hoein'."

Next morning, under a bright May sun, the troops in
Breda marched out to join the Duke of Marlborough at
Ruremond.  As Harry's troop passed Lindendaal, and
he caught a glimpse of fluttering handkerchiefs at the
windows, he could not help wondering whether he should
see those kind friends again.

At Ruremond the troops were reviewed by the duke
himself; thence they marched to Juliers and Coblentz,
where they halted for two days to allow the Prussian
and Hanoverian levies in British pay to unite with them.
Everybody had expected that the march would be continued
up the Moselle, with the purpose of coming to grips
with the French army under Marshal Villeroy.  But to the
general astonishment orders were given to cross that river
by the stone bridge, and then the Rhine by two bridges of
boats, and to proceed through the principality of
Hesse-Cassel.  The new orders were eagerly discussed by the
officers of all the corps, but Marlborough had kept his own
counsel, and indeed at this time his plan was known to
scarcely anyone but Lord Godolphin, with whom he had
talked it over in outline before leaving England, and
Prince Eugene of Savoy, to whom he had entrusted it in
correspondence.

The plan must have seemed hazardous, even reckless, to
soldiers who held by the old traditions; but it was one that
displayed Marlborough's military genius to the full.  He
had divined the true meaning of the recent movements of
the French armies, and determined on a great effort to
defeat the aim of King Louis so shrewdly guessed at.
Relying on his ally, the Elector of Bavaria, the French
king had resolved to make a strenuous attack upon the
Emperor in the heart of his own dominions, Vienna.  If
Austria were crushed in one great battle, Louis had reason
to expect a general rising of the Hungarians, by which
the empire would be so much weakened that he could
enforce peace and secure the triumph of his policy on his
own terms.  Already a French army under Marshal Marsin
had joined forces with the Elector of Bavaria; other armies
were rapidly advancing to reinforce them, and the
combined host would be more than a match for any army that
the emperor could put in the field against it.

Marlborough saw only one way to save the empire: he
must prevent if possible the junction of the several French
armies, or, if that were impossible, defeat them in a pitched
battle.  But he knew that the States of Holland would
shrink from the risk of an expedition so far from their
own borders; he therefore gave out that his campaign
was to be conducted along the Moselle, and only when
he was well on his way, and it was too late to oppose
him, did he reveal his full design.  Fortunately the Dutch
Government rose to the opportunity; they sent him the
reinforcements and supplies he asked for, and were
satisfied with the detachment of one or two small forces to
keep watch on Villeroy, who had crossed the Meuse and
was threatening Huy.  For himself, Marlborough intended
to press forward with all speed towards the Danube, join
Prince Louis of Baden and Prince Eugene of Savoy, and
give battle to the combined French and Bavarians on
ground of his own choosing.

For Harry this famous march was attended with endless
novelty and excitement.  Every morning at dawn camp
was struck, and for five or six hours, with occasional
halts, the troops marched, covering twelve or fifteen
miles, and bivouacking about nine o'clock, thus
completing the day's work before the sun grew hot.  All
along the route supplies for man and beast were furnished
by commissaries, whose duties were so well organized that
everything was on the ground before the troops arrived,
and they had nothing to do but pitch their tents, boil their
kettles, and lie down to rest.  Everything was arranged
and carried out with matchless regularity and order;
Marlborough himself had a thorough grasp of the details, and
showed such consideration for his men that on personal
grounds he won their admiration and confidence.  The
passage of so large and miscellaneous a force, consisting
of English, Dutch, Prussians, Danes, and levies from several
of the minor German states, might well have been attended
by many disorders; but Marlborough always displayed
great humanity in his dealings with the people of the
country through which he passed, and in these matters
an army takes its cue from the commander-in-chief.

After quitting Coblentz, the duke went forward a day's
march with the cavalry, leaving the artillery and foot to
follow under the command of his brother, General Charles
Churchill.  Unfortunately rainy weather set in towards the
end of May, and the roads were rendered so difficult that
Churchill's force lost ground, and by the time Marlborough
reached Ladenburg, on June 2, was four or five days behind.
This delay gave the duke some little cause for anxiety, for
he had learnt that Prince Louis of Baden, a brave but
sluggish general of the old school, had allowed reinforcements
to reach the Elector of Bavaria, and failed to seize an
excellent opportunity of defeating the combined force.
Marlborough, wishing on this account to hurry his
advance, sent back two troops of Dutch horse to assist his
brother with the cannon.  One of these happened to be
Harry's.  The heavy Flemish horses were serviceable in
dragging the guns, but the rains were so persistent and the
soft roads so cut up that when Churchill reached Maintz
he was still some five days' march behind the duke.

Late on the night of June 3, when the camp was silent,
a courier reached Maintz with the following despatch from
Marlborough at Ladenburg:—

.. vspace:: 2

"I send this by express on purpose to be informed of the condition
you are in, both as to the troops and the artillery, and to
advise you to take your march with the whole directly to Heidelberg,
since the route we have taken by Ladenburg will be too
difficult for you.  Pray send back the messenger immediately,
and let me know by him where you design to camp each night,
and what day you propose to be at Heidelberg, that I may take
my measures accordingly."

.. vspace:: 2

General Churchill was roused from sleep to receive the
despatch.  He at once wrote his reply, but on sending it
out to the messenger learnt that he had been suddenly
seized with illness, and was unable to ride.  Churchill then
sent for Captain van der Werff, and asked him, since he
had already ridden the Ladenburg road with his troop,
to despatch the letter by one of his subalterns.  The
captain, who knew of Harry's relations with Marlborough,
pleased himself with the thought of bringing the two
together again, and, to Harry's unbounded delight, ordered
him to ride at once to Ladenburg.  Before he went he
was summoned to the bedside of General Churchill, and
saw the tall, thin, battered form of that excellent soldier
in the unheroic attire of night-shirt and cap.  From him
he learnt, in case of accident, the gist of the message,
which was that Churchill undertook to arrive at Heidelberg
on June 7.  Harry started before dawn, and reached
the camp at Ladenburg early.  He had crossed the Neckar
by the bridge of boats used by Marlborough's troops on
the previous day, and found the army encamped along the
river-side opposite the town.  The usual daily march had
been pretermitted, in order to allow time for the infantry
to make up something of the ground it had lost.

When Harry was taken into the presence of the
commander-in-chief, Marlborough was engaged in conversation
with Count Wratislaw, the emperor's agent, Colonel
Cadogan, his quartermaster-general, and other officers of
his staff.  The duke had learnt that Prince Eugene of
Savoy was on his way to join him, and was anxious that
the meeting should take place as soon as possible, so that
the plan outlined in their correspondence might be
discussed in full detail.  He had sent two messengers with
letters to meet Prince Eugene, informing him of his
whereabouts and urging him to hasten his coming; but neither
had returned, and he could not but fear that some
mischance had befallen them.  But it was a characteristic of
Marlborough's that, whatever his difficulties and anxieties,
he preserved always the same outward appearance of
settled calm—a great factor in his power over men.

He received General Churchill's letter from Harry's
hand with a pleasant smile and word of thanks, and bade
him wait, to see if it demanded an answer.  Then he
resumed his conversation, which was conducted in French.
Before long Harry, though he remained at a distance too
great to allow of his hearing what passed, judged from
the glances thrown occasionally in his direction that
something was being said about him.  Presently Marlborough
beckoned him forward.

"Mr. Rochester," he said, "I have an errand for you.
I wish to communicate with Prince Eugene of Savoy; two
of my officers whom I sent to him have apparently
miscarried; I wish to try a third.  You have had experience
in getting about the country, and I know from one or two
incidents in your late career that you have your wits about
you and can make good speed.  You will carry a letter
from me to Prince Eugene.  I will inform your colonel
that I have employed you on special duty.—Mr. Cardonnel,
be good enough to write from my dictation."

He dictated a short note to his secretary.

"You understand French, of course, Mr. Rochester?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Then I need not repeat my message.  You will keep
it in mind in case circumstances should require you to
destroy the letter.  You may meet with danger on the
road; otherwise I am at a loss to know why I am without
a reply to my two former letters.  You must therefore
be on your guard.  You will use all dispatch, hiring fresh
horses wherever it may be necessary—without, of course,
incurring needless expense.  I opine that you may meet
Prince Eugene at Innsprück; Colonel Cadogan will furnish
you with a map; your best road will lie through
Heidelberg, Wisloch, and the Swabian Alb.  When you reach
the prince you will doubtless be fatigued; his reply may
be sent by another messenger, to whom you will give such
hints for his guidance as your own journey may suggest.
In that case you need not unduly hurry your own return,
and on your way back you may find it possible to make
enquiries regarding the fate of my missing messengers:
they were Lieutenant Fanshawe of the Duke of
Schomberg's Horse, and Lieutenant Buckley of Colonel
Cadogan's.  Do you know either of them?"

"Lieutenant Fanshawe is an old friend of mine, my
lord," said Harry, "but I don't know Lieutenant
Buckley."

"Very well.  His Excellency Count Wratislaw here
will, I doubt not, favour you with a letter of safety which
will avail you with any of the civil authorities whose
assistance you may need *en route*; but since 'tis advisable
to attract as little attention as possible, I counsel you to
make no use of the letter except on emergency.  'Twill
be common knowledge along the road whether the prince
has passed on his way to the army, so that you should meet
with no difficulty in finding him.  Perhaps, the two
lieutenants having apparently come to grief, 'twould be well
for you to ride incognito.  What is your opinion, Colonel
Cadogan?"

"Faith, my lord, let him go as a young English milord
making the grand tour."

"But he would then need a servant and baggage."

"Give out that his servant has broken his leg or is laid
up with the colic, and he is riding post to Venice; his wits
will invent a reason."

"I think, sir, I would rather go as I am," said Harry.
"My errand would not then be complicated."

"The simpler way is often the best," said the duke.
"Very well.  Here is the letter; I will send you Count
Wratislaw's shortly; you will then set off at once."

Harry bowed and withdrew, feeling highly elated at
being entrusted with this mission.  It was an expedition
on which he would gladly have had the company of Sherebiah;
but there was no time to send for him; besides, one
might go more safely than two.  An hour later, furnished
with a supply of money by Colonel Cadogan, he rode off
on a fresh horse, passed through Heidelberg without delay,
by favour of Count Wratislaw's safe-conduct, and struck
into the long straight road that led due south through
Leimen and Wisloch.

What had become of Fanshawe, he wondered.  It was
a friendly country; the enemy were, so far as he could
gather, no nearer than Ulm on the Danube, so that it
was little likely that Fanshawe had fallen in with French
or Bavarian troops.  On the other hand, the country was
infested with spies, and here and there in out-of-the-way
spots bands of outlaws were said to have fixed their
haunts, whence they made depredations on neighbouring
villages.  But it was useless to speculate on what might
have happened, and Harry took care not to awaken
curiosity or suspicion by any premature enquiries.
Stopping merely to change horses at posting inns and to
snatch a light meal, he reached Stuttgart about six
o'clock in the afternoon, having ridden sixty miles since
he left Ladenburg.  This, with his previous ride from
Maintz, had made him stiff and sore; but, tired as he was,
he determined to push on after a short rest, and reach, if
possible, the little town of Urach that night.

Soon after leaving Stuttgart he entered the district
known as the Swabian Alb, a country of wooded
mountains and picturesque, well-watered valleys, now in all their
midsummer glory.  The road became steeper after he had
crossed the river Neckar, and as his horse was labouring
somewhat he began to wish that he had remained to sleep
in Stuttgart.  He was still some miles short of Urach
when he came suddenly upon an inn, standing back from
the high-road, and nestling among a group of tall,
full-leaved beeches.  It bore the sign "Zum grauen Bären".
The pleasant situation and the warm colours of this
Swabian hostelry were very inviting to a tired man.  His
mouth was parched with thirst; his horse was panting
and steaming; and a short rest would do both of them
good.  A moment's hesitation; then he wheeled to the
left, and was met by the landlord, who rose from a bench
before the inn, where he was smoking his evening pipe
along with a squat companion looking like a farmer.
The landlord was not so attractive in appearance as his
inn, but he gave Harry a suave greeting in German, and
asked how he could serve the noble Herr.  Harry had
picked up a word or two of German in Holland, and asked
in that tongue for the refreshment he desired; but at the
first word the landlord gave him a sharp yet furtive look,
immediately effaced by his wonted bland smile.  He went
into the inn, and soon returned with a cup of wine, while
an ostler brought a pail of water for the horse.

Harry was glad to rest his aching limbs on the bench,
and to sip the cool Rhenish.  The landlord, standing by
him, showed a desire to be conversational.

"The noble Herr is for Urach?  He will scarcely get
there to-night."

He spoke now in a mixture of German and bad French.

"Why, is it so far?" said Harry.  "I thought I was
nearly there."

"True, Excellency, it is not very far; but the town
council has become somewhat timid since the French and
Bavarians came prowling along the Danube, and the gates
are shut at half-past seven."

"A solitary horseman will not scare them," said Harry
with a smile.  "They will surely open to me."

"Not so, Excellency.  The order is stern.  Why, only
yesterday a Rittmeister passing to join the forces of the
Prince of Baden was refused admittance just after the
clock had struck, and had to come back to this very inn.
Donner, was he not angry, the noble Herr!  But anger
cannot pierce stone walls; the gentleman uttered many
round oaths, but he came back all the same.  Was it not
so, Hermann?"

His thickset companion assented with a rough "Jawohl!"

"Well, I can but try," said Harry, thinking of Count
Wratislaw's letter as his open sesame.  "I shall ride on
in a minute or two."

The landlord lifted his eyebrows.

"The noble Herr has perhaps more persuasion than the
Herr Rittmeister.  But if you find it as I say,—well, there
is good accommodation within."

He went into the inn with his companion, leaving Harry
on the bench.  Harry reflected.  It was absurd to tire
himself needlessly; he had ridden with brief intervals for
nearly eighteen hours since he left Maintz, and felt by no
means eager to get into the saddle again.  Perhaps it
would be best to close with the man's offer, sleep at the
inn, and start fresh early in the morning.  Yet he
hesitated; there was something about the landlord that he did
not like; he felt for him one of those unaccountable
antipathies that spring up at a word, a look, a touch.  But
the feeling was vague and unsubstantial; after a moment
he dismissed it as unreasonable, and concluded that his
best course would be to take his rest now rather than run
the risk of having it deferred for some hours.

He went into the inn.

"The noble Herr decides to stay?" said the landlord.
"Well!  I would not persuade, but I think you are right,
Excellency.  Johann, take the gentleman's horse to the
stable.  I will see then that a room is prepared.  And you
will like supper, Excellency?"

"Yes.  Anything will do."

He accompanied the ostler to the stable and saw the
horse well rubbed and fed.

"Whose horse is that?" he asked, noticing a sorrel in
the next stall.

"He belongs, Excellency, to the gentleman now with
the host, by name Hermann Bart, a farmer of the district."

"Oh! he looks a strong beast—the horse, I mean.  I
shall want to be off at dawn; you'll see that my horse is
ready?"

Returning to the inn, he ate the plain supper brought
him by an old woman as deaf as a post.  While he sat at
table the landlord stood opposite him, attentively
anticipating his wants.

"I can have a light breakfast at three, landlord?"

"Certainly, Excellency; we are early birds here, though
in these times there are few travellers along the road,
more's the pity."

"Ah!  Is there any news of the armies hereabouts?"

"Why yes.  Only yesterday—so it is said—the Elector
of Bavaria crossed the river at Ulm, and the Prince of
Baden, who 'tis to be hoped will beat him, stands
somewhat higher up at Ehingen across the mountains yonder."

"You have not been troubled yourself by the soldiers?"

"Never a whit, Excellency.  And I trust I never shall
be.  They march, you see, along the rivers, and my little
place is out of their route.  You are travelling far, mein
Herr?"

"Not a great distance," replied Harry, thinking it
prudent to give no information.  The landlord made no
attempt to press him, but kept up a desultory
conversation until he had finished his supper.

"I will go and take a look at my horse, and then turn in."

He went out to the stable, and noticed that the second
horse was gone.

"Your friend the farmer has gone home then?" he said
to the ostler.

"Yes, Excellency, some time ago."

"My horse is comfortable, I see; good-night!"

As he left the stable he heard the man behind him
whistling as he gave the cobbles a final sweeping for the
night.  The tune seemed familiar, but Harry was not
sufficiently interested to give another thought to it.  The
landlord met him at the door with a lighted candle and led
the way to his room.

"It is a small room, Excellency," he explained apologetically;
"not such a room as befits a gentleman of your
rank.  But the truth is, the heavy rains of late have found
out a weak spot in the roof, and my large guest-chamber
is consequently very damp.  The small room here to the
left is, however, very comfortable; it was last occupied by
an Austrian nobleman who slept through the night
without turning an eyelid."

"Then it will suit me very well," said Harry.

"Breakfast at daybreak, you said, Excellency?"

"Yes."

"You will want nothing more to-night?"

"Nothing.  Good-night, landlord!"

Harry shut the door and shot the bolt.  He thought the
Austrian nobleman must have been easily satisfied.  The
room was about twelve feet by seven, and contained
nothing but a bed and a chair.  There was one small
window opening on to the courtyard some thirty feet
below, the view of the yard being partially obstructed by a
projecting wing of the house immediately beneath.  The air
of the room being very stuffy, he opened the window wide;
then he undressed, blew out the light, and got into bed,
pulling out the blanket, which seemed somewhat frowsy,
and finding enough warmth in the light coverlet.

But he found it impossible to sleep.  He was in fact
overtired, and bodily fatigue often makes the mind only
more active.  He fell a-musing, and wondered what it
was in the landlord's manner that he disliked.  Through
the window came the sound of the stableman's whistle as
he locked the yard gate, and Harry tried in vain to
recollect where he had heard the tune before.  The ostler was
a happy fellow, evidently; perhaps his master was better
than he appeared.  The whistling ceased, a door banged,
presumably the man had gone to bed; "and he'll sleep as
sound as a top," thought Harry.  He turned over on to
his back and stared at the ceiling, which consisted of thick
beams with rough boards between.  By and by he noticed
a dark square outline in the planking just above him.  He
could not see it distinctly, for the beams of the rising
moon did not fall upon it directly, but across the bed,
making the room itself fairly light.  For a time he looked
idly at the square; it was evidently a trap-door.  He
began to be curious about it, then was aware of an
indefinable, inexplicable sense of uneasiness, of insecurity.
He felt that he could neither withdraw his gaze from the
trap-door nor put it from his thoughts.  He turned on
to his right side, away from the window, but in a few
moments was on his back again, staring up as before.

"This is ridiculous," he said to himself impatiently.
"I wonder whether the thing has a bolt."

He rose, and, standing on the bed, found that with
outstretched hand he could just reach the boards.  Exploring
the edge of the trap-door with his fingers he soon
discovered that there was no bolt, though there had evidently
been one at some time, for on a second search he felt an
iron socket let into one of the adjacent joists.  He raised
himself on tiptoes and gently pushed at the door.  It rose
slightly; clearly it was not fastened above.  No glimmer
of moonlight came through the small gap between the trap
and the ceiling; therefore it did not give directly upon the
roof, but probably opened into an attic or loft.  There was
nothing more to be discovered, and indeed he scarcely felt
that he needed to discover more, for his uneasiness had
already been largely dissipated by action.  He lay down
again, and tried to sleep.

This time he was successful.  How long he slept he did
not know.  He suddenly awoke, and at the first moment
of consciousness remembered the ostler's tune; he
identified it now; it was something like Fanshawe's song of
"Widdicombe Fair".  He was not enough of a musician
to decide how close was the resemblance; country songs
of different nations were, he supposed, often alike.  Glad
that his puzzlement was gone, he settled himself once
more to sleep.

All at once his senses were roused to full activity by the
sound of two or more horses approaching the inn, at a
walk, as he knew by the fall of the hoofs.  It was very
late for travellers; besides, travellers would probably have
ridden up at a trot; he wondered who the riders could
be, and listened intently.  In a few moments the sounds
ceased; then through the open window came the murmur
of low voices.  Springing quietly out of bed, he went
to the window and peeped cautiously out.  Five men
were leading their horses into the copse immediately
opposite to the inn.  The short squat figure of one of
them reminded him of the farmer whom he had seen
with the landlord a few hours before; he seemed the
shorter by contrast with the next man, a tall massive
figure.  They went quietly, and disappeared into the
copse; soon afterwards four of them emerged from the
trees and approached the inn.  Not a word was spoken;
the men were apparently walking on tiptoe; but there
came the slight sound of a door opening and closing, then
dead silence again.

By this time Harry was as wide-awake as ever he had
been in his life.  His uneasiness returned in full force, and
was now magnified into suspicion.  The landlord's furtive
look and unsatisfactory manner; the story of the closing
of the gates of Urach; his lame explanation about the
room; the absence of a fastening to the trap-door; the
disappearance of the landlord's forbidding companion; the
reappearance of the same man with a number of others;
their stealthy movements, and the fact that they had tied
their horses up in the copse instead of bringing them into
the courtyard—all these were links in a chain of suspicious
circumstance, of little significance singly, but disturbing
when taken together.  And the stableman's tune—what
did that mean?  Was it actually the tune of "Widdicombe
Fair", and not merely one resembling it?  Had the ostler
heard it from Fanshawe's lips?  Was he on the track of
the explanation of the disappearance of one of
Marlborough's messengers?

Quickly and noiselessly Harry slipped on his clothes.
His first duty was, of course, to deliver the duke's letter;
nothing must interfere with that.  His suspicions might
be utterly groundless, but on the other hand they might be
only too well justified.  He must be on the safe side; it
was necessary to put himself out of harm's way.

Only one staircase led to his room: it sprang from the
narrow entrance-hall of the inn, on each side of which
were the doors of the rooms on the ground floor.  He
could scarcely hope to be able to pass down, however
stealthily, without being discovered; and even if he did
succeed in this and left the inn, he would be immediately
seen by the fifth man, who, he guessed, had been left in
the copse to keep watch on the front door.  The staircase
being given up, there remained only the window and the
trap-door.  By placing the chair upon the bed and
mounting it he might manage to swing himself up through the
trap-door; but it flashed upon him that if any mischief
were intended the midnight visitors would certainly
approach through the attic or loft above.  He remembered
passing, at the head of the stairs, a door which he had
taken to be that of a cupboard; it might be the entrance to
a stair leading to the loft, and if he tried that exit he would
certainly be in an even worse trap.

A glance from the window determined his choice.  There
was a drop of about fifteen feet from it to the roof of the
outbuilding.  In the moonlight he caught sight of what
appeared to be the top of a drain-pipe from the roof of this
lower building to the ground.  The drain-pipe would form
an easy means of descent could he gain the roof.  There
was only one way to do that: to descend by aid of a rope.
Without hesitation he drew the thin coverlet from the bed,
and tore it across the middle.  Knotting the two pieces
together he rolled up a clumsy but serviceable rope.  The
window was only two feet from the bed-post.  He tied the
rope to this, slung his boots round his neck, wrapped his
scabbard in a corner cut from the blanket, to prevent its
clanking, and prepared to descend.

It was fortunate that the window was already open, for
the creaking of the frame might have attracted attention.
There was a risk that the man in the copse might see him
as he got through the window; but the moon was now
above the house, and the overhanging roof cast a deep
shadow over all below.

He had his hand on the broad window-sill, preparing to
begin the descent, when an idea gave him pause.  How
ridiculous he must appear if his suspicions turned out to
be baseless, and he had slunk like a thief from the house!
How humiliating would be his situation if he were caught
in the act and treated as a doubtful character!  He could
not be suspected of stealing; there was nothing to steal;
but he might be thought to be running away without
paying.  He could prevent that, at any rate.  He put a
gold piece on the chair.

"That's double pay," he thought.

But still he hesitated.  No man cares to look a fool, and
he would certainly look very foolish if his imagination
proved to have run away with him.  But what is that?
A slight creak on the stairs, then another.  Now a faint
rustle outside the door.  Holding his breath he listens.
Yes, the supposed cupboard door is being opened; a
moment, then he hears the faint but unmistakable creak
of footsteps on the crazy stairs leading to the attic.  He
hesitates no longer.  In two minutes at the most the
intruders will have come through the trap-door into the
room.  Throwing one leg over the window-sill, he grasps
his rope with one hand and the sill with the other; over
goes the other leg, and now he is hanging by the frail
rope.  He feels the soft material yield to his weight; it is
stretched to its full extent; it holds!  He needs it for only
a few feet.  Down he glides: his feet touch the slates of
the outhouse; now he is in full view from the copse save
that a chimney-stack on the roof throws a black shadow all
around him.  Will he escape notice?  Keeping the chimney
between him and the copse he crawls slowly over the slates
and finds as he had hoped that the rain-water pipe is out
of sight.  He slips over, grasps the pipe, and is half-way
down when there is a noise in the room above; and as his
feet at last touch the ground he sees two faces at the open
window and hears loud shouts.

He had already resolved on a risky experiment; it
appeared his only chance of escape.  He had noticed that
the country around, though hilly, was bare of vegetation
except about the inn, where trees had been planted to
tempt wayfarers.  He knew that as soon as he got away
from the buildings his figure would be seen in the bright
moonbeams, and he was bound to be ridden down.  The
shouts from the window might be expected for the moment
to hold the attention of the man on the watch.  Relying
on this, Harry darted across the road in the shadow of the
outbuildings and dived into the copse some twenty or
thirty yards from the place where the men had entered
with the horses.  Bending low, moving rapidly, yet with
all possible caution, among the trees, he bore to the left
towards the single watcher, whom he could now hear on
the road shouting in answer to the men in the house.
Harry could not distinguish their words, but judged from
the vehemence of their tone and his own consciousness of
his design that they were bawling to the sentinel to return
to the horses he had left.  It was a question which should
reach them first.  The copse was almost dark; a glint of
light from the moon filtered through the foliage here and
there.  Running in his stockings Harry made no noise;
but he could already hear the heavy trampling of the man
as he plunged through the trees somewhere to his left.

Suddenly he came to a narrow clearing; on the other
side he saw the horses tethered to the trees.  Keeping just
within the edge of the copse he ran round at his utmost
speed towards the animals, and just before he reached
them saw that their guardian had arrived at the end of the
clearing nearest to the road and had stopped in the attitude
of listening.  There was much hubbub from the direction
of the inn, and by the sounds Harry knew that several men
were crossing the road towards the copse.  The horses
were between him and the solitary sentinel.  Coming to
the nearest, he cast off its bridle, then, vaulting to the
saddle, he drew his sword and cut the bridles of the others,
which were standing head to head, loosely attached to the
projecting branch of a small tree.  The man gave a shout
and rushed forward when he saw Harry on the horse.
It was a moment for quick decision.  Smartly hitting the
four intervening horses with the flat of his sword, Harry
set them scampering through the edge of the copse.  The
man could not evade them, and in a moment he was
knocked down.  Harry meanwhile, trusting to the
darkness, followed on the heels of two horses which were
heading through the clearing towards the inn.  At the
outer edge of the copse he was encountered by two men
who attempted to catch his rein.  Toppling one over and
cutting at the other he gained the highway; then set his
borrowed steed to a gallop and rode on towards Urach.
"A near shave!" he thought.  He stopped a few hundred
yards from the walls to put on his boots, then rode up to
the gate.

It was shut, and he had some difficulty in rousing the
gatekeeper.  When the man came at length to his summons,
he refused point-blank to allow the rider to enter.

"I can't wait," cried Harry.  "Seek the officer of the
watch; I'll not answer for what may happen if you delay me."

The gatekeeper went away grumbling and returned with
the lieutenant of the town guard, who held a pistol and
asked Harry's business.

"I am on a mission for my lord Marlborough," said
Harry.  "This letter from his Excellency Count Wratislaw
will satisfy you."

The officer tried to read the letter by the light of the
moon, but finding this impossible, waited until the
gate-keeper had lit his horn lantern.  Then, having read the
letter, he ordered the man to open the gate.

"Will you ride farther to-night, Monsieur?" he asked.

"No, I am dog tired," replied Harry.  "Will you direct
me to a lodging?"

"Permit me to offer you the hospitality of my own
quarters.  The inns are all closed, of course; you are a
very late traveller, Monsieur."

"Yes, I have been somewhat delayed on the road.  If
you will give me sleeping quarters for a few hours I shall
be obliged to you."

In less than a quarter of an hour he was fast asleep.
At four he was wakened, according to instructions given
before he turned in.  Stiff and sore as he was, he meant
to ride on at once, for the sooner his mission was
completed the sooner would he have the opportunity of seeking
an explanation with the innkeeper, which he promised
himself should be a thorough one.  The lieutenant of the
guard, a pleasant fellow, had a light breakfast ready, and
was eager to give information about the road.  From him
Harry learnt that the highway to Biberach would lead
through the lines of Prince Louis of Baden.  Though he
had no instructions to avoid the prince's army, he thought
it very probable that he would best serve the duke by
preventing gossip.  So, finding that by diverging somewhat
to the right and taking the road by Riedlingen he would
pass outside Prince Louis's lines and lose little time, he
decided to adopt this course.  Thanking his entertainer,
and promising to call on him on the way back, he set off
on his ride.  Not a word had he said about his adventure
at the inn.  It would be time to deal with that when his
duty was done.

Harry rode a hundred miles that day, reaching the town
of Immenstadt in the evening.  He met with no adventure
on the way; he found ready service at the inns at which he
stopped to change horses, rest, and eat.  But at the day's
end he felt all but worn out.  The sun had shone brilliantly,
scorching his face, neck, and hands, and causing much
discomfort to his horses.  They suffered, however, less than
he, for while the steeds were changed at short stages, the
rider was always the same.  He got some little relief by
walking up the steepest hills along the road.  His
physical state and his preoccupation made him oblivious of the
scenes through which he passed; afterwards he had but
the vaguest recollections of hill ridges, bosky dells, blue
lakes, and dark masses of rock, with a miry road winding
among them, and here and there inns where he was
thankful to rest awhile.

He slept that night at Immenstadt, rose reluctantly early
next morning, and started for what he hoped was the last
stage of his journey.  About ten o'clock he arrived at the
little village of Obermiemingen.  As he rode in, he noted
signs of excitement in the street.  The whole population
seemed to be gathered about the inn.  At the door stood
a heavy travelling coach with four horses, two of them
saddled for postilions.  His arrival diverted the attention
of some of the peasants to himself, and they parted to
make way for him.  Dismounting stiffly he went to the
inn-door and called for the host.  After some time a servant
came to him and explained that mine host was engaged at
that moment with his Excellency Prince Eugene of Savoy,
who had driven up shortly before attended by two officers
and thirty troopers.

"Then I am in luck's way," said Harry.  "I have a
letter to his Excellency: conduct me to his room."

Two minutes later he found himself in the presence of
the renowned soldier: the man who, mocked at in the
French court as the "little abbé" and refused employment
by King Louis, had ever since lived for nothing else but to
prove himself a thorn in that monarch's side.  He was of
somewhat less than the middle height, dark-complexioned,
with refined though not small features, and large flashing
eyes.  Harry presented his letter; the prince having read
it, laughed and said:

"My lord Marlborough is anxious, Monsieur.  But a
few hours ago I received a message from him—dated
several days back, it is true: you have had better fortune
than the first messenger.  The letter was brought to me at
Innsprück by a farmer from the Swabian Alb; the courier,
an officer of my lord Marlborough, had fallen from his
horse, it appears, and being conveyed to a cottage the
children had made free with his wallet while he himself
lay insensible and their elders were attending upon him.
For myself, I suspect it was the elders who were curious.
But the letter contained no more than this one you have
brought, so their curiosity reaped but little gratification.—Now,
are you to carry my answer to my lord?"

"If your Excellency wishes," said Harry, "but my lord
duke told me I might use another hand if I were fatigued."

"And that you certainly are.  You must have come at
great speed, and I will not tax you further.  Very well.  I
am proceeding to Immenstadt; there I shall await a
communication from Vienna, and then go directly forward to
my meeting with the duke.  I will acquaint him of my
design by a messenger of my own.  Pray refresh yourself
now, Monsieur."

In a few minutes the prince drove off with his escort,
and Harry enjoyed a sort of reflected importance.  He was
given the best the inn could afford, and provided, after
some delay and difficulty—his request was almost
incomprehensible to the landlord—with the luxury of a bath.
He remained in Obermiemingen until the heat of the day
had spent itself, then cantered easily back to Immenstadt,
where for the first time for many days he slept the
round of the clock.  Reporting himself to Prince Eugene
next morning, he learnt that the expected messenger from
Vienna had not yet arrived, and having nothing to detain
him there he started on the road back.  There was no need
for hurry; that day he rode seventy miles, to Riedlingen;
then next morning he went on to Urach, where he at once
looked up the amiable lieutenant of the guard who had
treated him so well on his way through.

"You are back then, Monsieur?" said the lieutenant,
greeting him heartily.  "I did not tell you before, but
the truth is I was not at all sure you would reach your
destination safely."

"And you didn't wish to frighten me!  But why, Monsieur?"

"There are bands of marauders in the hills; deserters,
broken men, and what not, ready to snap up any unsuspecting
traveller who promises to be worth it.  They have
done much damage in the neighbourhood, robbing and
plundering undefended farms and hamlets, and though we
are strong enough here to beat them off we cannot risk an
expedition against them, and Prince Louis of Baden is too
much occupied, I suppose, to give any heed to our requests
for assistance."

"Well, Monsieur," said Harry, "I was not ignorant of
what you have told me.  And indeed I want to ask your
help in a matter not unconnected with it.  Two messengers
from my lord Marlborough's army have disappeared somewhere
in these parts; I think I have a clue to their fate, and
wish to follow it up.  Can you procure me the services of
a stout, sensible fellow to ride with me?—a man thoroughly
to be depended on, and one who will face danger if need be."

"I know the very man," said the officer instantly; "one
Max Berens, who was servant to a French officer until the
beginning of the war, but, refusing to fight against his own
people, is now out of employment.  He is a young fellow,
strong, honest, intelligent; I know him well.  I will send
for him."

Harry liked the look of Max Berens when he appeared.
He reminded him not a little of Sherebiah, of whom he
might have been a younger and a slighter copy.  Max
readily accepted Harry's offer of a week's service, and
promised to be ready with horses at seven o'clock that
same evening.

At that hour the two rode north towards the wayside inn.
On the way Harry asked Max if he knew anything of the
landlord.

"Little enough, Monsieur.  He's a sly fellow, and
demands high prices; but there, the same could be said
of any innkeeper."

As they drew near the inn they made a detour, and,
entering the copse from the farther side, tied up their
horses and came through the trees.  Dusk had already
fallen, and as the sky was overcast the evening was
blacker than is usual at the time of year.  The inn was
in darkness except for a light in the kitchen.  Followed
by Max, Harry emerged from the copse, crossed the road,
and rapped smartly on the closed door.  It was opened
almost immediately by the landlord himself, who, seeing
two men on foot, and not recognizing Harry in the
darkness, said:

"Come in, gentlemen.  What are your commands?  I
will bring a light in a moment."

Returning with a candle, he now saw who the first of
his visitors was, and looked very uncomfortable.

"I have very little in the house, Excellency——" he
began deprecatingly.  Harry cut him short.

"Pray don't be distressed.  I left hurriedly—you
remember me, landlord?—and we have a little reckoning to
make together.  It need not take long.—Max, stand at
the door, and see that our good host and I are not
disturbed.—Now, landlord, we will have a little talk."  The
kitchen door was open and the room empty.  "This will
do quite well; I repeat, we shall not remain long."

The man looked relieved, Harry thought; but he said
nothing, merely brushing a chair for his visitor.  Harry
sat down, removed his hat, and leant back, stretching his
legs for comfort after his ride.

"Yes, landlord, I left your house somewhat hurriedly, I
fear, and at an unseemly hour."

The man shot a quick glance at him; but, having now
had time to collect his wits, assumed an air of friendly
concern, and began to speak with great volubility.

"The noble Herr had indeed a miraculous escape.  Your
excellency will remember—I told you of the marauders.
They are dangerous knaves; they stick at nothing; only
the other day they sacked and burnt a farmhouse in the
hills, and killed all the inmates—man, wife, three children,
and a dozen servants.  Glad indeed was I to find that your
excellency had eluded them.  They must have spied upon
your coming; yes, dangerous villains, I say.  We should
have had troops to protect us, but his highness Prince
Louis—whom God defend!—cannot spare a man, it is
said, so hard is he pressed by the French; and we poor
Swabians are at the mercy of these robbers, the offscourings
of all the armies.  Ah, your excellency, these are bad
times for us poor folk, bad times indeed; not that it
becomes me to complain when our noble rulers think it
necessary to make war; but it is the poor who suffer.  It is we
who are taxed to keep the soldiers afoot; the bread is
taken out of our children's mouths; we are murdered and
robbed, our houses are plundered and burned——"

"Except in your case, mein Wirth," said Harry, interrupting
the man's hurried, nervous, inconsequent speech.
"You seem very comfortable here; I see no signs of
plunder or burning."

"No, your excellency, they—they—they were disturbed."

"Disturbed!"

"Did I say disturbed?  I meant alarmed—alarmed,
mein Herr.  Your excellency's escape—for which Heaven
be thanked!—caused them to hurry off;—yes, to hurry off,
for, of course, they feared the guard from Urach; that is
how it was: your excellency understands?"

"Perfectly.  And which way did they go?"

"Which way, your excellency?"  The man's tone was
expressive of the greatest surprise: he was gaining
confidence.  "How should I know?  They galloped away;
that was all I knew——"

"Ah!  And where did they get the horses?"

"The horses! the horses!  Ah yes! the horses."  Mine
host was now floundering desperately.  "Why, of course,
they caught the horses and then galloped away—you
understand?"

"Excellently.  And my horse—you have that in your
stable still?"

"Your horse!  Yes, of course; it must be there; I will
go and saddle it myself for your excellency."

"Not so fast.  There is no hurry, my friend.  They
caught the horses and galloped away.  And where are
they now?"

"What strange questions, Excellency!  Where are they
now?  How should I know!  It is announced they went
away towards Ulm: one can never tell with such wretches:
they are here to-day and gone to-morrow.  To look for
them would be like looking for a needle in a haystack."

"That's a pity, landlord; I fear you must make up your
mind for a long search."

"A search!  I, Excellency?"

"Yes, you.  And we will, if you please, start at once."

Harry said this in the same quiet matter-of-fact tone in
which he might have said, "I will have breakfast at
eight".  The landlord looked dumbfounded, his head
hanging forward, his eyes fixed in a wild stare upon the face
of the visitor.  Harry sat up in his chair and spoke very
slowly and distinctly, leaving time for the words to sink in.

"I have come, landlord, either to find our midnight
disturbers, or to deliver you in their stead to the
magistrates of Urach.  Which it is to be depends entirely on
you.  No; it is useless to protest"—the man was rubbing
his hands nervously together, and stammering an
expostulation—"I have the strongest proof that you were
associated with the villains in the trap set for me three nights
ago.  You can make your choice between returning with
me to Urach, where there is plenty of rope and a serviceable
gallows-frame in the market square; and yielding me
sincere and instant help in the little enquiry I am about to
make.  I do not wish to hurry you: you shall have a few
minutes to think it over.  Bring me a cup of wine."

The man moved to the cupboard as in a dream.  Harry
took the cup he offered, and as he sipped it, watched the
landlord return the bottle mechanically to its place on the
shelf, take up a plate and put it down again, cut half
through a loaf of bread and leave the knife in it, flick
imaginary crumbs from the clear table.  He looked like
a rat in a trap.  He glanced at the window, then at the
door, and appeared for a moment to measure his chances
in a struggle.  But Harry's air of confident self-possession,
and the knowledge that a sturdy henchman held the door
within a few feet of him, daunted any impulse to active
resistance.  At length, drawing a napkin nervously through
his fingers, and trying to assume an air of dignified
forbearance, he said:

"I am in your excellency's hands.  I protest; but since
you doubt me, I am willing to accompany your excellency
to Urach, and prove my innocence to the magistrates.  I
am well known in Urach, and permit me to say, I shall
require good compensation when you are forced to admit
your mistake."

"Your expectation shall not be disappointed," said
Harry quietly.  "We will, then, start at once."

"But it will be near midnight when we arrive, your
excellency being on foot——"

"You have my horse in your stable, I thought?"

"I was mistaken,—a moment's forgetfulness, mein
Herr.  The horse—the other day—I mean——"

"Yes, I understand.  Nevertheless, we will start at once."

"But, Excellency, nothing can be done until the morning.
If you will wait——"

"For another visit from your friends? no."

"Not my friends, Excellency.  I am an honest man.
But as you will.  I will awaken the ostler and leave him
in charge of the inn."

He made quickly towards the door, but Harry, who had
seen through all his attempts to gain time and make an
opportunity to get away, interposed.

"Ring your bell there: that will waken him.  But you
will not leave him in charge of the house: he will come
with us, and your servant also.  The inn shall be shut up,
and I doubt not your good fortune in escaping the
attentions of the marauders will still hold.  I will give you
five minutes to get ready."

The landlord, seeing that his last hope of communicating
with his friends was gone, recognized that the
game was up.  His assurance collapsed; he became
merely sullen.

"What is it that your excellency wishes me to do?"

"As I said: first to choose between complying with my
demands and facing a public trial for treason at Urach."

"What are your excellency's demands?"

"First make your choice."

"Your excellency will guarantee my safety if I comply?"

"I cannot answer for that; but I will do what I can."

The man's face gave signs of a final mental struggle;
then he said:

"I will do as your excellency wishes."

"A wise choice: it gives you a chance of saving your
neck; there is none at all the other way.  A few questions
first.  How many travellers—let us say officers of the
English army—have you trapped as you tried to trap me?"

The man hesitated.

"Quick!" cried Harry, "no paltering now.  You know
the alternative."

"One, your excellency," was the reluctant, sullen
admission.

"And what became of the other?"

"He was waylaid on the road."

"The first, or the second?"

"The second."

"And the officer captured here—what was he like?
Was he tall or short?"

"He was tall, Excellency, with fair hair and blue eyes.
He was always whistling."

"These officers—where were they taken to?"

"To the hills."

"In what direction?"

"Towards Geislingen."

"Where are they now?"

The man dropped his eyes and fidgeted.  He had been
growing restive under this examination; his tone had
become more and more sullen.

"I—I don't know, Excellency," he stammered.

"Come, refresh your memory.  Remember—they have
to be found; I must have an answer, and an exact
description of the spot: out with it!"

The landlord could hardly have looked more uncomfortable
if a thumb-screw had been applied.  For a few
moments he strove with himself; then muttered:

"I don't know: the castle of Rauhstein—when I last
heard."

"And when was that?"

"Yesterday."

"The castle will not have moved, eh?  Where is it?"

"About ten miles away."

"Who owns it?"

"Nobody: it is a ruin.  The land belongs to the Graf
von Rauhstein."

"But it is not so much a ruin that it cannot shelter your
friends.  How many do they number?"

"Two hundred or more."

"What are they?"

"All kinds: soldiers, outlaws—French, Bavarian, Swabian."

"And who commands them?"

"A Bavarian captain: by his speech, a foreigner born."

"That is enough, I think.  We will prepare to start."

"To start, Excellency!  Whither?"

"For the castle."

"But—but, Excellency," stammered the man, "you do
not mean it?  You would not venture there, you and I and
two men?  You—we—they would murder us all."

"We must risk that.  As for you, your risk will be
equally great, or greater, if you stay here: if the two
officers are not safe in Urach by to-morrow night, a detachment
will be sent to arrest you.  You understand?"

The landlord was chapfallen and pallid with mingled
fears.  On the one hand, the vengeance of the associates
he had been constrained to betray; on the other, the
retribution of the burghers of Urach.

"Excellency," he said falteringly, "I have given
you information.  You have promised to guarantee my
safety——"

"No," interrupted Harry; "I said I would do what
I could."

"I trust to you, Excellency: you will have mercy upon
a poor man; in these days it is hard to live; I did not
mean any harm to the officers; I insisted their persons
should not be injured: I was under compulsion, fearing——"

"Enough!" said Harry, to whom the man's cringing
and whining were more distasteful than his former
attitude.  "Give my man the key of your stable: he will
saddle your horse.  We shall not need to awaken your
servant, after all.  You will lead the way to the castle.
And one word before we start: try to mislead us or play
us false, and you will be immediately shot.  I give you
my word for that.  Now, put on your hat."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Castle of Rauhstein`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XX


.. class:: center large bold

   The Castle of Rauhstein

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

The Hidden Way—In the Fosse—Below the Dungeons—Out of
the Depths—A Sleeping Castle—The Stairway in the
Keep—Counting the Chickens—The Battlements—A
Breakneck Descent—A Friendly Shower—A Narrow
Margin—Eugene Laughs—A Bold Stroke—Eugene's
Double—"Our Good Prince Eugene"—Mein Wirth as
Postilion—An Empty Pistol

.. vspace:: 2

It was about nine o'clock, and a dark night, when Harry
with his two companions set off on horseback towards
the castle of Rauhstein.  When Harry mentioned their
destination to Max, the man said that he had known the
district from boyhood, and was well acquainted with the
castle and its precincts, so that it was unnecessary to take
the landlord as guide.  But the latter could not be left
to himself except under lock and key, and Harry decided
that it would be at once safer and more convenient to have
him with them.  Max led the way along a horse-track
that zigzagged over the limestone hills, Harry followed
with the landlord, their horses being securely linked
together.  Harry had unbuttoned his holsters, displaying
two pistols; the sight of them, he felt, would keep the
landlord on his good behaviour.

The track was tortuous, skirting rugged spurs of rock,
crossing narrow ravines, and here and there a mountain
brook, passing through black clumps of beech forest that
dotted the slope.  The riders were surrounded by a vast
silence, broken only by the cries of night birds and the
croak of frogs in the pools.  The horses' shoes clicked on
the hard ground; it would clearly not be safe to approach
too close to the castle on horseback, and as they rode
Harry quietly asked the landlord how the ruin was
situated, and whether there was any cover within a secure
distance.  He learnt that the castle was built against the
hill-side, so that it was inaccessible from the rear; it was
almost wholly in ruins, but the keep and one or two
adjacent parts had been recently made habitable by the
marauders.  There was a fosse, now dry; the drawbridge
had disappeared, and was replaced by a rough bridge of
planks.  The landlord knew of no entrance but this; it
was guarded day and night, but no watch was kept on
any other part of the building.  There were no trees in
the immediate neighbourhood of the castle, but about half
a mile before it was reached an extensive plantation of
beech covered a valley to the right of the track, and in
this the horses could be left.

It was past eleven before the three riders reached the
beech plantation.  There alighting, they tied their horses
to trees well within the clump, and proceeded on foot.  It
occurred to Harry that if the animals chanced to whinny
they might be heard by any member of the garrison who
happened to be without the walls; but Max told him that
the two tracks leading to the castle from the Urach
highroad were both a considerable distance to right and left
of the hill path by which they had come, so that there was
little fear of such an untoward accident.

They climbed up the path in silence, the darkness being
so deep that they could not distinguish the outline of
anything more than a few yards away.  It was therefore
almost unawares that Max himself, for all his knowledge
of the country, came upon the main road into which the
track ran, about a quarter of a mile from the castle.
Here he stopped.

"Monsieur," he said, "I heard what the landlord said
to you.  It is all true; but though he speaks only of the
entrance by the plank bridge, I know, and he may know
too, of another—one that I discovered by chance,
rambling here with some comrades many years ago.  It is a
small broken doorway opening from the fosse, much
overgrown with bush and trees, and indeed so well hidden
that I almost doubt whether I could find it after this
long time."

"Well, Max, you must try.  I don't want you to go
into the castle yourself: I suppose you have not seen it
since the marauders have sheltered there?"

"No, Monsieur."

"Then I must go myself.  The fosse is dry, you say?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"Then we can all three go down into it, and the landlord
and I will remain hidden while you search for the
secret entrance.  Whither does it lead?"

"To a tunnel that rises gradually up the hill, and enters
the castle near the dungeons below the keep."

"Lead on, then.  We will go to the left, and walk
warily to escape the ears of the sentry at the gate."

In a few minutes they came to the edge of the fosse.
They clambered carefully down, assisting their steps by
the young trees which thickly covered the steep side.
When they reached the bottom, Max went forward by
himself to explore.  His movements caused a rustle, but
being followed by the scurrying of rabbits disturbed in the
brake, such slight customary noises were not likely to
alarm the sentry, even if he should near them.

Harry had his hand on the landlord's wrist as they
waited minute after minute.  Max was gone a long time.
All was silent now save for the murmurs of birds and the
chirping of insects.  At length, after what seemed to
Harry's impatience hours of delay, the man groped his
way back, and whispered:

"I have found it, Monsieur."

"That is well.  Now lead us to it."

"You will not take me into the castle, Excellency?"
murmured the landlord in affright.

"Have no fear.  Be silent."

The three went into the tangled mass of tree and shrub,
and Max had no difficulty now in taking a pretty direct
path to the opening of the tunnel.  When the bushes were
pulled aside, they revealed to the touch—for to see was
impossible—an arch of crumbling brickwork not more
than five feet high.  Evidently a man could not walk
upright through the tunnel.

"Did you ever get into the castle this way?" asked Harry.

"Yes, Monsieur, but it was fifteen years ago."

"So that the tunnel may be blocked now?"

"Certainly."

"Or it may be the haunt of wild beasts?"

"Nothing wilder than rabbits, I should think."

"Well, it is not too pleasant a task to crawl through
there in the dark, but it must be done.  Now, Max, you
will return to the place where we left our horses; the
landlord will go with you.  Here is one of my pistols; you
know what to do with it if need be.  Wait for me there:
if I do not come to you within say a couple of hours, ride
to Urach, and tell the lieutenant of the guard what has
happened."

Max hesitated.

"Let me go, Monsieur," he said.  "Why should you
run into the jaws of danger?  They are desperate men,
these brigands."

"Thank you, Max! but it is my task.  Do my bidding,
my good fellow; I have counted the cost."

He waited until the two men had crept away; then,
crushing the feeling of eeriness that affected him in
spite of himself, he bent his head and went forward into
the tunnel.  There was at once a scurry of animals past
his legs; he felt the furry coats and tails of rabbits brush
his hands; but he went slowly forward, touching the wall
at his right to guide himself, and wondering how long the
tunnel was, and whether there was enough air to carry
him through to the end.  The atmosphere was stuffy, with
mingled smells so nauseating that Harry quickened his
pace, eager to escape into purer air again.  He had not
thought to count his steps when he first entered the
tunnel, but began to do so after taking about a dozen.
At the fortieth of his counting the wall to his right came
to an end.  He stopped, and, raising his hand above his
head, found that it was not obstructed by the roof: he
had evidently come to the end of the passage.  He stood
upright and listened; he could hear nothing.

Extending his arms, he found that he was in a narrow
passage.  Max had said that the tunnel led below the
keep: there must, then, be a staircase somewhere.  Harry
went cautiously forward, stopping at every few steps to
listen, and placing his feet with great care to avoid coming
unawares upon some obstacle.  At length his foot touched
what felt like a stone step in front of him; another
moment, and he was sure he had come to the expected
staircase.  It was pitch dark; he mounted carefully, and found
that the stairs wound round and round.  He had just
counted fifteen steps, when his head came into violent
contact with something above.  The blow brought tears
to his eyes, and he rubbed his head vigorously, as he had
been wont to do after a knock in his childish days.

Feeling with his hands, he discovered that the staircase
was roofed over with stone.  It appeared to be a slab let
down into sockets; yet no, on the left side there was a
space of about a finger-width between the stone and the
wall, on the right there was no such space.  He paused;
the stone was so broad that to lift it was clearly
impossible; it had never been intended to be moved from below.
He bent his head, hitched his left shoulder, and shoved
hard against the stone.  It did not yield by the smallest
interval.  For a moment he was puzzled.  Then a possible
explanation of the space between the stone and the wall
at the left occurred to him.  Perhaps the stone moved on
a pivot?  He went to the other side and set his right
shoulder to it.  At first he felt no yielding; but exerting
all his strength he shoved again, the stone slowly gave,
and with continued pressure moved over until it came
to a vertical position, leaving space enough for his body
to pass through.  He ascended, keeping his hand on the
stone to prevent it from falling back noisily into its place,
clambered on to the floor above, let the stone carefully
down, and stood up to collect himself before proceeding
farther.

Now that he had come thus far, he felt a chill shrinking
from what lay before him.  He was alone in a strange
place, within a few feet of desperate and unscrupulous
ruffians, who would kill him with no more compunction
than they would spit a hare.  The unknown peril might
well give the bravest pause.  But a thought of his duty
stilled his tremors.  He had a duty of service to
Marlborough, and a duty of friendship to Fanshawe;
remembering them, he steeled his soul.

If his hazardous visit was to prove of any service he
must discover the nature and position of the defences.
He knew little about the construction of castles, but Max
had said that the entrance led to the keep, which was the
only part of the ruin still habitable.  The inmates must
therefore be somewhere near him, and it behoved him to
move warily.  He was apparently in a stone-flagged
passage.  He took off his boots and slung them round his
neck; then went forward a few steps, and came upon
another passage at right angles, the farther end being
faintly lit as from a distance.  Stealing down this, he saw
on his right hand the arched entrance to what was clearly
the great hall of the keep, a long bare chamber illuminated
by two or three smoky candles.  Along the walls lay a
number of men, sleeping on mattresses, cloaks, bundles
of straw.  At the farther end was a large table, at which
two men were seated, bending forward with heads on their
crossed arms, as though dozing.  The table was covered
with pots and tankards and metal plates.  Taking this in
at one swift glance, Harry turned to see what lay in the
other direction.

A few feet from him was the bottom of another winding
stair, which, he conjectured, led to the top of the keep.
In the wall to his right there was a narrow opening giving
on the courtyard, where he heard the movements of many
horses.  He was wondering whether, finding the doorway
into the courtyard, he might venture to steal across it and
explore the other side, when he heard voices from the hall
behind him.  Quick as thought he slipped back into the
dark passage he had first entered, and waited there with
beating heart.  Peeping round the corner, he saw two
men—doubtless the two who had been bending over the table—pass
as if towards the staircase.  He heard their spurred
boots ringing on the stones, and knew by the sounds that
they were ascending the stairs, to relieve guard, he guessed,
at the top of the keep.  There was evidently nothing to be
discovered by remaining where he was; if he followed the
men he might find a means of exploring the upper part of
the fortress.  He ran lightly along the passage, and began
the ascent of the winding stair, finding himself soon in
total darkness.  But after about a dozen steps the
staircase began to be faintly illuminated from above.  Harry
paused for a moment to listen.  He heard nothing but
the footsteps of the men who had preceded him, and was
just going on when, through a loophole in the wall to his
right, he heard the clatter of a horse's hoofs and the shout
of a man.  He held his breath and stood still.  The horse
had evidently just come over the bridge and through the
archway into the courtyard.  There were now sounds of
many voices below; the hoof-beats suddenly ceased, and
shortly afterwards Harry heard hurried footsteps on the
stone passage he had lately left, and voices growing in
volume and echoing in the circular space of the winding
stair.  Several men were ascending.  If he remained where
he was he must inevitably be detected; his only course
was to continue his ascent.  But he had not taken three
steps before he heard footsteps above him; the sentry who
had been relieved was coming down.  His heart was in
his mouth.  But the men below were the nearer; there
was just a chance that if he went higher he might come
upon some temporary hiding-place, and in his stocking
feet he made no sound that would betray him.

Up then he went; the light was becoming stronger;
and a turn of the staircase brought him opposite the
doorway through which it shone.  The door was gone.  He
hesitated but for a moment; below and above him the
footsteps were perilously near; on the wall of the room
he saw two long military cloaks hanging to the floor;
they would conceal him.  Peeping into the room, he
noted with one rapid glance a smoky guttering candle
and a figure recumbent on a mattress.  He went in on
tiptoe, and slipped behind the cloaks.  The slight rustle
he made disturbed the slumbering man.

"Qui va la?" came the sleepy question.

Harry stood still as a stone, and felt his heart thumping
against his ribs.

"Qui va la?" repeated the voice in a louder tone, and
by the increased light in the narrow crack between the
cloak and the wall Harry guessed that the man had risen
on his elbow and snuffed the candle.  An answering voice
came from the doorway.

"Sebald Schummel, mon capitaine."

"Ah!  Bien!  Donnez-moi de vos nouvelles."

Harry felt a cold shiver down his back, and an impulse
to pull aside the cloak and confirm by sight the evidence
of his hearing.  The voice was the voice of Captain
Aglionby.  Here was a discovery indeed.  But he had
scarcely time even to be surprised, for he was listening
intently to a conversation that absorbed all his thought.

"The prince has arrived in Urach," said the new-comer.
"He leaves at five in the morning on his way to
Stuttgart.  He travels by coach."

"Ah! what is his escort?"

"Two aides-de-camp and thirty dragoons, mon capitaine."

"A bagatelle!  The game is ours!"

"Yes, mon capitaine," said another voice; "he will not
easily escape us."

"Parbleu!  He shall not.  You are sure of the hour, Sebald?"

"Yes, Monsieur; and I have left a trusty man to send
us word if it is altered."

"He is not likely to change his route?"

"There is no reason for it, mon capitaine, and our men
are watching every road."

"Good!  Your news is welcome, Sebald.  Go and eat;
I will consult with Monsieur le Lieutenant here; you shall
have your orders by and by."

Two or three men left the room, and the captain was
alone with his lieutenant and Harry.  The latter had
already heard enough to set all his wits on the alert.
The conversation that ensued, though carried on by both
the speakers in continuance of a former discussion, gave
Harry little trouble to understand.  It was evident that
the marauders under Captain Aglionby's lead were
planning to intercept Prince Eugene on his way to meet
Marlborough, and Harry listened with a flutter at the heart as
all the details were arranged.  The ambuscaders, divided
into three bands, were to station themselves at a point
about two miles north of the wayside inn, where the road
narrowed.  Two of the bands were to conceal themselves
in the woods on either side of the road, the third some
distance behind them, towards the inn, to cut off any
escape rearwards.

"Monsieur le Prince will sleep hard to-morrow," said
Aglionby with a chuckle, when he had arranged the
composition of the bands.  "Now, as we must start in an
hour or two, do you go down and rouse the men; I will
follow in a minute and give them their orders.  What sort
of night is it?"

"Dull, with a threat of rain."

"Ah! we shall want our cloaks.  Well, rouse the men;
our bird will have his feathers clipped long ere this
to-morrow."

Harry had gone cold at the mention of the cloaks, and
gripped his pistol.  But the lieutenant went from the room
without disturbing him, and Aglionby shortly afterwards
followed.  Harry heaved a silent sigh of relief, waited
until the sound of his footsteps had quite died away, then
left his hiding-place and hastened to the staircase.

He was in no doubt what to do.  To descend, now that
the garrison was awakened, would be to court instant
detection.  The alternative was to go higher up the keep,
and endeavour to find some way of escape over the ruined
battlements.  He mounted a few steps; the moon had
risen, and her light, fitfully shining between masses of
flying scud in the sky, lit up the staircase through the
narrow openings at intervals in the wall.  A few steps
more, and on his right Harry saw a low doorway, this also
without a door, leading directly on to the battlements.
He peered up the outer wall of the keep, and saw that
a sentinel at the top must almost certainly descry a figure
moving along below.  But escape he must; Prince Eugene
must be warned in time, and Urach was several miles
away.  He longed for a friendly cloud to obscure the
moon while he made a dash; and, pat to his wish, a dark
mass of thunderous density cut off every gleam.  Without
another moment's delay Harry sprang on to the broken
masonry, and, taking sure foothold in his stocking feet, ran
towards a tower at the left-hand corner of the enceinte,
hoping there to find an exit.  The upper part of the tower
was almost wholly in ruins, but the lower part was in
good preservation, and to his disappointment Harry found
that the only doorway led into the courtyard, in which he
already heard the bustle of preparation.  There was nothing
for it but to pursue his way along the battlements to the
tower at the right-hand rear corner.  Entering this, he
discovered a postern on the outer wall.  It was twenty
feet above the summit of a steep slope leading to the level
ground a hundred yards away.  Harry looked out, and
saw that below the postern the masonry had crumbled and
fallen, and was now covered with undergrowth and ivy
clinging to the tower wall.  To make his descent here he
would have to risk a broken limb, perhaps a broken neck,
but there was no other means of exit that he could
discover, and it was necessary that he should get quickly
away with Max and the landlord before the marauding
band rode out.  Clinging to a strong tendril of ivy, he
leapt on to a precarious corner of broken brickwork, lost
his footing, checked his fall by clutching at a shrub, found
a firmer foothold a little below, and so made the complete
descent to the edge of the slope, where he stayed his
progress by again grasping the ivy.

The air was warm and close, foreboding thunder, and
by this time Harry was bathed in sweat.  He rested for
a few moments at the foot of the wall.  The jagged
masonry had cut holes in his stockings and made his feet
bleed.  Between him and level ground was a steep
declivity of almost bare rock, so precipitous that to walk
down it was impossible, to run dangerous.  He pulled on
his boots, lay on his back, and slid down feet foremost,
with some bumps and bruises, but with more serious
injury to his apparel.  As he reached the level a loud
rumble of thunder broke above him, and he felt the first
large spots of a shower.  He was far from the place
where he had left his companions, and to reach it he
would have to cross the direct road to the castle gate.
To avoid discovery it seemed best to creep down into the
dry overgrown fosse, and steal his way along until he
gained the spot on the other side of the plank bridge
where he had descended to find the tunnel.  Even under
the bridge the vegetation was rank and thick enough to
conceal him, and he had no fear of his movements being
heard, for the rain was now pattering fast.  This, then,
he did; in a few minutes he came to the place where he
had parted with Max, and, scrambling up the side of the
fosse, struck into the road and hastened towards the trees.
He wandered for some time among them without finding
the men of whom he was in search, and at length risked
a low call.

"Is that you, Monsieur?" came the reply in Max's
voice from near at hand.

"Ah!  I was afraid I had lost you.  Have you the
landlord safe?"

"Yes, Monsieur.  I had almost given you up."

"Lead out the horses.  We must get to Urach as
quickly as possible.  And not by the road: do you know
a way across the hills?"

"Yes, but it will be difficult to find in the dark, and
hark to the rain!"

"Yes, it is raining hard, but you must try to find the
way; I dare not risk the road.  Lead on, Max; I will
follow you with the landlord."

Max led his horse through the wood, the others close
behind him.  Crossing the road, he entered a narrow
ravine, left this at a cleft on the right, and taking a
tortuous course, rising continually, he came after some
twenty minutes to the crest of a rocky hill.

"It is all right, Monsieur," he said.  "The way is
easier now and we can mount.  The rain is over, too."

"Well for us!  Now, Max, at your best pace, provided
it is not neck-breaking."

The three set off, the landlord uttering many groans
and lamentations as he jolted in his saddle.  Harry did
not address him; he had too much to think of.  If, as
Aglionby's messenger had said, there were spies in Urach
and around, it was likely that the entrance of three riders
into the town at so late an hour would be noticed, and
might awaken suspicion.  Harry's wish was not merely to
foil the ambuscade, but to turn the tables on the
ambuscaders.  As he rode he decided what to do.

"Max," he said, riding alongside of the man where a
difficult part of the track caused a slackening of the pace;
"Max, tell me when we come within about half a mile
of the town; we will halt there."

"We leave the hills and strike the road at that distance,
Monsieur."

"Very well; we will stop before we reach the road."

It was two o'clock in the morning when the three riders
came to a halt within a little dell concealed from the road
by an intervening hillock.

"Remain here with the landlord and my horse, Max,"
said Harry.  "I am going on foot to the town."

At the gate-house he gave the password and was at
once admitted.  He went to the lodging of the lieutenant
of the guard, woke him, and told him in a few words
what he had discovered.

"Mon Dieu!" cried the lieutenant, "you are just in time.
The prince decided last night to hasten his going; he sets
off at four.  He will have to remain here, or go back, for
his escort are no match for these brigands, even with our
burgher guard, who in any case are not permitted to leave
the town.  The prince must either wait here until he can get
a force from Prince Louis of Baden, or try another road."

"The roads are watched.  But I think the prince had
better carry out his original intention and leave here at
five."

"But he will certainly be captured."

"Not certainly.  I should like to see him.  I left Max
and that rascal of a landlord half a mile out.  The town is
quiet; do you think it will be safe to send for them?"

"Oh yes!  I will do that.  You will find the prince at
the Rathhaus."

"Will you lend me a change of things while mine are drying?"

"Of course!  The sleeves of my coat will be short for
you, I fear, but you will not need it long."

To change was but the work of a few minutes; then
Harry hastened to the Rathhaus.  The guard made some
demur to admitting him at such an hour, but yielded when
he assured them that his message was urgent, and he was
conducted to an aide-de-camp, who on hearing his story in
outline did not scruple to awaken the prince.  Harry was
not prepared for the reception his news met with.  The
prince broke into a roar of laughter.

"A right tit-for-tat for the Duke de Vendôme," he said.
"Two can play at coney-catching!  You are surprised at
my levity, young sir; but the truth is, I tried to play the
same game on the duke two years ago: attempted to seize
him in his house at Rivalto on the banks of the Lake of
Mantua.  I sent fifty men in boats to capture him; but
they killed the sentinel instead of carrying him off, as I
intended; the noise drew the guard to the spot, and my
men had to re-embark to save their skins.  Well, in war
let him trick the other who can: I am obliged to you for
your warning.  Un homme averti en vaut deux: we'll be
even with the tricksters.  What shall we do, lieutenant?"

"It would seem that we must take another road,
Monsieur le Prince," said the aide-de-camp.

"Ma foi, non; we'll cut our way through them.  I
never turned back on my enemy yet."

"They are too many, your highness.  Your thirty men
could not cut their way through two hundred."

"Then we must go another way."

"They have spies on the roads, Monsieur," said Harry.
"Your highness would have to make a wide detour, and
that would give the brigands plenty of time to sweep
round and intercept you.  If I might suggest a plan that
occurred to me——"

"Go on."

"It is that your highness's coach should set off at the
time arranged, attended by a portion of your escort——"

"Empty?"

"Not so, Monsieur.  A man might take your highness's
place.  The brigands would imagine their scheme was
prospering; the scouts would be drawn off; and after an
interval your highness with the remainder of the escort
could safely take the western road and be well on the way
to Stuttgart before the trick was discovered."

"Aha!  And who is to personate me?  Not yourself?
You have too great an advantage of me in inches."

"My ambition is less, your highness.  I have a man
of about your height; if you would deign to let him wear
your wig, hat, and cloak for a few hours, I think he would
make a personable copy of your highness."

The prince laughed.

"Well, you have a ready wit, my lad.  But it would be
running into the jaws of the wolves; I should lose half my
escort and my coach, and you and your man your lives.
They would not spare you when they learnt how you had
tricked them."

"It would be a cheap purchase of your highness's
safety.  Besides, I think we might manage to escape the
wolves, as your highness is pleased to call them."

"Indeed!  Come, you are a young strategist; what
have you in your mind?"

"To get into the castle, Monsieur le Prince, while the
greater part of the brigands are absent, and to hold it
until a force can be sent from Stuttgart to our assistance."

"A bold scheme, by my faith!  What reason have you
to suppose you could surprise the castle?  It will not be
left unguarded."

Then Harry gave a rapid narrative of what had
happened since his adventure at the inn.  Prince Eugene
listened with close attention, his eyes lighting up with
excitement and pleasure as he heard the details of the
plan Harry had thought out as he rode from the castle.

"Parbleu!" he exclaimed at the end, "a bold scheme
indeed, one after my own heart; I should like of all things
to be with you in it.  And you think my cousin
Marlborough's two messengers are now in the castle?"

"I have no doubt of it, your highness; and as one of
them is an old friend of my own, I have a strong personal
reason for making the attempt."

"Well, I will not stay you.  Rather I will say, Good
luck to you!  You deserve to succeed.  I make no doubt
that I shall be able to send you from Stuttgart a squadron
or two of Prince Louis of Baden's horse, and if you and
they can annihilate this pestilent band of outlaws you will
do a service to the Emperor—a service that I shall take
care is not forgotten.  Time is pressing; my valet shall
give you the suit I wore yesterday; I shall not need to
trouble your man to lend me his in exchange, as I have
another with me—a plain costume that will tell no tales.
Ma foi!  I could wish that for the next twelve hours he
were Eugene of Savoy and I—what is his name?"

"Max Berens, Monsieur."

"Write his name, Lieutenant; if he were a courtier he
would doubtless be content with the bare honour of filling
my clothes for the nonce, but being a sensible man he
will prefer a more tangible recompense.  I shall see to it.
Well, you have woke me from sleep, Monsieur; now I will
ask you to leave me while I dress.  And as we must be
secret about this disguise, lest there be spies in the town,
I shall not see you again until I meet you, as I hope to
do, in my lord Marlborough's camp.  Send your man here;
I will take care that he is treated with the deference
becoming his rank.  Ha! ha! it is an excellent joke."

Harry went away delighted with the readiness with
which the prince had entered into the spirit of his scheme.
It was full of danger; he was under no illusion as to that;
but this lent an additional zest to the adventure; he had
thought out his plan carefully, and reckoned on finding an
invaluable coadjutor in the landlord.

At five o'clock, in the cool of a fine morning, the prince's
gilded coach drew up at the door of the Rathhaus, with
fifteen dragoons in full riding trim.  A carpet was spread
from the entrance across the path to the coach, and one of
the town officials stood in waiting to show the great man
to his seat.  By and by a figure in cocked hat, full wig,
laced coat, and corslet came out with a fair counterfeit of
Eugene's active gait; he gave a somewhat stiff acknowledgment
of the salutes of the soldiers and the respectful
obeisance of the local magnates and the crowd of
interested townspeople, and stepped quickly into the coach.
Harry followed him.  The door was shut, the word given
to the two postilions, and amid the cheers of all Urach
the vehicle rattled over the stones, out at the gate, into
the open highway.  No one but the principals in the little
drama, and the fifteen picked men of the escort, knew that
the man to whom they had just shown such deference was
not Eugene of Savoy, a prince of a sovereign house, but
Max Berens, the simple son of a shoemaker.

Harry had been at the pains to drill his companions
in the part they were to play.  He had learnt from Max
that there were two roads leading from the main highway
to the castle.  Of these the one nearest to Urach was
the better; it branched off about a mile on the town side
of the inn.  The other was a more circuitous and difficult
track across the hills, leaving the highroad at a point
rather more distant from the inn on the farther side, and
only a few yards from the spot chosen for the ambuscade.
Between the two cross-roads the highway took a somewhat
irregular course, and while it was visible from point
to point, only a few yards of the intervening portion could
be seen from either of the by-roads, owing to its windings
and the undulations of the ground.  When the coach,
therefore, should arrive at the first road it would be
descried by the ambuscaders, but would then disappear
from their view, not becoming visible again until a short
distance before it reached them.  On this fact Harry
reckoned for the successful accomplishment of the first
part of his scheme.

A mile out of Urach, Harry found the landlord awaiting
him in charge of one of the town guard.  He was taken
into the coach, which then drove rapidly on.  On arriving
at the cross-road, instead of going straight forward towards
the inn and the ambush, it swung round to the right, and
at Harry's orders the postilions whipped up the horses and
drove at a headlong pace towards the castle.  The actual
turning could not be seen from the place of the ambuscade,
and Harry confidently expected that the brigands, having
caught sight of the coach the moment before it left the
road, would await its coming without suspicion.  Its
non-appearance after a time would surprise them; they might
suppose it had stopped at the inn to bait the horses; they
would allow for this, and a considerable time would elapse
before they discovered the truth.  This interval would, he
hoped, give him so long a start that he would have ample
time to play his trick upon the garrison.

About half a mile from the castle, Harry ordered the
postilions and escort to halt at a spot where they were
hidden from the garrison by a stretch of rising ground.
He then dismounted four of the dragoons, bade them get
into the coach, and made the landlord change places with
the postilion on one of the sear horses.  In his hand he
placed an empty pistol.

"When we drive on," he said, "you will point that
at the back of the postilion in front of you, and look as
grim as you please.  When we come within earshot of
the sentry at the bridge—I will give the word—you will
shout to him to let us through quickly: 'Here we are!'
you will cry.  I have let down the window, you observe;
Berens will be a few feet behind you with a loaded pistol:
you understand?"

Then turning to the eleven dragoons who were still on
horseback, he said:

"Now, men, you know your part.  Wait till we are
over the bridge, then gallop up at full speed with sabres
drawn and pistols cocked, ready for anything."

"What about the four horses, Herr Capitan?" asked
one of the troopers.

"We must leave them.  Tie their heads together
and string them to that tree yonder: we may get them
by and by; if not, the coach horses will serve.  Now;
all ready!  Drive on, landlord."

The two postilions—the foremost a stalwart dragoon—whipped
up the horses, which dashed forward at a furious
gallop towards the castle.  It was a tight squeeze in the
coach—Harry, Max, and the four big troopers jammed
together in a narrow space.

"Level your pistol, landlord!" cried Harry.

The pale perspiring landlord held his harmless weapon
in his left hand, covered by the loaded pistol of Max in
the coach.  On they drove, ploughing up the soil heavy
with last night's rain, the horses straining at the traces.
They were within thirty yards of the bridge.

"Shout, landlord!" said Harry in a loud whisper
through the open window.

"Here we are! here we are!" cried the man.

"Louder!"

"Here we are!"  He almost shrieked the words.

"The others are behind!" prompted Harry.

"The others are behind!" cried the landlord.

The sentry at the farther end of the bridge gave an
answering shout; the boards that served for a gate were
removed; the coach clattered and rumbled over the
rocking creaking planks, and the postilions pulled up their
reeking horses in the courtyard of the castle.





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.. _`Across the Fosse`:

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   CHAPTER XXI


.. class:: center large bold

   Across the Fosse

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

Shoulder to Shoulder—Wrecking the Bridge—Well Found—The
Dungeons of Rauhstein—The Castle Cook—The Enemy's
Plan—Unwilling Help—A Parley—The Bridge Builders—At
Short Range—Supper—Counsel—Fireworks—Long Odds—A
Rush—From a Sling—A Covered Way—Firing the Train—Shambles

.. vspace:: 2

The shouting and the clatter of the coach had drawn the
garrison into the courtyard.  From these twenty men, the
remnant of the brigand band, a great cheer went up, and
they pressed forward eagerly to see the princely captive.
Two or three of them were unarmed, but the rest, with
the habit of seasoned warriors, had their swords in their
belts and carbines slung at their shoulders.

"Well done, Otto!" cried one, slapping the landlord on
the back.

But at that moment both doors of the coach were flung
open, and out of each sprang a man with a pistol in the
left hand and a sword in the right.  These were followed
by others, and before the astonished garrison realized the
situation, six fully armed men were among them, and one,
a tall, dark, lissom young fellow, all fire and energy, was
calling on them to surrender.  A few, cowed by the pistols
pointed within a foot of their heads, and taken utterly
aback by this astounding change of scene, flung down
their carbines from sheer inability to think; but the more
nimble-witted, and those on the outskirts of the little
group, scurried away, under cover of their comrades, out
of range, unslinging their carbines and drawing their
swords as they ran.

Meanwhile the foremost postilion, in obedience to orders
previously given by Harry, whipped up his horses and
drove them at a gallop round the courtyard, narrowly
escaping a bullet from the carbine of one of the garrison,
until he came opposite the gateway, where he drew up so
as to present the side of the coach to the opening, and cut
the traces.  The garrison, having by this time perceived
by how small a body they were confronted, came forward
in a compact mass against the little band.  Carbines
cracked, pistols flashed, steel rang on steel, and with
shouts and oaths the two bands engaged.  Harry was not
in this mellay, for in the confusion he had slipped away
and rushed through the archway, just in time to see the
sentry striving with might and main to hurl the planks
of the bridge into the fosse.  He had caught sight of
eleven dragoons in Austrian uniform galloping up from
the valley half a mile away.  The man turned as he heard
Harry's approach, snatched up his sword, which he had
dropped for his work with the planks, and threw himself
into his guard in the nick of time to meet the attack.
Harry felt that it was not a moment for fine sword-play;
the man was a burly fellow, clumsy, and to appearance
dull of wits.  Running a risk which would be fatal if his
opponent were a keen swordsman, Harry gave him an
opening.  It was instantly accepted, but the thrust was
parried with lightning rapidity, and before the man could
recover himself Harry's sword had ploughed a deep furrow
in his forearm, and with a yell of pain he let his own
weapon fall to the ground.  Stepping back at the same
moment with the instinct of self-preservation, he tumbled
headlong into the fosse.

Immediately Harry wheeled round and dashed back
to the support of his men, now engaged in a desperate
and unequal battle.  Their backs to the coach, they were
facing dauntlessly thrice their number of infuriated
brigands, who had discarded their firearms and came to the
attack with swords flashing in ever-narrowing circles.
One of the dragoons had already fallen; but his comrades
were all tough soldiers tried on many a battle-field, recking
nothing of the odds, every man with full confidence in
himself and his fellows.  They were ranged in a quarter circle
against the coach, with just enough space between them
to allow free play with their weapons.  Twice already had
they beaten back the enemy; a third and more determined
onslaught had somewhat broken their formation, and two
men had been wounded and forced back, exposing the
flank of the others.  Harry sprang through the coach
just in time to close the gap.  He hurled himself into
the fray with a shout; the enemy, taking him for the
advance-guard of reinforcements, fell back for a moment;
and before they could recover and return to the charge
there was a thunderous clatter on the bridge, the eleven
troopers flung themselves from their steeds, and
scrambling man by man through the coach gave threefold
strength to the hard-pressed line.

"Charge!" shouted Harry in his clear, ringing voice.

The men surged forward with a roar of exultation,
scattering the brigands to the limits of the courtyard.
Two or three bolted like rabbits into the keep; the rest
cried for quarter and flung down their arms; the din of
battle suddenly ceased, and some seventeen panic-stricken
prisoners were the prize of the victors.

"Max, go into the keep, up the stairs to the top, and
tell me what you see."

From the parapet of the keep Max shouted that he saw
a large troop of horse not a mile away, galloping amain
towards the castle.

"Men, with me!" cried Harry.

Twelve dragoons sprang through the coach after him,
and with haste helped him to draw the planks of the bridge
within the archway.  They had completed their task save
for the last plank when the foremost files of the enemy
galloped up, checking their horses at the very brink when
they saw the unbridged gap before them; no horse could
cross on a two-foot plank.  Harry withdrew his men just in
time to escape the bullets fired at them by the baulked and
enraged brigands.  At the last moment he himself stooped,
lifted the end of the plank, and hurled it into the fosse.  A
slug whizzed past his head; he dashed back under the
archway, through the coach, breathless but safe.

As he stepped through the coach into the courtyard he
heard a groan.  His wounded men had been carried into
the keep; at the moment no trooper was near.  Bending
down, he looked beneath the coach, and saw the landlord
lying flat on his face, his head buried in his arms, groaning
dismally.

"Are you hit, landlord?" asked Harry.

"Lord have mercy on my soul!" groaned the man.

"Never mind your soul; are your limbs sound?  Come
out, and let me look at you."

A palpitating mass crawled from beneath the vehicle.
Dirty, chap-fallen, and dishevelled, but unhurt, the landlord
stood in trembling and pitiful cowardice.

"Where are you hurt?  Come, I've no time to waste.
Why," he added, as he turned the man round and examined
him, "you haven't a scratch.  You're a pretty consort of
ruffians!  Get away into the keep and make yourself
useful, or——"

The man scrambled away in limp despair, and Harry
smiled grimly as he went about his pressing task.

He knew that he was safe for a time.  The two hundred
men outside were completely cut off from their quarters.
"If they want their castle they must come and take it,"
thought Harry.  They could only enter by one of three
ways: the main entrance, if they repaired the bridge—but
that could be prevented by marksmen within; the tunnel—but
that could be blocked up; the tower by which he himself
had escaped—but one or two men there could easily
prohibit access by the slope and postern.  Harry set a
sentinel at each point, and then made a rapid survey of
the position.

He found that the castle contained, besides a huge quantity
of plunder, a plentiful stock of provisions, arms, and
ammunition.  There were indeed many bags of powder
ranged carelessly around the walls of the courtyard, and
these Harry had removed to a more secure place in one of
the towers, and covered with sacking.  He then went up
on the battlements to see what the enemy were about.
They had withdrawn to a knoll at some distance and
dismounted, and an exciting discussion appeared to be going
on among their leaders.  Harry called to Max to remain
on the look-out and report any fresh movement among
them; then he prepared to visit the dungeons.

The prisoners had been secured in the hall of the keep.

"Which of you acts as warder?" asked Harry, entering
the hall.

"Zooks! if it an't young Mr. Rochester!" said an
amazed voice in English.  "I be the warder, Mr. Rochester."

"You, John Simmons!  Now, answer me quickly: are
there any prisoners below?"

"There be two, sir, certainly, and I was against it—that's
the truth, sir; I was against it, but the capt'n he would
cool their courage, he said, and what could I do,
sir?—though it did cut me to the heart to serve
Mr. Fanshawe so——"

"Hold your tongue, knave!  Take me to the place at once."

"I was against it," muttered the man, as he led the way
out of the hall, through the stone passage, into a room
near the spot at which Harry had ascended from the
tunnel.  Here he lifted a slab in the floor, and let down
a rope ladder, coiled beneath it, into a pit of blackness.

"They are there?" exclaimed Harry in horror, as he
peered down, and found himself unable to discern anything.

"I was against it," murmured Simmons again.

"The inhuman fiends!" cried Harry.  "Fanshawe, are
you there?" he called into the mouth of the dungeon, his
voice echoing strangely from the hollow.

"Yes," came the faint answer.  "Who are you?"

"'Tis Harry Rochester, old fellow.  We'll have you out
in a trice,—and Lieutenant Buckley, too; is he with you?"

"Ay.  Is the ladder down?"

"Yes.  Come along; we're all friends here."

Soon Fanshawe's fair head appeared above the hole.
Harry caught his arm and helped him to step on to the
floor.

"God bless you, Harry!" he said feebly.  His cheeks
were drawn and pale; his eyes sunken and haggard; his
hair was dank and disordered; and he tottered and would
have fallen but for Harry's sustaining arm.  After him
came a young officer whom Harry did not know.  He,
too, showed signs of suffering, but his incarceration was
shorter by several days than Fanshawe's, and he was not
so much overcome by the sudden return to light and
liberty.

"Poor old fellow!" said Harry, linking his arm in
Fanshawe's.  "Come and let me make you comfortable.  I'll
tell you all about things by and by, and hear what you
have to tell.  We must get you right first.  Aglionby shall
pay for this!"

The two luckless prisoners were taken to the hall and
given food.

"I've fed 'em twice a day reg'lar," said Simmons.
"They ha'n't wanted for nothing, and I was against
keeping 'em shut in that there damp and foul hole."

"Silence, fellow!  Go and bury the men killed in the
fight.  Then come to me."

Having made Fanshawe and Buckley as comfortable as
possible, Harry selected one of his own men to act as
store-keeper, and then, as a sudden idea struck him, called
for the landlord.  The man could not at first be found,
but after some search was discovered and hauled with
many gibes into Harry's presence.

"Cease whimpering and listen to me," said Harry.
"You must do something to earn your food.  You shall
be cook.  Doubtless you know the arrangements of this
place; go and prepare a good meal for the men, and do
your best; it will be to your interest."

Ascending then to the top of the keep, he sent Max
down to get some breakfast, and looked around.  The
enemy were not in sight.  They had evidently withdrawn
into the copse about half a mile distant; perhaps under
cover of it they had drawn off altogether.  But
knowing their leader, and imagining the fury with which
he must have seen the frustration of his carefully-laid
plans, Harry could not believe that he would tamely
accept the check as final.  Aglionby, whatever his faults,
did not lack courage.  He was not likely to throw up the
game at the loss of the first trick.  He would probably
assume that it was Prince Eugene himself who had stolen
a march upon him; in that case he would suppose that he
had the prince caged in the castle; and whatever
advantage he had expected to derive from the capture of the
prince would induce him to strain every nerve to prevent
him from escaping.  His aim, Harry supposed, had been
to hand Prince Eugene over to the Elector of Bavaria, and
reap much credit as well as a more tangible recompense.
In order to entrap the prince he had sent on Fanshawe's
letter by another hand.  If he returned to the Elector's
army without his prize, when the odds had seemed all in
his favour, he would become the laughing-stock of the
camp.  Harry therefore felt certain that he would attempt
to retake the castle at whatever cost.

If he should succeed, Harry knew that he himself need
expect no mercy.  Aglionby had a long account against
him; time after time his plans had been foiled; the sole
item on the credit side, the saving of his life at Breda,
was likely, in a man of his disposition, only to deepen his
rancour.

He would, of course, sooner or later find out his mistake
in regard to Prince Eugene; and when the discovery was
made he would expect the prince to send a force at the first
opportunity to relieve the men, whoever they were, who
had captured the castle, or at any rate to avenge their fate.
In either case Aglionby would lose no time, but would
hasten by all the means in his power any attack he might
meditate.  So far as Harry could judge, he had nearly
three hundred men under his command; it would not be
long before he learnt, if indeed he did not already know,
that the present holders of the castle did not number more
than a score.  In the circumstances he would almost
certainly attempt to take the place by assault, and the obvious
point of attack was the gateway.  The bridge was broken
down; the fosse was too deep to be filled up; the attackers
would therefore have to construct another bridge, and the
fosse being little more than twenty feet wide, they could
easily rig up a portable platform strong enough to carry
them to the assault.  There was plenty of timber in the
neighbourhood; with the force at his disposal Aglionby
might make a serviceable bridge in a few hours.

Meanwhile, what was Harry to do with the prisoners?
The question gave him some trouble.  He had plenty of
provisions; there would be no difficulty in feeding them;
but if he kept them in the castle they would require a
guard of at least one man day and night, so that of his
own little band two men would practically be lost for
effective defence.  If, on the other hand, he let them
loose, he would add eighteen men, fourteen of whom
were unhurt, to the enemy's strength.  Deciding that on
the whole it would be best to keep them, he went down
to settle their fate without loss of time.

He gave them one by one the option of making himself
useful in the defence of the castle, or of being lowered into
the dungeon whence Fanshawe and Buckley had just been
released.  With one consent the men elected to avoid the
dungeon.  Harry at once set some of them to collect
stones from the more ruinous parts of the castle, and to
pile them up across the gateway, leaving loopholes for
musketry fire.  Others he ordered to take a supply of
heavy stones to the summit of the keep, and to stack
them there out of sight from the distant copse.  Three
armed men accompanied each squad to prevent treachery.
In pursuance of the plan of defence that was forming in
his mind, Harry went himself to the most dilapidated of the
three towers, and selecting two or three specially large
blocks of stone, weighing at a guess about a hundred-weight
each, he had them loosened from the debris and
carried up the winding stair of the keep.  In the
courtyard he saw a number of stout poles, for which a use at
once suggested itself.  As they would not go up the
winding stair, he got one of the men to splice several
lengths of rope, and the long rope thus formed was let
down from the top of the keep and knotted to one end of
the poles, which were then drawn up the tower on the
side facing the courtyard.

When these tasks had been completed, the prisoners
were placed in the ground-floor room of one of the towers,
and a man was set over them, with orders to shoot any
who should attempt to move from the place.  Harry
divided his garrison into watches as on board ship, each
watch to be on duty for four hours.  Every man had his
post, and, entering into their young leader's spirit, the
dragoons accepted readily the duties laid upon them, and
showed themselves full of a light-hearted confidence that
augured well for their success.  One and all they were
hugely delighted with the trick, and discussed it among
themselves with much merriment, exasperating Max, however,
by the mock deference they still paid to him as Prince
Eugene.

As soon as he had a spare moment, Harry got from
Fanshawe and Buckley an account of their experiences.  As
he had guessed, Fanshawe had been captured at dead of
night in the inn, his captors coming through the trap-door.
Buckley had been misdirected by the landlord, and, losing
his way, had fallen into an ambush.  Both had been kept
in the dungeon day and night, and fed twice a day.  In
his turn Harry related the chain of adventures which had
ended so happily for them, and when he told them
something of his plans for the future they both declared
themselves well enough to assist him.  This, however, he would
not allow for the present, promising to avail himself of
their help as soon as they had had time to recover from
the effects of their confinement.

Just before noon, the man on the look-out at the
gateway announced that one of the enemy was approaching
with a flag of truce.  Harry climbed up to the battlements
to the left of the keep, and as soon as the man was within
earshot demanded his business.  Speaking in French, the
messenger said that he had come at his captain's order to
say that if Prince Eugene surrendered, he would be granted
honourable treatment, and conducted to the camp of his
highness the Elector of Bavaria, his men being allowed
to go free.  If these terms were rejected, the castle would
be stormed and every member of the garrison would be
put to the sword.  The decision must be made in half an
hour.  Harry smiled.

"You may take our answer now," he said.  "Tell your
captain that soldiers of the confederate army do not yield
to brigands and cut-throats."

The messenger rode back to the copse, and for some
hours there was no further sign of the enemy, except for
a few men who were noticed moving about a stretch of
marshy ground about a mile from the castle.  Harry
wondered what their object could be, and calling Max to him,
asked what there was on the marsh that they were likely
to find useful.

"There is nothing there, Monsieur, but mud and reeds."

"Reeds!  Of course.  They are cutting reeds to bind
together lengths of timber for a bridge.  I heard the
sound of chopping from the copse this morning.  Well,
Max, I think we are prepared for them."

Soon after three o'clock a body of about two hundred
men was seen approaching on foot in open order.  When
within musket-shot they took what cover the irregularities
of the ground and the scattered shrubs afforded, and
opened fire on every embrasure.  Among them Harry had
no difficulty in recognizing the burly figure of Aglionby.
Word was passed round among the defenders to make no
reply.  The enemy were at present too far off to do much
damage, or for the fire of the garrison to be effective.  A
few minutes later Harry, who had posted himself on the
keep, so that while invisible himself he could see
everything, observed a small body of men emerge from the
copse, bearing a number of narrow palisades, consisting,
as he discovered on their nearer approach, of thin logs
roughly bound together.  When they had come within
about two hundred yards of the castle, the main body of
the enemy directed a more continuous fire upon the battlements
and loopholes, many advancing close up to the edge
of the fosse.  Still there was no reply from the defenders.
The bridge-bearers came up at a slow run.

Harry had disposed of his little force as follows.  Three
men were stationed on the top of the keep, four at
loopholes on the stairways half-way up each side, five behind
the barricade of stones in the gateway, and one to carry
orders from his own position on the keep to the men
below.  As soon as he saw the bridge-bearers approaching
he instructed his dragoons to fire when he gave the word,
but only at the men carrying the palisades.  The
extemporized bridge was in four sections, each about two feet
across, and carried by six men.

The twenty-four came on, halted at the brink of the
gully, and prepared to raise their palisades.  Then Harry
gave the word.  The troopers below had been instructed
to fire at the left-hand sections, those above at the
right-hand sections.  At the word they sprang up, thrust their
muzzles through the embrasures and loopholes, and,
undeterred by the patter of the enemy's bullets around them,
took deliberate aim.  The effect was all that Harry had
hoped.  The range was short; the men were old campaigners
of iron nerve, and almost every shot told.  Two
or three men in each section of the bridge-bearers fell; the
rest, dismayed by the fate of their comrades, loosened their
hold on the palisades, which dropped back on to the farther
side of the fosse.  There was a rush among the bolder spirits
to supply their places, and Aglionby himself, his red face
purple with fury and excitement, threw himself at the head
of his men, who strove with desperate haste to raise the
palisades once more.  But there was no cessation of the
fire from the walls.  Harry had taken the precaution of
collecting from the stock of arms four muskets for each
man, so that they needed to waste no time in reloading.
No sooner had the palisades begun to rise again than a
second fusillade burst forth from the castle; again the
unwieldy poles fell clattering to the ground; again the men
who had survived rushed back out of range.  Aglionby
and one or two others at first refused to budge, and
took shelter behind the timber; but when they found
themselves deserted they at length scoured away after the rest,
and the whole force drew off.

"Fire no more," cried Harry.  "Let them look to their wounded."

Finding that the firing from the castle had ceased, a party
of the enemy ventured to the edge of the fosse and removed
the hapless men there, some stark dead, others wounded
more or less severely.  Half a dozen men remained on
watch at points surrounding the castle; the rest withdrew
to the copse; and the members of the garrison, not one of
whom was hurt, rejoiced in the repulse of this first assault,
and went in relays to eat the meal which Otto the landlord
had prepared for them.

No further movement of the enemy was observable.
Max suggested that they had encamped in a large open
glade within the wood.  As night drew on, a slight glow
above the tree-tops and thin columns of smoke proclaimed
that camp fires had been lighted.  Evidently, then, the
enemy had not relinquished their hope of recapturing the
castle.  They were, of course, aware that its present
garrison could not escape, for the plank bridge could not be
collected and replaced unobserved; without it the inmates
could only leave on foot, and they would thus easily be
overtaken by the horsemen.

Harry sat down with Fanshawe and Buckley to eat his
supper and discuss the situation.  He was most apprehensive
of a night-attack.

"They would have far better chances than by day," he
said, "for their numbers would tell against us, and we
should have to divide our force so as to guard points that
might be threatened at any moment."

"But the battlements are inaccessible," said Fanshawe.

"The tower by which I escaped, you remember, is not.
'Tis difficult of approach, indeed, but not impossible to
resolute men.  I should have to leave at least one man to
guard the postern.  Of course, I shall block up the
underground entrance by the tunnel; a few stones piled on the
trap will prevent it from being lifted from below.  But in
the darkness 'twill not be so easy to hinder the enemy
from throwing a bridge across the fosse: that is most to
be feared."

"Defend it with a mine," suggested Buckley.

"A good thought!"

"And easy to do.  The soil at the edge of the fosse will
be soft: dig a hole and bury half a bag of powder in it.
Pack it tightly with earth and stones; you can lead a train
of powder through the barricade into the courtyard."

"Take care it is out of the reach of stray sparks from
the men's matches," said Fanshawe, "or there'll be an
explosion too soon and all spoilt."

"You're good counsellors, both of you.  We'll make
something of this defence among us."

Harry waited until dusk before carrying out Buckley's
suggestion, in order that his movements might not be
seen by the enemy.  Having removed several stones from
the barricade, he set two men to dig a hole near the
gateway, filled it with a large charge of powder, and
rammed down the earth upon it, taking care that several
large stones were placed near the surface.  Then the
barricade was restored, and the garrison rearranged, only two
men being now left in the keep, the rest being ordered to
take up their position in the courtyard.

These arrangements had only just been completed,
and those of the dragoons who were not on watch had
just turned in, when a body of men was heard approaching.
The garrison was instantly called to arms, and
Harry went up to a coign of safety in the battlements to
await events.  It was almost pitch-dark: he dimly saw
black masses moving about on the farther side of the
fosse; but he had resolved not to waste powder and shot
by opening fire with uncertain aim, and the enemy, finding
their progress unmolested, came, as his ears told him,
right up to the fosse.  He wished he had some means of
throwing a light on the scene, but knew of nothing in the
castle sufficiently inflammable for the purpose.

After a time the noise outside, strikingly in contrast
with the absolute silence in the castle itself, increased; the
sound was like that of men slowly moving forward with
heavy loads.  Harry heard the clank of stone against stone,
low whispers from across the fosse, less guarded
commands from a short distance farther back, where work of
some kind was evidently in progress.  As Harry listened,
his uncertainty as to what was going on at length became
intolerable, and racking his brains to devise some means
of making a light he at last hit upon an idea.  The
cushions of the coach were probably stuffed with hay;
that would burn, and if smeared with grease might give
a blaze strong enough to illumine the scene for a few
moments.  He immediately had the cushions ripped up,
and found that their stuffing was as he had guessed.
There was a good stock of candles in the store-room; some
of these were melted down and the grease poured into the
long bundle of hay made from the cushions.  The mass
was carried to the top of the keep, weighted with a stone,
kindled, and thrown down.  It fell steadily, the flame
increasing as it gained impetus, casting a yellow glare
upon the walls of the castle and its surroundings.  Its
appearance caused a sensation among the enemy: as
it reached the ground several men rushed forward and
stamped it out; but it had already fulfilled its purpose, and
Harry had seen all that he wished to see.

At the brink of the fosse the enemy had constructed a
low parapet: a large supply of stones was stacked about
thirty yards to the rear, and men were still adding to the
store from the scattered debris in the fosse and at the base
of the ruined walls.  The intention was clear: protected
by the parapet, the enemy hoped to throw their bridge
across the fosse in safety.  With this knowledge Harry's
fear of a night-attack was removed, for if the enemy
intended to assault in the darkness the parapet would be
unnecessary.  They had apparently not cared to risk such
an enterprise.  The bridge would be none too wide even
in daylight for the passage of a body of men rushing pell-mell
over it.  The attack, then, was probably to be deferred
until dawn.  Having completed their task the enemy by
and by drew off, and in anticipation of desperate work on
the morrow Harry went to snatch a brief sleep, leaving
Max as responsible head of the watch.

In the cool glimmering dawn of that June morning
Harry was awakened by Max with the news that the
brigands were moving from the copse.  He hastened at
once to his post, and saw that the parapet extended for
some twenty yards along the farther side of the fosse,
with a gap in the centre protected by a traverse.  The
enemy came forward rapidly, took up the palisades they
had vainly endeavoured to throw across the fosse on the
previous day, and under cover of the parapet began to rear
them.  As Harry had feared, musketry fire from the castle
was almost wholly ineffectual: only the men on the top
of the keep got an occasional chance as the besiegers
incautiously moved away from their breastwork, thus
exposing the upper part of their bodies.  The long
palisades were slowly reared on end, and lowered as
slowly across the fosse, till the end nearer to Harry rested
on the base of the barricade beneath the archway.  When
the last section was in its place, the fosse was spanned
by a bridge wide enough to allow four men to cross it
abreast.

Harry felt a tightening at the heart as he realized the
magnitude of the task he had set himself.  His force,
reduced by his losses to eighteen, including himself and
the two English officers, who were scarcely effectives, was
outnumbered by nearly eighteen to one.  And the enemy
were no feather-bed warriors.  Looking at their motley
array, he recognized that he had to contend with some
of the fiercest, most desperate, least scrupulous men of
war that Europe could produce.  Their nationalities were
as varied as their costumes.  His inexperienced eye could
not distinguish their types: but he saw small men and big
men, men fair, men dark, old and young; some were born
dandies, as their attempts at decoration in adverse
circumstances showed; others born tatterdemalions, who even in
affluence would have held the decencies of costume in
derision.  About a hundred seemed to be regular soldiers of
the Elector of Bavaria's army.  Only one bond held them
together: a common love of lawlessness and rapine.  He
felt a new respect for Aglionby; only a man of some moral
force, however perverted, could have imposed his
leadership on such a heterogeneous crew.

At the moment Aglionby was in consultation with a
few others at some distance, and out of range of the
clumsy firearms of those days.  Among the little group
Harry singled out two men as of more consequence than
the rest: a tall fellow matching the captain in height and
bulk, wearing a red sash—the same man he had seen
approaching the inn,—and a small active man in whose
cap a peacock's feather was jauntily stuck.  They were
evidently discussing with great animation their plan of
attack.

As nearly as Harry could judge, about a hundred men
were crouching behind the parapet.  A body nearly two
hundred strong was held in reserve near the leaders.
Against these Harry had five men in the gateway, three
at the summit of the keep, three half-way up, and Max
as lieutenant and aide-de-camp.

Suddenly the group of leaders parted, a bugle rang out,
and simultaneously with a fierce discharge of musketry
from the parapet two men dashed forward from each end
of the gap on to the bridge.  At a second's interval these
were followed by another four, while several men rushed
from the reserve towards the far end of the parapet to
fill their places.  Three fell under the first volley from the
defenders, but the rest sprang forward unhurt, and
gaining the other side began to clamber up the barricade, to
tear down the stones, or, thrusting their muskets through
the loopholes, to discharge them hap-hazard at the
garrison within.  But three of the defenders of the gate had
held their fire, and, boldly mounting a low platform
of stones just inside the barricade, they discharged their
pieces point-blank into the mass of men now crowding
with shouts across the bridge.  The brigands, Harry
noticed, were headed by the big red-sashed Croatian he
had seen in consultation with Aglionby.  They recoiled
but for a second, then surged forward again, and, yelling
with fury, hurled themselves against the breastwork.
Eugene's troopers, led by Max, held their ground in
silence, save for a muttered exclamation when one of their
adversaries fell reeling into the fosse.

It was not long before the weight of numbers began to
tell; portions of the barricade had been pulled down; the
gallant defenders were hard beset.  Calling to the two
men in the keep, Harry rushed down and flung himself
into the fray, shouting to Max to go to the top of the
keep and carry out orders he had previously received.
Max hurried away, and Harry lost count of time as he
engaged in a desperate hand-to-hand fight across the
fast crumbling barricade.  Standing upon their platform
the defenders still had the advantage of position, and
Harry and his two men being fresh, the enemy for some
few minutes gained but little.  Then, as the attackers
were once more beginning to make headway, there was
a terrible crash on the bridge.  The fighting ceased as
by magic; all was still.  A huge mass of stone, swung
outwards from the top of the keep, had broken with
terrific force through the light palisades, leaving only
one section intact, and carrying with it into the fosse
nearly a dozen men.  The survivors on the castle side,
seeing themselves almost cut off, were seized with panic
and made a simultaneous rush for safety, the big Croatian
pushing his weaker and wounded comrades into the fosse
in his reckless haste to regain the opposite bank.

Harry gave a gasp of thankfulness and relief,—and
turned to see Fanshawe and Buckley, who, weak as they
were, had come up unknown to him towards the close
of the fight to bear a hand.

"Thank you, old fellow!" he said to Fanshawe, "we
have scored one."

But he turned again, and, leaning on the barricade,
anxiously scanned the field.  The leaders of the enemy
were once more in earnest consultation.  They must have
lost at least twenty men in the short sharp struggle; but
the defeat seemed only to have enraged them.  During
the first part of the fight Max had been full in their view,
and as he still wore the prince's costume the brigands
were no doubt convinced that Eugene himself was the
head and front of the defence, and were buoyed up by
the hope of capturing him.  For some minutes the
discussion among the leaders continued; then, as having
come to a decision, they moved off with their men towards
the copse, and, save for half a dozen who remained to
watch the castle, were seen no more for some hours.

Their absence gave Harry an opportunity of attending
to his wounded.  He found that three were somewhat
seriously hurt, and one was rendered hors de combat.
His total force was now reduced to fourteen, including
himself, his brother officers, and the two men on guard.

Towards mid-day, under a broiling sun, the enemy again
appeared.  This time, in addition to palisades freshly
made, they carried with them a number of rough
frameworks penthouse shaped, fashioned from stout saplings
bound together, like the bridge, with withies from the
marsh.  Evidently there was a man of resource among
them.  Each of the frames formed a kind of wooden tent,
two yards long, some three to four wide, and six feet
high, requiring the united strength of half a dozen men
to carry.  But there was no lack of men, and the bearers,
protected from bullets from above by the roof of these
shelters, came safely almost to the edge of the fosse.
The new palisades were thrown across, but this time the
materials were stronger.  One of the sheds, its end closed
with light logs, was rushed across the bridge by a dozen
strong men.  A second was joined to it, then a third, and
so on until a continuous corridor stretched across the
fosse.  The lashings holding the logs together at the inner
end being cut, from out of this testudo sprang brigand
after brigand, who came impetuously up to the barricade
and instantly engaged the defenders in a furious
hand-to-hand combat.  Max, whose marksmanship with his huge
sling had been so effective before, hurled stone after stone
down upon the testudo, but they were turned off by the
sloping roof, and though the bridge creaked and groaned
under the impact it did not give way.

It was fortunate for the defenders that only a few men
at a time could make their way through the shed, and
the space at the end was too narrow to allow of a great
accession of numbers unless the foremost could scale the
barricade.  The enemy had again lost heavily at their
first onset, but as soon as one man fell his place was
supplied, and no respite was given to the little band
within.  Shoulder to shoulder Eugene's men formed a
wall of steel across the gateway: again and again they
beat back the enemy at the breastwork.  But against
such odds they could not hope to escape unscathed; there
were no reserves; and of the enemy there was still a host
ready and eager to fill the gaps.  One man and then
another of the troopers fell, this one to rise no more,
that to crawl away and stanch his wound.  Seven men
were now all that was left of the fighting line, and when
Fanshawe and Buckley came up and insisted on sharing
their comrades' peril, Harry felt that he dared no longer
delay the playing of what might prove his last card.
With a word to Max to keep up the fight, he slipped for
a moment out of the press, struck a flint, kindled some
tinder he had kept in readiness, and then, shouting to
his men to make for the keep, and waiting till they had
begun to run, he lit the train.

At the last moment a trooper fell, so badly hurt that
he could not move.  Harry sprang forward, caught the
man by the belt, and dragged him into the courtyard
towards the keep.  The enemy, astonished at the sudden
flight of the garrison, hesitated for a moment before
charging across the obstacle which so far had held them
off.  Then, just as they leapt forward over the barricade,
now an irregular heap of stones, there was a blinding flash
behind them, and a deafening roar.  The ground rocked;
fragments of the dilapidated walls fell inwards and
outwards; a dense cloud of dust and smoke bellied over the
scene, and the air was rent by the cries of men in agony.

Disregarding the falling stone-work, Harry ran forward
to the archway, his eyes smarting with the fumes.  As the
cloud gradually settled, he saw crowds of the enemy
huddled together on the farther side of the fosse, their
eyes aghast intently fixed on the archway.  But of the
bridge, and the sheds, and the stream of men who a
minute before had been pressing forward exultantly across
the fosse, not a vestige remained.  Wood and men lay an
indistinguishable mass at the bottom.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Fight in the Keep`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXII


.. class:: center large bold

   The Fight in the Keep

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

Soldiers All—The Silent Watches—Twice a Traitor—The
Oubliette—The Horizon—Fanshawe Volunteers—A Powder
Barrel—Nearing the End—Allies—Von Stickstoff—More
Stickstoff—The Confederate Camp—The Anspach
Dragoons—At the Sword Point—A Brief Respite—The
Fight on the Stairs—The Last Stand—The Anspachers

.. vspace:: 2

Harry was sick at heart when he came to examine his
losses.  Three of his men were dead, nine badly wounded,
there was not one but bore marks, in bruise or cut or
strain, of the desperate strife in which they had played
such manful parts.  He arranged for the burial of the
three gallant troopers; then, heavy-hearted as he was,
set to work with indomitable pluck to repair the damage
done to the defences.  The prisoners were pressed into the
service; the barricade was restored, and another mine was
dug, though from the crack that showed in the masonry of
the archway Harry feared that a second explosion would
bring half the keep tumbling about his ears.

Having done all that could be done, and shared a meal
with his devoted men, Harry went with Fanshawe and
Buckley to the top of the keep to discuss the future.

"Our state is parlous, Fanshawe," he said.  "Another
assault will wipe us out."

"We have a breathing-space.  The brigands have
had enough for the present.  Their ill-success must have
daunted them."

"But Aglionby will not give up yet.  He is playing
for a high stake.—What is doing yonder?"

In the distance he saw two wagons and a band of some
fifty men making their way across the hills towards the
copse in which the enemy were encamped.

"Reinforcements, it appears," said Buckley.  "Perhaps
food; they will raid every farmhouse round."

"We must say nothing of this to the men," said Harry.
"'Twould dishearten them."

"It seems you have no choice but surrender," remarked
Buckley.

"Never—unless you and Fanshawe as my superior
officers take the responsibility."

"Not I," said Fanshawe.  "'Tis absurd to think of!
The men are devoted to you; and Prince Eugene put you
in command; you have done wonders, and whatever be
the end, we'd be fools to interfere—eh, Buckley?"

"Certainly."

"Then I won't surrender.  Say we make terms, think
you the enemy would hold to them, finding the prince not
here?  They would wreak vengeance on us for their
disappointment and their losses.  They are in the main
freebooters, the scum of the French and Bavarian armies, as
near savages as men can be.  We could expect no mercy
at their hands.  Besides, Aglionby will by and by discover,
if he have not already done so, that I am here; and he has
too many scores to pay off to deal very tenderly with me
or my men.  We can but hold out to the last, and hope
that help may come in time."

"The prince must by this be in our camp," said
Fanshawe.  "What if we tell the enemy they are on the
wrong scent?"

"'Twould avail us nothing.  Aglionby would not believe
the story, or, if he believed it, would scout it publicly
so as to keep his men together.  He would be the more
deeply embittered against us."

"You are in the right," said Fanshawe.  "Pray God
help comes to us, then."

"We can still hold the keep," said Harry.  "One man
on the winding stair can hold many at bay; we must fight
against time."

That night Harry could not sleep for the harassing
problem of the continued defence of the castle.  True, his
object had been gained; Prince Eugene had got off in
safety; he himself had fought a good fight; but it was
clear that unless help came soon his defence must be
broken through by sheer force of numbers.  He was
resolved to die rather than fall a captive into Aglionby's
hands; but the longing for life was strong within him.
He thought of all that had passed during the two years
since his meeting with Lord Godolphin: the strange
vicissitudes, the ups and downs of fortune; the inexplicable
enmity of Mr. Berkeley; his pleasant relations with
Mynheer Grootz and the ladies of Lindendaal; the chances
which had served him so well and brought him so near the
realization of his dearest longings.  It was hard to think
that at this moment, when the confederate army under the
greatest generals of the age was moving towards events of
high moment, he should be cut off in this obscure spot and
robbed of the opportunity to which he had looked forward
so eagerly.

He did not think only of himself.  He remembered his
companions—Fanshawe, Buckley, the faithful Max, the
brave troopers whose fate was linked with his.  Their lot
was worse than his, for they had ties—parents, children,
relatives, to whom they were dear: he himself was alone
in the world.  Apart from Mynheer Grootz, who he knew
loved him; Madame de Vaudrey, whose feeling for him
was warm; Sherebiah, whose affection was perhaps the
closest of all; there was no one to be interested in his
welfare.  Thinking of Madame de Vaudrey he thought of her
daughter, and was dimly conscious that he would have
liked to stand well in her eyes—to break through that cold
reserve of manner she had always shown to him, and win
from her one look or word of approval.  Fanshawe, he
knew, still nourished a hope of winning her; it seemed to
depend on him whether Fanshawe should have another chance.

He lay awake, thus musing, and gazing at a star that
shone through the loophole in the wall.  By and by he felt
a strange uneasiness, unconnected with his previous train
of thought.  All was quiet; not even the hoot of an owl
broke the stillness.  Unable to account for his feeling, he
rose and went to the top of the keep.

"Is all well?" he asked the sentry there.

"All is well, Monsieur."

"You have seen or heard nothing?"

"Nothing, Monsieur, but the scurry of rabbits in the
fosse."

"Good-night!"

He returned to his bed and lay down again.  But still
he felt uneasy; again he was impelled to rise.  This time
he went down into the courtyard.  Max was on duty
there.  The horses were ranged round the walls; the
coach stood in the corner to which it had been hauled;
everything was as it had been.  He went into the large
hall: the prisoners were all asleep, the sentry on guard.
Something led him to continue his round; he was
determined to allay his restlessness by examining every nook
and cranny of the castle.  Taking a lighted candle, he
made his way into the lower part of the keep.  He arrived
at length at the chamber to which there was access from
the tunnel.  He started, and stopped short in amazement
and consternation.  The stones which had been heaped on
the trap-door had been removed.  With a muttered
imprecation on the man who he supposed had carried the stones
up the keep for use with the sling, he was turning to order
someone to replace them when he noticed that several
stones were piled in a corner near at hand.  He stood
still, puzzled at this strange meddling with his work.

At this moment he heard a slight sound beneath him,
and saw a tremor in the stone trap-door.  Could he believe
his eyes?  One end of the stone was rising.  Quick as
thought he blew out his candle, and backing behind a
pillar drew a pistol from his belt.  His fascinated eyes
were fixed on the slowly moving stone.  There was now
a ray of light at its edge; he heard whispering voices.
Steadily the heavy slab was pushed into a vertical position;
then appeared the head, the shoulders, the body of a man.
By the light of the sputtering candle he carried Harry
recognized Otto the landlord.  Now he saw the meaning
of all that had puzzled him.  The man, alarmed for his
safety if, as must seem inevitable, the brigands captured
the castle and found him there, apparently an accomplice
in the trick played upon them, had sought to purchase his
peace by leading them through the secret passage.  Harry
felt a keen pang of self-reproach that he should not have
foreseen this development and taken steps to prevent it.

.. _`Mein Wirth is surprised`:

.. figure:: images/img-341.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: Mein Wirth is surprised

   Mein Wirth is surprised

But he was instinctively bracing his muscles for the
impending struggle.  The landlord was now through the
opening; he stepped on to the floor of the room and bent
down to assist the next man.  Slipping the pistol back
into his belt, Harry made two bounds and was beside the
stooping figure.  The man heard his footfall and instantly
straightened himself; but even as he raised the hand
holding the candle to ward off the imminent blow, Harry
struck him full upon the chin, and with a stifled gasp he
fell headlong to the stone floor.  Then Harry, throwing
all his weight against the slab, hurled it with a crash into
its place.  The landlord's candle was guttering, still feebly
alight, on the floor.  By its glimmer Harry hauled from
the corner one after another of the stones that had been
removed, and piled them with desperate haste upon the
trap until the way was again effectually blocked.

Then, picking up the candle, he examined the prostrate
body.  The man was stunned.  Harry, for all his anger,
could not help pitying the poor craven wretch.  But only
one course was open to him.  The crashing sound had
already brought Max and two other men to the spot.

"Lower him into the dungeon," cried Harry.

And the dark hole in which Fanshawe and Buckley had
spent nights and days now received the senseless body of
the traitorous landlord.

Sleep was banished for the rest of the night.  The
alarm had gone through the garrison, and every man was
on the alert.  It was clearly imperative to provide against
a possible attack by way of the underground passage.
Such an attack was, in truth, not very likely.  Only one
man could pass the slab at one time from below, and save
by mining operations the enemy could scarcely force a way
through the ton of stones which Harry now caused to be
heaped above it.  But it was necessary to set a watch at
this point, and as he could not spare another man from his
already too much diminished force he decided to withdraw
the man from the tower by which he had escaped from the
castle, and to release the prisoners.

Before he did this, however, he resolved to employ them
once more in strengthening his defences.  It was pretty
evident that the result of another assault would be to drive
him into the keep.  The entrance to this from the courtyard
was without a door; it was necessary to block it up,
leaving only a narrow gap that could be easily closed.
He employed the prisoners to pile the largest stones that
could be found flush with the doorway, in such a manner
that the enemy, approaching from the outside, should be
unable to get a hold upon them or push them away.  A
narrow opening was left, and heavy stones were placed on
the inside, near at hand, to block it up when the time
should come.  At the same time a large supply of missiles
was conveyed to the top of the keep.

It was clear from the movements of the enemy during
the day that they were far from abandoning the siege.
No doubt they had been encouraged by the arrival of
reinforcements.  Sections for a new bridge were brought in
the afternoon and placed close to the fosse, together with
the sections of a second testudo.  These were certain
indications of another attempt on the gateway.

Many times during the day Harry went up the keep and
looked anxiously northward for the expected succour,
always to be disappointed.  He could not believe that
Prince Eugene had left him to his fate; something must
have happened to detain the relieving force, and Harry
thought with anguish of heart that it might arrive too
late.  Then an idea struck him.  Why not send out a
messenger to hasten the troops if they were indeed on the
road?  There was one serious objection: the garrison
could not safely spare a man.  He mentioned his idea to
Fanshawe.

"Let me go," said his friend instantly.  "I am of little
use as a fighting man; my strength is not equal to a fight
so desperate as the last.  But if I can get away, I might
find a horse in a neighbouring hamlet, and I could at least
keep my seat in the saddle.  And an officer would prove
a better messenger than a trooper."

Harry accepted the offer.  Fanshawe might fall into the
hands of the enemy, but he was willing to face the risk,
and under cover of night there was a reasonable hope that
he might elude them.  About ten o'clock he clambered
along the battlements towards the rearmost tower, and
there, assisted by a rope, he made his exit by the postern,
slid down the slope more riskily ventured by Harry on his
first visit to the castle, and, taking a wide sweep,
disappeared into the darkness.

When Harry returned to the keep, he was informed by
the sentry that he had heard dull movements beneath the
trap-door.  The sounds had now ceased.  Harry's
conclusion was that the enemy had been searching for a weak
spot in the passage, and having failed had finally given up
any notion of effecting an entrance there.  He arranged
with Buckley to take the watch from midnight till dawn.

With the first glimmers of daylight Harry carried out
his resolve to release the prisoners.  The odds were so
heavy against him that one man inside was now worth
thirty out, and with no prisoners to guard he could add
one to his effective force.  Rapidly marshalling them, he
led them to the ruined tower, and let them down by a rope
as Fanshawe had been let down in the night.  The
movement was seen by one of the enemy's scouts, and before
the prisoners had all reached the ground a crowd of their
comrades had gathered at the foot of the slope to meet
them.  Their appearance seemed to create great astonishment;
they were surrounded and eagerly plied with questions.
One result of their release was that a new point of
attack was disclosed to the enemy, who had apparently
not dreamt hitherto of making an attempt by the postern.
Harry saw a small body detach themselves from the main
force and approach the slope; but knowing the difficulty
of an assault uphill upon such a narrow opening he
doubted whether they would push an attack home; still,
it would have the effect of engaging one at least of his men.

It was very early in the morning; the enemy had
everything ready; but they appeared to be waiting for
something.  Once more Harry scanned the horizon vainly for
sign of helmet or lance.  Suddenly there was a deep
rumbling roar from the interior of the keep; an exultant shout
rose from the enemy's ranks, and rushing forward at full
speed they began to throw their new bridge across the
fosse.  Shouting to his men to hold the gateway to the
death, Harry hastened down to the entrance of the keep,
where he was met by stifling fumes of gunpowder.  Then
he rushed up the winding stair to the first floor, and saw
Buckley staggering towards him.

"I had just been relieved," panted Buckley.  "The
explosion occurred the moment after I left the spot.  It
stunned me for a few seconds.  The poor fellow who took
my place must have been blown to atoms."

"They laid a charge last night, 'tis clear," said Harry.
"But they can't follow up at once; they must wait until
the fumes have cleared away, and that will take time: there
are no vent holes.  Remain at the top of the stair; with
your musket and pistol you can hold several off for a time.
They are assaulting the gateway; I must go."

Harry, having proved the futility of dropping missiles
upon the testudo, had concentrated his whole force, save
Buckley and the man in the tower, at the gateway.  He
noticed that the new bridge was higher at the farther side
of the fosse than at the end near the castle.  The reason
was soon evident.  The testudo this time was not blocked
up by logs, and Harry behind his barricade could see
through its entire length.  A screen of saplings was
suddenly raised over the farther end of the bridge; it was as
suddenly removed; and down the inclined plane rolled a
small keg of powder, with a burning fuse attached.

"Back, men, back!" he shouted.

The command was only just in time.  They were but a
few yards from the barricade when there came a roar like
thunder, followed by a second as Harry's own mine was
exploded, and through the swirling smoke fierce and
derisive cheers.  Holding his breath and stooping low, Harry
rushed back to see what damage was done.  The barricade
had disappeared; the archway was in ruins; and the
enemy were flinging another bridge across the fosse to
replace that destroyed by the explosion.  So far as the
defence of the gateway was concerned, Harry saw that the
game was up.  At the best he could but delay the enemy
for a few minutes, and even then he would risk having his
men cut off from the keep.  Recalling the man from the
farther tower, he collected his little band, ordered them to
fire one volley into the advancing ranks, and then withdrew
through the barricaded doorway into his last defence.

At that moment he heard the dull sound of a shot
above.  Buckley must be beset!  Giving Max orders to
hold the courtyard entrance, and sending a man to hurl
down stones from the roof upon the enemy crowding
below, he took two men with him to assist Buckley,
whom he found hard pressed near the head of the other
stairway.  Sword in hand, he was holding the narrow
winding passage against the big red-sashed Croatian, who
was making a desperate thrust at him with a half-pike,
the head of which had been severed by the Englishman's
blade.

"Steady, Buckley!  I am here!" shouted Harry.

He drew his pistol from his belt, slipped under Buckley's
arm, and just as the Croatian hurled himself up the last
step intervening between himself and his foe, Harry fired
point-blank at his heart, and he fell back upon his
comrades.  The narrow stairway was choked with men; the
din of their shouts echoed and re-echoed from the winding
walls, and above all the uproar Harry distinguished the
tones of Aglionby, yelling to his men to make way for him
to pass.


When Fanshawe left the castle he walked steadily on
for some hours, making a wide circuit round the enemy's
position, guiding himself by the north star.  His progress
was difficult over the hills in the darkness.  He had to
scale bluffs, to creep up rocks, to spring across ravines,
to wade through swamps at the risk of being engulfed,
to skirt patches of wood—though in one case, finding that
he was being taken too far out of his course, he plunged
boldly into a copse, trusting to his good fortune to bring
him safely out at the other side.  Thus delayed, it was
long before he felt sure that he was safe.

At last he struck into a narrow pathway leading
north-west.  Proceeding more rapidly along this, he was
brought, after walking for some four hours, into what was
apparently the highroad along which he had passed with
Marlborough's letter about ten days earlier.  He was very
tired, but resolved to press on until he reached a village.
Another hour's walk brought him to a hamlet with a
modest Gasthaus.  He knocked up the landlord, and with
some difficulty persuaded the suspicious man to provide
him with a horse.  No troops, he learnt, had passed
through.  The landlord had been told that firing had
been heard among the hills in the direction of Rauhstein;
he did not understand what it could be, for the castle was
in the possession of brigands, and he did not think the
prince's men were near enough.

Staying at the inn but to eat a little food, Fanshawe
rode on, and suddenly, some little while before dawn,
came on a picket of four men upon the road.  He was
challenged; the speaker was evidently a German, and of
German Fanshawe knew not enough to frame a sentence.
He tried French; but that raised the sergeant's suspicions;
he mentioned the names of Marlborough and Prince
Eugene, with no better success; and he was marched off
under guard into the neighbouring village.

His escort halted at a small cottage, and the sergeant
entered.  Colonel von Stickstoff was in bed.  He was
awakened, but the colonel was nothing if not a stickler
for etiquette, and he declined to see Fanshawe until he
had made some preparations.  When Fanshawe was
marched in, therefore, he found himself confronted by a
short, stout, pompous little officer, with his tunic buttoned
tight, a rug across his knees, which were guiltless of
breeches, and a large flaxen wig set awry over his
nightcap.  The quarter-master was summoned, and an
interrogation began.

"Who are you, sir, and what have you to say for
yourself?" asked the officer in German.

Fanshawe tried to explain in French, of which he had
obtained a smattering.

"Ha!  You are a Frenchman!  Take that down,
quartermaster.  Everything must be done in order."

This was somewhat embarrassing.  Fanshawe might
understand the German's French, but he must necessarily
be ignorant of what was said to the quarter-master in
German.

"I am an officer in my lord Marlborough's army," he
said haltingly.

"Take that down, quarter-master.  A Frenchman in
Lord Marlborough's army.  In what regiment, Monsieur?"

"In Schomberg's Horse."

"Take that down.  Now, Monsieur, explain to me how
it is that you, a Frenchman in Lord Marlborough's army,
are here, ten miles from his camp at Gros Heppach."

This was good and unexpected news.  Fanshawe at
once proceeded to make it clear that he was an Englishman,
then explained in as few words as possible whence
he had come and the urgency of his mission.

"Take that down," said the colonel, translating to the
quarter-master.

The man wrote slowly, and Fanshawe was growing
more and more restive.

"I beg you to note, Monsieur," he said, "that while we
are talking Prince Eugene's men are possibly being
massacred by the brigands.  They are at least forty to one."

"Ha!  Take that down.  The enemy is in force; we
must adopt every precaution.  No doubt they are an
advance-guard of the Elector's army.  How many do the
enemy number?"

"Some three hundred."

"Three hundred!—And I have only two hundred and
eighty-three.  We are outnumbered.  Take that down.
We must arrange a *postirung*, according to rule, quartermaster;
note that, strictly according to rule.  I will write
you the instructions.  Lieutenant Spitzkopf will advance
with ten men three hundred and twenty paces in front of
our position; Lieutenant the Baron von Blindwurm will
post himself with five men two hundred and sixty paces
on our right flank—or is it two hundred and forty?  Hand
me my manual, quarter-master."

"There is a swamp there, Excellency," suggested the
quarter-master doubtfully.

"Then they must post themselves in the swamp.  A
*postirung* is a *postirung*; let there be no mistake about
that.  Let me see; yes, here it is: page one hundred and
nine: 'Superior force: detachment in presence of, what
steps to take'.  Yes, it is quite clear; we must secure our
position and send for reinforcements.  'Send for
reinforcements': that is it.  You will at once send a messenger
to Stuttgart; I will write a despatch to the general while
he is saddling up."

Then turning to Fanshawe he said:

"I regret, Monsieur, that, having failed to give the
countersign, you must consider yourself under arrest until
your bona fides is established.  Quarter-master, take the
prisoner away; see that things are done in order, and be
sure to wake me up when the enemy are sighted."

Fanshawe protested, but the colonel was evidently
impatient to get back to bed, and waved him peremptorily
away.  He was led out and deprived of his arms, boiling
with anger, and, feeling that every moment was of importance,
in a state of desperation.  This was the officer to
whom Prince Eugene had entrusted the urgent task of
relieving his hard-beset troopers!  The confederate camp
was only ten miles distant; if only he could find some
means of sending word thither of the dire straits in which
Harry was!

As he passed along the street with his escort, he saw
a number of horses approaching, apparently from being
watered.  The first, a fine charger lighter in build than
the average cavalry horse of the period, was led by a
groom, who at this moment tethered the animal to a
post a few yards from his commandant's cottage.  The
trooper into whose custody Fanshawe had been confided
was marching on his right hand, carrying not only his
own carbine but the prisoner's sword and pistols.
Fanshawe saw a bare chance of escape and unhesitatingly took
it.  With a sudden movement he deftly tripped the man up,
sprang to the post, unhitched the reins, and before the
onlookers could collect their scattered wits was on the
horse's back and twenty yards down the road.  There
was a great hubbub behind him; fortunately none of the
troopers was at that time armed.  Suddenly he bethought
him of the vedette whom the extreme caution of the
commandant had doubtless caused to be posted in the rear of
his force.  He might come upon him at any moment.
Taking the first turning to the right he set spurs to his
steed, dashed along a lane, leapt a fence, and plunged
into an orchard.  From his study of the map previous to
his ride with Marlborough's message he remembered that
Gros Heppach lay on the Göppingen road, to the north-east
of his present position.  If he could strike this by
a path over the hills he might yet succeed.  He spurred
on, the rising sun enabling him to choose the easiest
ground, and by and by came upon a rough country track
leading in the right direction.  He galloped along at
break-neck pace, and gaining a little eminence, his eyes
were gladdened by the sight of white tents dotting the
valley some three miles below him.

He sped down the hill, and soon came plump upon a
Dutch outpost, which had evidently seen him from afar
and prepared to stop him.  Reining up, he asked to be
taken at once to Lord Marlborough.  The Dutchman did
not insist on explanations, recognizing him as an English
officer, but sent a man at once to conduct him to
headquarters.  He had but just reached the outer circle of the
camp, when he saw Colonel Cadogan riding slowly along
in company with another officer whom he did not recognize.
Without hesitation he rode up to the colonel, saluted, and
begged to be allowed a word with him.  His explanation
was soon made, and to his surprise Cadogan burst into a
great laugh and cried in French:

"This concerns your highness.  The troopers who
played the trick on the brigands, and that young
daredevil Rochester, are trapped in a castle."

"Nom d'un tonnerre!" cried Prince Eugene.  "Are they
not relieved?  I ordered a detachment of Würtembergers
to ride out to them two days ago as I passed through
Stuttgart.  What has become of them?"

"It appears," said Cadogan, still laughing, "that they
are on the road, but the colonel is learned in the art of war
and is advancing by strategical moves."

"Sacrebleu!  He must be one of Baden's men.  That
young countryman of yours, Colonel, must be saved."

"Yes, though he is a Dutchman now.  Mr. Fanshawe,
your friend's regiment is close by; you had better take
a squadron and ride out at once.  I suppose a troop or
two of Dutch dragoons will be a match for the brigands?"

"Certainly, sir,—of the Anspach dragoons."

"Very well, lose no time.  I will mention the matter to
the duke, to whom you will, of course, report yourself at
the earliest opportunity.  Good luck to you!"

Fanshawe rode off, and within a quarter of an hour was
leading some two hundred of Harry's troopers, Captain
van der Werff at their head, and Sherebiah among them,
along the shortest road to the castle of Rauhstein.

.. vspace:: 2

The winding staircase of the keep was ampler than in
most castles of the kind.  Two men could mount abreast,
but it was only possible for one to find room for
sword-play.  The attackers soon adapted their tactics to the
conditions.  One man pushed to the front with sword and
pistol; another just behind supported him with pistol and
pike.  Not long after Harry came upon the scene, Buckley,
all but sinking under the strain, had to be assisted up the
staircase.  This gave the brigands a momentary advantage,
for Harry was left with only one swordsman to stem
the rush.  There was no room for his companion by his
side; he therefore sent him aloft to bring large stones to
hurl upon the mob.  Not for the first time he had reason
to congratulate himself on the hours he had spent with
Sherebiah and the Dutch instructor of his regiment in
practising with sabre and rapier.  His was the advantage
of position, but the enemy were always two to one, and
had they had patience to recharge their pistols after the
failure of their first flurried snap-shots, or boldness enough
to press forward regardless of the loss of the first few
men, they could have borne him down with ease.

Only a few minutes had elapsed after Harry's arrival at
the stairhead when he heard a well-known voice storming
below.  The enemy gave back for a moment, then Captain
Aglionby pressed upward and engaged Harry hand to
hand.  Harry was sufficiently occupied in parrying the
captain's vengeful attack without the necessity of
guarding against the pike that threatened every moment to
impale him.  This he could only turn aside; he had no
time for a sweeping cut to sever its head.  Fortunately
for him the captain and his supporter impeded each other
on the stairway.  Yet Harry saw that the struggle could
not last long, and fervently hoped that the man he had
sent for missiles would return in time.  The clang of
weapons and the shouts of men rang through the
stone-walled spaces.  Aglionby had learnt from the released
prisoners of the trick that had been played upon him, and
his fury found expression in the violence of his onslaught
and the venom of the curses he hurled upon his nimble-wristed
opponent.  Harry said never a word, but kept his
eye steadily upon the captain, turning aside stroke and
thrust.

At length he heard a footstep behind him.  A stone
as large as a man's head struck the wall immediately
below him on his left.  Narrowly missing Aglionby, it
rebounded from the curved surface and struck the pikeman
below him with a terrible thud.  With the steadiness of
an old campaigner the captain did not so much as wince,
but continued his attack with still more savage energy.
When, however, another stone hurtled down the stairway,
maiming two other men below him, the rest of his followers
turned tail and fled helter-skelter to the foot.  A third
stone grazed Aglionby's arm; then, seeing himself deserted,
he backed slowly down the stairs.

The attack having been thus for a time repulsed, Harry
left two men on the stairs with pistols ready charged and
a supply of stones, and hurried across to the other
staircase to find how things had gone there.  It was with
unutterable relief he saw that the assault of the enemy
on the entrance to the keep had so far been beaten off
by the combined fire from the doorway and the hurling
of heavy blocks of stone from the top of the building.
But the enemy were preparing another move.  Finding
that they could not force the obstacle, nor approach near
enough to tear it down, they were about to try the effect
of an explosion.  A keg of powder had been rolled to the
entrance by a lucky rush between the falling of two of
the dreaded stones from above; now, hugging the wall so
as to avoid the fire of the defenders, they were laying a
train.

Harry saw that it was only a matter of minutes before
the barricade at the entrance to the keep would be blown
in.  He utilized the time by bringing down a further supply
of stones from the battlements and storing them within
easy reach of the inner stairway.  He could not prevent
the explosion, or raise further obstacles to the progress of
the besiegers; he could but defend every inch of the
staircase, and retreat, if it must be so, step by step to the
top of the keep.  Almost despairing now of relief, he was
prepared to fight to the end, and, looking round on his little
group of stalwarts, he saw no sign of wavering on their
part.  Eugene's men were worthy of their master.

Half an hour passed; the pause lengthened itself to
an hour; yet the train had not been fired, the attack had
not been renewed.  Had the enemy some still more
desperate device in preparation?  Instinctively he looked far
out over the country; but through the sun-shot haze he
descried no sign of a friendly force.  Then the watchman
whom he had left on the roof saw a thin ribbon of flame
dart from the outer gateway, along the wall, to the barred
doorway of the keep.  There was a deafening roar,
followed by the crash of ruining stone-work and the
vociferations of the exultant forayers, who swarmed forward
to clear away the rubbish.  Their ingenuity was
inexhaustible.  When the mingled smoke and dust had eddied
away, Harry saw that they bore with them stout shields
of wood, each carried by two men, intended to ward off
the missiles he was preparing to launch upon them as
they mounted the winding stairs.  This was the explanation
of their long stillness.  Running down, he heard from
his left the din of fierce strife in the stairway leading to
the dungeons.  The enemy were attacking at both points
simultaneously.

Then began the last bitter struggle: the besiegers
pushing relentlessly before them the long upright shields that
occupied almost the whole height and breadth of the
stairway; the besieged contesting every step, hacking and
thrusting, splitting the shields with the jagged boulders
from the ramparts, lunging with sword and pike through
the narrow spaces at the sides, yet moment by moment
losing ground as fresh men from below came up to replace
their wounded or exhausted comrades.  A din compounded
of many separate noises filled the narrow space—the crash
of stones, the creak of riven wood, the clash of steel upon
steel or stone, the crack of pistols, the cries of men in
various tongues—cries of pain, of triumph, of encouragement,
of revenge.  Desperately fought the little garrison,
every man loyal, resolute, undismayed.  They had no
reserves to draw upon; theirs but to stand staunch against
fearful odds, and, if it must be, die with courage and clear
minds.  With labouring breath, drenched with sweat,
sickened by the reek, battle-worn and weary, they plied
their weapons, hurled their missiles, grimly gave blow for
blow.  Back and ever back they were driven by the
remorseless shields; forced from the lower stairways they
are now collected—a little band of seven—on the single
one above; Harry and Max in front, two pikemen behind,
and behind these, three who turn by turn smite the mass
thronging below, over the heads of their own comrades,
with cyclopean masses which only the strength of despair
enables them to lift and hurl.  Now a stone crashes clean
through one shield, ay, through two, making its account
of the bearers, and giving pause to the brigands.  Now
a pike transfixes a limb, a sword cleaves a red path, a
bullet carries death.  But the enemy press on and up;
like an incoming tide they roll back a little after every
upward rush, rising, falling, yet ever creeping higher, soon
to sweep all before them.

Now only six men hold the narrow stair.  The dimness
of the scarce lit space below is illumined from above; a
yell of triumph breaks from the brigands' throats as they
realize that they are nearing the top of the turret.  The cry
is like a knell to the hearts of Harry Rochester and his
devoted five.  Only a few steps, and they must be forced
upon the roof, driven against the parapet, at bay to the
horde of wolvish outlaws already exulting in their
victory.  Aglionby has gone, sore hurt by a thrust from a
pike; but a doughty leader is still left, the lithe Frenchman
whose peacock's feather flickers hither and thither in the
van.  Mechanically the defenders wield their weapons,
cast their last stones; the force is gone from their strokes,
their dints fall ever feebler and feebler upon the
steel-edged wooden wall that thrusts them upward without
mitigation or remorse.  Never a man dreams of yielding;
Buckley falteringly whispers a word of final cheer; there
is no mercy for such obstinate fighters from the savage
outlaws, afire with the lust of blood, infuriated by the
checks and losses of the past desperate days.

They are at the upmost turn of the stairway now, their
heads already in the pure clear air of the bright June
morning.  The imminence of the end nerves them for a
last despairing rally.  Through the gaping joints of the
battered shields they make so sudden and trenchant an
attack on the foe that for a brief moment the upward
movement is checked.  A rebound: already the feathered
Frenchman leaps upward as on the crest of a wave, when
a confused shout reverberates through the hollow turret,
a message is sped with the rapidity of lightning from base
to summit; all is hushed to a sudden silence; then, while
the six stand in amazed stillness, the Frenchman swings
round and, amid the clatter of wood and weapons, flees
headlong down the stairs at the heels of his scurrying
comrades.  Bewilderment for a moment possesses the six,
as, with the vision of death before their eyes, they rest
heavily on their weapons.  Then Buckley, nearest to the
parapet, with a shout that breaks into a sob, cries:

"They flee! they flee!"

Three bounds bring Harry to his side.  With elbows on
the parapet he gazes hungrily into the open.  The four
press about him.  Between the castle and the copse men
are scampering like scared animals, a few on horseback,
most of them on foot.  And yes—in the distance, moving
across the hills from the north-west,—what is it that
causes Harry's heart to leap, his blood to sing a song of
tempestuous joy in every vein?  One look is enough; he
cannot be deceived; in the horsemen galloping amain
towards him he recognizes his own regiment, the Anspach
dragoons.  One moment of self-collection: then he turns
to his men.

"We are saved, my men," he says quietly.

And from the parched throats of the five war-scarred
warriors on that ancient keep rises a hoarse thin cheer,
that floats away on the breeze, and meets the faint blare
of a bugle.





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.. _`Blenheim`:

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   CHAPTER XXIII


.. class:: center large bold

   Blenheim

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

Compromising Papers—A Jacobite Agent—Praise from
Eugene—A Contrast—Sherebiah Resigns—Foreign
Ways—A Divided Command—The Duke's Day—The Field of
Battle—"The Doubtful Day"—A Famous Victory—A
Fugitive—Coals of Fire—A Revelation—Warnings—Silence—A
Soft Impeachment—Down the Rhine

.. vspace:: 2

Never a more cordial meeting took place between friends
than the meeting of Harry with Godfrey Fanshawe.
The latter, with Sherebiah, rode straight for the castle,
while Captain van der Werff and his dragoons swept upon
the scattered forayers, exacting a terrible retribution from
all within reach of their sabres.  The moment when the
friends met in the courtyard was too tense for speech.
Buckley, weaker than the others after his imprisonment,
almost sobbed; Eugene's three dragoons sat down on the
flagstones and, resting their heads on their crossed arms,
sought the blessed oblivion of sleep.  Harry's overwrought
body was all a-quiver; his trembling lips stammered out
broken and inconsequent phrases; and Fanshawe wisely
left him to Sherebiah's tendance.

It was not till much later in the day that the story of the
siege was told.  Harry's fellow-officers were unstinted in
their admiration of his pluck and resourcefulness.  He on
his side was provoked to mirth by Fanshawe's story of the
methodical Colonel von Stickstoff, though he was serious
enough when, turning to his friend, he thanked him
earnestly for what he had done to hasten the relief.

When Captain van der Werff arrived, he made a
thorough search through the castle, and discovered in the
cellars a large and motley collection of plunder gathered
by the outlaws.  There were costly church ornaments,
bullion, pictures, pieces of tapestry, jewelry, arms, clothes,
articles of furniture, but no plate; this, he concluded, had
been melted down to avoid the risk of discovery.  In the
dungeon was found the shattered body of the landlord of
the Zum grauen Bären, killed by the explosion engineered
by his own friends.  Harry could not but reflect on the
nemesis which had pursued this man of crooked ways.

Preparations were made in the late afternoon for riding
back to the confederate camp.  Many of the stricken
brigands had surrendered to Captain van der Werff's
dragoons, and were escorted into Urach to be dealt with
by the civil authorities.  At Harry's suggestion the bodies
of the slain were examined by Sherebiah, to see if Aglionby
was among them; but he was not recognized; it was
probable that he had escaped.  Before the castle was finally
deserted, Aglionby's room was searched.  In a wallet
beneath his bed a large number of papers was found,
consisting of letters, tavern bills, private memoranda, gazettes,
and a parchment conferring the rank of captain in the
dragoons of the Elector of Bavaria upon Ralph Aglionby, late
of the Preobrashenski regiment of his imperial majesty of
Muscovy.

Harry looked through all these papers himself, hoping to
find some clue to the inveterate animosity of Mr. Berkeley.
But though he was disappointed in this, he discovered
three papers which seemed to him of particular interest,
and which he kept carefully apart from the others.  The
first was a brief note in French from Monsieur de Polignac,
written from the head-quarters of Marshal Tallard,
congratulating Aglionby on his commission in the Bavarian
forces, and asking him to meet the writer as soon as
circumstances permitted.  From this Harry concluded either
that Polignac had not been concerned in the attempt to
drown Aglionby in the Merk, or that he was a man of
consummate and unblushing duplicity.

The second was a letter from Mr. Berkeley himself,
written long before.  The squire spoke of enclosing
money, and referred to the matter of H—— R——,
hoping that the captain would make a better job of this
commission than with the M—— M——, by which Harry
understood the name of the vessel that had carried him
down the Thames.  The letter continued:

.. vspace:: 2

"I shall require of you cleare proofe of your profess'd Zeale in
my service before I despatch any further Remittance.  It will
beseeme you to send me an Attested Copie of such *Forme of
Certificate* as is usual in Holland.  Let nothing stande in the
way of this moste necessarie Document; I doubt not that
among the *Notable People* with whom you at present consorte
there will be founde a *respectable* Attorney to whom the
Businesse may be with suretie confided."

.. vspace:: 2

This letter left no possibility of doubt that Mr. Berkeley
was prepared to stick at nothing to remove Harry; but it
threw no light on his motive, and Harry was as much
perplexed as ever.

The third of the papers was a letter from a certain
Anne Consterdine in Westminster, addressed to Aglionby
at the Hague.

.. vspace:: 2

"This is to advise you", it ran, "that the Packett from
M. de P—— despatch'd by the hands of the Honnest Captin
came safely to my hands.  The Gratification that you use to
recieve will be pay'd to you at the same Place as afore.  I am
bid by the *Friende* at St. J—— to say that besides this your
Name & Services have been noted with a speciall Marke, & will
be *rewarded* with all Rightfull Diligence when the *Good Shippe*
you wot of comes safe to Port."

.. vspace:: 2

To Harry this letter was a mere enigma; it bore no
special significance; but he gained enlightenment when
he showed it to Fanshawe.  That young man was three
years older than Harry, and had moved in a more varied
society.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed, on reading the letter, "your
friend Aglionby has many irons in the fire.  'Tis clear he
is a go-between, and the correspondence, being betwixt
Westminster and the Hague, can mean but one thing.
The 'good ship', too—what can that be but the ship
that is to convey the Pretender to England to assume
his father's crown?  Your Aglionbys and Polignacs are
Jacobites, Harry; there will be another bone to pick with
them."

The plunder was packed into Prince Eugene's coach;
the wounded dragoons were set on horseback and taken
into Urach for treatment.  Then, after the destruction of
what ammunition remained in the castle, Harry rode with
his comrades and Eugene's three dragoons from the
memorable scene, and before sundown entered the confederate
camp at Gros Heppach.  The news of their coming had
been already spread by a man riding in advance, and their
entry was made amid the clamour of thousands of shouting
men and drums and fifes.  In a sort of triumph Harry was
escorted to head-quarters, where, in the presence of
Marlborough and Eugene and officers of their staffs, he had to
tell over the story of the ruse and the subsequent siege.
He remembered afterwards how differently the two great
generals had heard him.  Prince Eugene ever and anon
broke into exclamations, slapped the table, crossed and
uncrossed his legs, was up and down, restless and excited.
Marlborough listened throughout with the same tranquil
attentiveness, scarce moving, saying never a word.  When
the story was ended, Eugene cried impetuously:

"Ma foi, my lord, this is a lad of mettle.  He has done
right worthily, and merits much at our hands.  For
myself, I beg him to accept at once this ring; you did me a
gallant service, Monsieur, and it will not displease you to
wear as a token of my thanks a ring from the finger of
Eugenio von Savoye."

"I add my thanks to his Excellency's," said Marlborough
quietly.  "If I mistake not, my secretary already
has your name on a list for advancement; it is a long list,
but no name has more merit than yours.  You will see to
it, Mr. Cardonnel, that Mr. Rochester is not overlooked."

"Parbleu, my lord!" exclaimed Eugene, "I am for
speedier measures.  The lad is an officer of Dutch dragoons,
I believe.  I ask for his services as aide-de-camp to
myself; and, ma foi, I give him a commission in my own
hussars.  Monsieur, you will not object to the transfer?"

"Your Excellency does me too much honour," said
Harry, his breath almost taken away by such good fortune.

"That is settled then, with my Lord Marlborough's
consent?"

"I have no objection, your Excellency.  And the young
man could not be in better hands."

"Then I will see your colonel, Monsieur, and the matter
shall be arranged as speedily as possible."

Harry felt some natural elation at this surprising change
in his fortunes.  He was a little amused, too, to think that
this was the third time he had come under Marlborough's
notice, and each time the benevolent intentions of the duke
had been anticipated.  He could not but contrast Prince
Eugene's impetuous generosity with Marlborough's placid
goodwill; it was not till long afterwards that he
understood what obstacles lay in the duke's way.  Marlborough
was continually being pestered with applications from
people of importance at home on behalf of their friends
and connections; and in the then state of politics he could
not afford to set aside the requests of those whose support
he was so deeply concerned in retaining.  Harry never
had reason to doubt the kindness of Marlborough's feeling
towards him, and as he gained knowledge of the complex
intrigues in which the public men of those days were
enmeshed, he thought of the duke without bitterness.

Before many days he was gazetted captain in the Imperial
service, and left his regiment to join Prince Eugene.
His departure was signalized by a banquet got up by his
fellow-officers, at which he was embarrassed by the many
complimentary things said of him.  He parted from his
old comrades with regret, tempered by delight at the
prospect of close service with the great general who had
so highly honoured him.

Since his return to camp, he had remarked a strange and
unaccustomed moodiness in Sherebiah.  The worthy fellow
went about his duties with his usual care and punctuality,
but he was abnormally silent, seldom smiled or hummed
country songs as he had been wont to do, and appeared
to be in a state of chronic antagonism to Max Berens,
whom Harry had taken as additional servant since their
adventure together.  Harry affected to ignore Sherebiah's
change of manner; but in reality it amused him, and he
was in constant expectation of something that would bring
matters to a crisis.

One morning Max came to him in a state of exaltation.
Prince Eugene, unwilling that a man who had worn his
clothes to such good purpose should remain unrewarded,
had not only presented him with the suit, but had
purchased for him the Zum grauen Bären on the Urach road.
Max said he was loth to leave his new master, but could
not throw away so good a chance of settling in life, and
added that as Mr. Rochester's Englishman apparently
disliked him, the prince's gift had come most opportunely.

Max had hardly left Harry's presence when Sherebiah
entered.  He doffed his cap and fingered it uncomfortably, his
usually cheery face wearing a portentously lugubrious look.

"Well, Sherry, what is it?" asked Harry.

"Well, 'tis like this, sir.  'Tis a sayen, a' b'lieve, when
in Rome do as the rum uns do.  These be furren parts,
and there be furren ways o' doen things.  Seems like now
as if I bean't no more use, and I've been a-chawen of it
over, and the end on't is, I be come to axe 'ee kindly to gi'
me my discharge, sir."

"Indeed, Sherry! you surprise me."

"You see, sir, I be nowt but a Englishman,—a poor
honest Wiltshire man; you can't make a silk purse out o'
a sow's ear, and nothen'll make a furrener out of a
home-spun countryman."

"That's true enough, Sherry, but you're right as you are."

"Nay, sir, axen your pardon.  True, I ha' still got a bit
o' muscle, and can handle a sword featly; but I'm afeard
I can't brush a coat nor fold a pair of breeches like a
furrener, let alone wearen on 'em.  Zooks! suppose a man
do get inside of a high prince's goodly raiment, do it make
un a whit the better man?—I axe 'ee that, sir.  Many's
the time I've seed a noble coat on a scarecrow in a
turmut-field, sir."

Harry remembered that of late Max had made the care
of his clothes his special province.

"Furren ways and furreners," continued Sherebiah,
"I can't abide 'em, and but for bein' a man o' peace I'd
find it main hard to keep my hands off 'em, be they in
prince's fine linen or their own nat'ral smalls, sir."

"You don't like foreigners, eh?—Katrinka, eh?"

Sherebiah was nonplussed for a moment, but recovered
himself with his usual readiness.

"Ay, but there's a deal in the bringen up, sir.  You can
break a colt, and tame wild beasts, and make summat o'
crabs wi' graften.  Katrinka be a young wench, and
teachable; bless 'ee, I've teached her how to fry a rasher and
make a roly-poly; her be half Wiltshire a'ready, and sings
the song o' turmut-hoein' like a bird.  And 'tis my thought,
sir, bein' discharged, to have our names cried and do the
lifelong deed, and goo home-along and bide wi' feyther."

"Well, if your mind's set on it, I suppose I must be
content to lose you both."

Sherebiah ceased twiddling his cap and looked startled.

"Both, sir!—did I rightly hear 'ee say both?"

"Yes, you and Max."

"Hoy! be it the holy state o' matrimony wi' he too?"

"I shouldn't wonder.  Prince Eugene has made him a
present of the Zum grauen Bären inn, and he'll want a
wife to help him."

Sherebiah looked thoughtfully at the floor.

"The striplen be a good enough feller," he said slowly.
"Barren his furren blood, which he couldn't help, poor
soul, he bean't a bad feller.  He looks uncommon spry in
the prince's noble garments—ay, he do so."

Sherebiah paused, and began to twiddle his cap again.
Harry waited patiently.

"I'm a-thinken, sir, 'twould be onbecomen in a Wiltshire
man to let his duty goo by, in furren parts an' all.  Bean't
in reason for both to take our discharge all o' a heap, and
if the young man Max goos, I bides, leastways till 'ee set
eyes on a plain Wiltshire man as 'ee'll fancy better."

"Well, that's all right, Sherry.  Now I think the best
thing you can do is to go and wish Max good luck."

He could not help smiling at Sherebiah's obvious relief
at the turn things had taken.  Sherebiah heaved a deep
sigh; then, as he observed Harry's amused expression, a
broad grin overspread his features, and he moved away.

With the arrival of Prince Eugene the campaign entered
upon a new phase.  Dissimilar as they were in character
and temperament, the prince and the duke at once became
fast friends.  Eugene not merely fell under the spell of
Marlborough's personal force of character; he recognized
his transcendent genius, and threw himself with enthusiasm
into his plans.  Unluckily, the Prince of Baden was
a man of a different stamp.  He was a soldier of the old
school, brave as a lion, but wanting in judgment, cautious,
methodical, a stickler for form.  He joined the others in
counsel at Gros Heppach, and being the eldest in rank
expected that they would yield him the chief command.
But the execution of their plan, so daringly conceived,
demanded qualities he did not possess, and Marlborough
had to exercise all the tact and patience of which he was
so consummate a master.  With much difficulty he
persuaded the prince to share the command with him on
alternate days, but not all his diplomacy availed to induce
him to depart for the Rhine army.  He insisted on
remaining with Marlborough on the Danube, and Eugene had
reluctantly to accept the other charge.  On the 14th of
June, therefore, Eugene left for Philipsburg, to watch
Marshal Tallard, who was marching along the Rhine to
join forces with the Elector of Bavaria.  Harry
accompanied him.

Then began a fortnight of wearisome marching, in cold
and rainy weather.  The Elector of Bavaria was by this
time aware that Marlborough's design was to attack him,
and in order to cover his dominions and check the
confederate army until the expected reinforcements reached
him he sent General D'Arco to occupy the Schellenberg,
a height commanding Donauworth, on the north bank of
the Danube.  Hearing from Eugene that Tallard and
Villeroy were at Strasburg organizing these reinforcements,
Marlborough decided immediately to attack the
Schellenberg.  It happened to be his turn of command;
he knew that if the day was allowed to pass Baden would
find reasons for postponing the attempt, and after a hard
march he threw his weary troops upon the position and
carried it with heavy loss against an obstinate defence.

A diplomatic attempt to detach the Elector from his
alliance with France having failed, Bavaria, now open
to the confederates, was put to fire and sword.
Marlborough, one of the humanest generals that ever lived,
refused to allow his own forces to engage in the work of
burning and pillage, and did his utmost to restrain the
excesses of the German soldiery.

Eugene meanwhile, having failed to prevent the junction
of Tallard with Marsin and the Elector of Bavaria, paid
a hurried visit to Marlborough at his camp at Sandizell to
concert operations against the now formidable enemy.
Luckily, Prince Louis of Baden agreed to lay siege to
Ingolstadt, and his colleagues were relieved of the presence
of one whose captious temper was a continual stumbling-block.

During Eugene's absence news reached his camp that
the enemy were hastening towards Lauingen with a design
to cross the Danube.  Harry was despatched to Sandizell
with this important information.  He met the prince on
the road back; the latter immediately returned to
Marlborough, who decided to reinforce him, and moved his
own camp to Schönefelt, nearer the Danube, in order to be
able to co-operate with him should occasion arise.  Late
at night on Sunday, August 10, Eugene sent word to
Marlborough that the enemy had crossed the river at
Lauingen.  Marching out at once he joined the prince,
and early on Tuesday morning they went towards
Hochstadt, where they intended to make their camp.  On a
hill two miles east of that town they caught sight of some
squadrons of the enemy.  Not knowing whether this was
merely a reconnoitring party or the advance-guard of the
main force, the two generals mounted the church tower
of Dapfheim, and through their glasses saw that the whole
army of the enemy was in full march in their direction,
and that a camp was being marked out on the very
ground chosen by themselves.  They instantly determined
to attack.

On the north bank of the Danube, at the head of a loop
of the river, lies the little village of Blindheim, or, as it was
spelt by Marlborough, Blenheim.  At the eastern extremity
of the loop the Danube is joined by the brook Nebel,
shallow and narrow, formed by many rivulets flowing from
a range of wooded hills three miles to the north.  In those
days the ground between these various branches was an
undrained swamp.  The Nebel flows through two villages,
Unterglau a mile above Blenheim, Oberglau three-quarters
of a mile farther north.

.. _`Plan of the Battle of Blenheim`:

.. figure:: images/img-365.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: Battle of Blenheim, 13th August, 1704.

   Battle of Blenheim, 13th August, 1704.

Tuesday night was spent in preparation for the coming
battle.  At three o'clock on Wednesday morning the
confederate army moved slowly out.  A light mist hung over
the ground, but after three hours' march they came in
sight of the enemy, and the cannon opened fire while the
troops deployed into line.

The enemy, west of the Nebel, were in two main divisions,
the right under Tallard resting on Blenheim, the
left under Marsin and the Elector of Bavaria higher up the
brook, occupying the villages of Oberglau and Unterglau,
the rear being in the village of Lutzingen.  On the
confederate side, Eugene commanded the right, opposite
Marsin, while Marlborough was opposed to Tallard.

The confederate troops, composed of English, Germans,
Dutch, and Danes, were all in the highest spirits.  The
victory of the Schellenberg had heartened them; they had
unbounded confidence in their generals.  As he mounted
his horse that morning Marlborough said quietly, "This
day I conquer or die," and officers and men alike caught
the infection of his brave, calm spirit.

The ground on which Prince Eugene's division was to
be posted was broken by branches of the Nebel and became
uneven as it rose towards the hills.  For this reason
it took the prince some time to get his men into position.
Marlborough's force was earlier posted, and he occupied
the interval until he should hear from Eugene that all
was ready by having prayers read at the head of each
regiment.  About twelve o'clock a message came from
Eugene that he was prepared.  "Now, gentlemen, to your
posts," cried Marlborough to the officers with whom he
had been breakfasting.  Up sprang the big Lord Cutts,
deputed to open the attack on Blenheim—a gallant leader,
nicknamed Salamander from his careless daring under fire.
Up sprang General Churchill, and galloped off towards
Unterglau, already set on fire by the cannonade.  Up
sprang General Lumley, hero of the cavalry charge at the
Schellenberg.  From brigadier to bugler, every man was
determined to "conquer or die".

Blenheim was filled with French, seventeen battalions of
Tallard's best troops hampering each other's movements
there.  So strongly was the village defended that the
English troops were twice compelled to retire.
Marlborough's foreseeing eye marked the urgency of the
moment.  The enemy must be prevented from pursuing
their advantage.  In spite of artillery fire in flank and
cavalry charges in front he got his horse across the stream
and the intervening marshes.  Tallard was late in meeting
the movement.  He allowed the first line of English to
form up on his own side of the brook before he ordered
a strenuous attack.  Then Marlborough reinforced his
lines, and having assured himself that they could hold
their own, galloped to the left to see how things were
faring toward Blenheim.

Meanwhile on the right Eugene had fought with varying
success.  A dashing cavalry charge broke the enemy's
front line, but from the second his horse recoiled, and he
brought up his Prussian infantry to stem the tide.  At
Oberglau also the Prince of Holstein's division was thrown
into confusion by the gallant Irish brigade, which flung
itself upon the Germans with the fierce valour for which
these exiles were renowned.  Here, too, Marlborough's
all-seeing eye marked the crisis.  Galloping to the point
of danger, he ordered up battalions and squadrons that
had not yet been engaged, and in his turn threw the Irish
into confusion.

The summer afternoon was drawing on; for five hours
the battle had raged, and neither side had yet gained a
substantial advantage.  But soon after five, having seen
all his cavalry across the Nebel, the duke rode along the
front, and gave orders to sound the charge.  At the
trumpets' blare 8000 horsemen, splendidly mounted, moved
up the slope in two lines towards the enemy, first at a
gentle trot, quickening their pace until it became a gallop.
One slight check from the terrible fire of the French
musketeers, then they swept forward irresistibly.  The
enemy recoiled, broke, fell into disorder, and fled, the
infantry towards Hochstadt, the cavalry towards
Sondersheim, on the river bank.  Then was seen Tallard's fatal
mistake in crowding so many men into the narrow streets
of Blenheim.  Catching the panic from their flying
comrades, they turned hither and thither, not knowing how
to find safety.  Some plunged into the river, only to be
borne away on its swift current and drowned.  Others
sought to escape towards Hochstadt, but every avenue
was blocked.  In rage and despair they maintained a
stubborn fight until the evening dusk descended, and the
hopelessness of their plight counselled surrender.

At the head of his shouting cavalry Marlborough
himself had chased thirty squadrons down the steep bank of
the Danube to destruction.  He had but just returned
when he was met by an aide-de-camp with a prisoner no
less notable than Marshal Tallard himself.  The duke put
him into his own coach, and sat down to pencil that famous
note to his duchess which gave England the first tidings
of this glorious victory.

The victorious army bivouacked on the field, taking
possession of the enemy's standing tents, with a great
store of vegetables and a hundred fat oxen ready skinned
for the pot.

During this great action Harry had been hither and
thither in all parts of the field, bearing Eugene's orders
to his divisional commanders.  Of the details of the fight
he saw little, but was well pleased at the close of the
day when the prince thanked him in the presence of his
staff, and invited him to his own supper table.

During the next few weeks the troops marched towards
the Rhine, the duke's objective being Landau, which he
hoped to take before the close of the campaign.  One
afternoon Harry went on in advance with Sherebiah from
Langenhandel to Weissembourg, to secure quarters for
Prince Eugene.  His errand accomplished, he was sitting
at dinner in the inn when through the open window came
the sound of hubbub in the street.

"What is it, Sherry?"  he asked.

"'Pears to be a crowd of Germans a-setten on to a
wounded Frenchman, sir.  He have his arm strapped,
and——why, sakes alive! 'tis black John Simmons hisself."

"Indeed!" cried Harry, rising.  "Then the captain
will be near at hand.  Out and bring the fellow in."

Sherebiah issued forth and shouldered his way through
the growing crowd.  When Simmons caught sight of him,
his jaw dropped and he turned to make away; but Sherebiah
was at his heels in a twinkling, and soon he dragged
him through the throng and into the inn.  The man
looked even more woebegone than when Harry had last
seen him, and his drawn face betokened keen suffering.

"Cotched again!" said Sherebiah.  "Stand there afore
Master Harry and speak your mind."

"How come you here, Simmons?" asked Harry.

The man explained that after the rout at the castle he
had escaped with his master to the Elector's camp and
been with the army at the battle of Blenheim.  He had
ridden out of the fight with Aglionby, but being wounded
had fallen from his horse and been callously left to his
fate by the captain.  Contriving to evade capture, he
had wandered from village to village, and, reaching
Weissembourg, had been sheltered there by a cottager until
all his money was gone.  Then he was turned out neck
and crop, and was being hustled out of the village when
Sherebiah intervened.  His wound had not been properly
treated, and he was in a sorry plight.

Harry could not help pitying the poor wretch whose
service had been so ill-requited by his master.  Properly
he was a prisoner of war—one of the 13,000 who had
fallen into the hands of the victors.  But he was a
fellow-countryman after all, and possibly had been an honest
fellow until he came under Aglionby's sinister influence.
Harry had not the heart to let him go to his fate.

"Sherry, look to his arm," he said.  "Let us see what
sort of a leech Jacob Spinney made of you.  Then give
him some food and find him a lodging."

Several days passed, and Harry, in the bustle of camp
life, had almost forgotten the incident, when one morning
Simmons presented himself and asked to be allowed to
speak a word.  His arm was nearly healed, and he looked
a cleaner, trimmer fellow.

"Ah, Simmons!" said Harry, "you're better, I see.
What have you got to say?"

"First to thank you, sir, for your kindness, which I know
I don't deserve.  Sherebiah Minshull has treated me well."

"I'm glad of that.  Now is there anything else I can
do for you?"

"I've been thinkin', these few days, sir, and ponderin'
on my past life; and there's a thing I believe you ought
to know."

"Well, speak up, man."

"'Tis summat I heard pass between Cap'n Aglionby and
the Frenchman, sir."

"That's enough: I'm not interested in the doings of
your rascally employer."

"But you are, sir, unless I be much mistaken.  The
matter concerns the French lady near Breda, and the
young mistress—partickler the young mistress, sir."

Harry was now all attention.

"Speak on then, and use few words."

Simmons then related that, some few days before the
battle of Blenheim, Monsieur de Polignac had come secretly
into the camp and paid a visit to Aglionby.  (Harry
remembered the letter making the appointment he had
found in the castle.)  The opening of the interview had
been stormy; Aglionby had accused Polignac of being a
party to the attempt on his life at Breda, and at first
refused to accept his assurances that he knew nothing
whatever of the matter.  But Polignac spoke him fairly,
declaring that his connection with Mr. Berkeley had been
limited to planning Aglionby's rescue from prison.  The
Captain's suspicions being at last lulled, Polignac opened
up the subject of his visit.  Of the remainder of the
interview Simmons had but hazy ideas: he had listened
through a hole in Aglionby's tent, and the conversation
being conducted in low tones and in French, of which he
had only a smattering, he had missed a good deal of it.
But he had heard enough to know that the Mademoiselle
of whom the two spoke was Mademoiselle de Vaudrey,
and that Polignac was bargaining with Aglionby to aid
him in an attempt to get possession of the young lady.

"One thing I heard plain, sir," said Simmons in
conclusion, "and that was that the cap'n was to get a good
bit o' gold when the Frenchman married the lady, and a
good bit more when he came into the estates."

"What estates?"

"That I can't tell you, sir; 'the estates' was all I
heard—*terres* was the word as was used."

"Oh!  And why do you betray your master?"

"Well, sir, he've led me a dog's life for years; holds
over me that hangin' business on the old road; and then
after I'd served him faithful leaves me to shift for myself
with a bullet in my arm.  I don't owe him no thanks."

Harry stood in thought for a few moments.

"You're a Londoner, I think, Simmons?" he said at length.

"Ay, sir."

"What trade were you bred to?"

"A joiner, sir."

"Well, if you'll promise me to go straight back to
London and work at your trade, I'll contrive to send you
down the Rhine with the prisoners, and give you a little
money to start you."

"Thank 'ee kindly, sir!"

"Very well.  Sherebiah shall take you to Hanau and
see you safely lodged.  Remember, you've your character
to build up afresh.  If you stick to your trade, and keep
out of the way of folk who want to use you for dirty work,
you may become a decent citizen yet."

"On my soul I'll try, sir.  'Tisn't every one would give
a poor fellow a chance, and I thank 'ee true, sir."

Harry dismissed the man in Sherebiah's care.  He was
greatly disturbed by his news.  It was clear that Polignac,
having failed to win Mademoiselle de Vaudrey by fair
means, and by the attempt to bring pressure to bear, so
happily frustrated by Mynheer Grootz, was now determined
to resort to desperate measures.  Something must
be done at once to put Madame de Vaudrey on her guard.
He would have liked to convey the warning himself, but
felt the impossibility of asking from Prince Eugene leave
of absence for so long a journey until the campaign was
ended.  The only other means open to him was to write.
Couriers were constantly going backwards and forwards
between the armies and the Hague and other towns; he
might avail himself of one of these to send his urgent
message.

Harry lost no time in putting his decision into effect.  He
wrote both to Madame de Vaudrey and to Mynheer Grootz,
telling them that Aglionby and Polignac were scheming
to abduct Mademoiselle, and also that they were in league
with the Jacobites in France and England.  This latter
fact would give Grootz a free hand in dealing with them,
even if he detected them in no overt act against
Mademoiselle de Vaudrey.  It was two days before Harry could
send off his letters, which for greater safety he entrusted
to an official despatch-rider, by permission of Prince
Eugene.  The post would take several days; it would be
towards the end of the first week in October before a
reply could be expected.

Time passed away, and Harry was anxiously waiting,
when, two days before the earliest date on which a letter
could be received from Grootz, he was unexpectedly sent
by Prince Eugene on an urgent private errand to Vienna.
He was accompanied by Sherebiah, now again his
constant companion.  They made as much speed as possible,
but nearly a month elapsed before Harry was able to
report the success of his mission to the Prince, then in the
confederate camp before Landau.  As soon as he had seen
the prince, he enquired whether a letter had arrived for
him during his absence, and felt a great sense of relief
when a packet was given him addressed in Grootz's big
business hand.

But his feeling was changed to the keenest anxiety
when he found that the letter, though written more than
a week after the date at which Grootz might reasonably
be supposed to have received his letter, made no reference
to the news he had sent, and had clearly been despatched
in entire ignorance of the threatening danger.  Long
afterwards he learnt that the courier had been accidentally
drowned in crossing a river at night, and his letters had
been lost.  He dreaded to think what might have
happened in the interval.  He wrote another urgent letter to
Mynheer Grootz, and despatched it by a special messenger;
but the bare possibility of a mishap alarmed him, and he
could never put the subject from his thoughts.  He woke
at night under the pressure of his anxiety; if only he
could himself go to Lindendaal to see that all was safe!
But while the siege was still being prosecuted, and the
prince had constant need of his services, he could not
bring himself to ask for leave.

His difficulty was solved for him by the prince himself.
His evident preoccupation, and a slight mistake he made
in noting down a message, attracted that astute
gentleman's attention.  He spoke to Harry on the matter; by
this time they were on such terms that Harry felt no
difficulty in opening his mind; and he explained that
having become aware of a plot likely to injure some
friends of his, and fearing that his letter of warning had
miscarried, he was in considerable anxiety on their behalf.

"Naturally," said the prince.  "Who are these friends
of yours?"

"A French refugee lady and her daughter, Monseigneur,
who live near Breda."

"Ah!  What is their name?"

"De Vaudrey, Monseigneur."

"Are they relatives of yours?"

"No, Monseigneur."

"A mere matter of friendship, eh?"  The prince's eyes
twinkled.  "Now, my boy, confess: you are in love."

"No, indeed, Monseigneur."

"Well, the symptoms are not unusual.  You ought
to know best, of course; but in any case you had better
get the matter off your mind.  This weary siege cannot
last more than a few days longer; we hear that the enemy
are on the point of surrender; we shall go into winter
quarters immediately, I suppose, and I shall be able to
dispense with your services until the spring.  Pack off
to Breda and see your—friends, holding yourself in
readiness, of course, to come back to me when summoned."

Harry was too much pleased at the opportunity of assuring
himself that all was well to think it necessary to make
any protestation about his motives.  Thanking the prince,
he finished off one or two small duties and went to arrange
with Sherebiah for their journey.  Before he left he came
across Fanshawe in camp, and, without disclosing his
reasons, told him where he was going.

"Then will you do something for me?" asked Fanshawe
eagerly.  "Will you carry a letter for me?  I love that
girl, Harry.  I can't get over it.  I made a mistake last
time.  I ought to have known that our English ways
would not answer with French ladies.  I spoke to Adèle
herself; I ought to have spoken to her mother.  If you
will take it, I will write a letter to Madame de Vaudrey
asking permission to pay my addresses to her daughter;
that may give me a chance; don't you think so, Harry?"

"I don't know," said Harry.  He felt strangely
unsympathetic with Fanshawe at that moment.  "I will
take your letter if you are not long about it: I ride for
Maintz to-night."

"Thanks, old fellow!  Wait till you're in love; then
you'll know how a fellow feels; I shall have no peace of
mind till I know my fate."

A few hours after this, Harry left the camp with
Sherebiah, carrying the letter on which Fanshawe's fate
depended.  To save time he had decided to take boat
at Maintz, and sail night and day down the Rhine.  Ten
hours later he had bought a big boat, engaged a man
who knew the river, and begun his journey.  With the
aid of the stream and oars, and proceeding continuously,
he could save a day or two on the land journey.  His plan
was to engage fresh crews at every important stopping-place,
so as to have relays of sturdy oarsmen and to get
out of them all the work of which they were capable.
The Germans were naturally not so eager as himself,
and grumbled a good deal at the exertions demanded of
them.  "Unerhört! unerhört!" was the exclamation he
frequently heard from their lips.  But he never relaxed
his determination, and found liberal pay a ready stimulus.

Thus, without mitigation of pace, the boat rushed down
the river.  As one after another the river-side towns were
passed, Harry felt a satisfaction mingled with an
impatience too great to allow of his taking much interest in
the scenes.  The ugly, dirty garrison town of St. Goar,
the fortress of Hesse-Rheinfels, the famous Rat tower of
the Hatto legend, Coblentz, Cologne, Düsseldorf, were
only so many stages of his uneventful journey.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Wages of Sin`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIV


.. class:: center large bold

   The Wages of Sin

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

Promenade à Berlin—A Sudden Stop—Grootz Chuckles—Place
aux Dames—The Last Two Miles—Polignac Pays the
Penalty—Zo!

.. vspace:: 2

About four o'clock on a November afternoon, fine for
the time of year, two horsemen rode up to the inn at
Eyndhoven.  Huge clouds of steam rose from their horses
into the cold air; the panting of the beasts told of a forced
pace.  Dismounting, the riders called for refreshment and
a change of horses: they were anxious to push on at once.

When their hasty meal was finished, while the master
was paying the bill, the man went into the inn yard and
tried to enter into conversation with a servant standing
there in charge of a large empty travelling carriage.

"Whose carriage is that?" he asked.

"Monsieur de Polignac's," was the surly answer.

The man started slightly, but no one would have
suspected anything but pure curiosity from the tone of his
next question.

"Who is it waiting for?"

"Monsieur de Polignac."

The reply was still more surly.

"The roads will be heavy for travelling.  Bad enough
for horsemen, worse for coaches.  Maybe the gentleman is
not going far?"

"Maybe not."

"The Breda road?"

"What is that to you?"

"No offence, comrade.  A man may ask a question, to
pass the time.  Bid you good-day!"

Seeing that he was unlikely to get any further information
he sauntered off, but disappeared as quickly as
possible into the inn.

"Mounseer's coach is in yard, sir," he said quietly,
"and a-waiten for Mounseer."

"Ah!  Are we in time, Sherry?  Call the ostler."

When the man appeared, Harry slipt a coin into his
hand.

"Monsieur de Polignac is making a journey.  Tell me
all you know about it."

The man replied that the coach had been sent to the inn
two days before.  Monsieur de Polignac was expected at
any moment.  He had recently sold his estate and was
leaving for Germany.  It was thought that he wished
to take his departure quietly, for he had always been
unpopular with his tenants, and he ran the risk of a
hostile demonstration if the time of his setting out were
known.  He probably intended to slip secretly away from
his house and make his real start from Eyndhoven.  A
large quantity of his baggage had passed through the
town a few days before; but, strangely enough, a carter
coming in had reported that Monsieur's wagons were
going south, which was certainly not towards Berlin,
the alleged destination.  On the road they had taken
there was great danger of their falling into the hands of
the French, for it was not more than five or six leagues
from Marshal Villeroy's lines, and Monsieur as a Huguenot
refugee would meet with scant consideration from his
countrymen.

"Has Monsieur de Polignac himself been to Eyndhoven
lately?" asked Harry.

"No, Mynheer; the arrangements were made for him
by an English officer who fought at Blenheim, where the
great duke gave the French such a drubbing a few months
back.  He was a masterful man; gave orders that the
horses were to be ready at a moment's notice and to be
kept in good condition.  Only this morning a messenger
came with instructions for the coach to be ready by eight
o'clock to-night, with a stock of wine and provisions which
Monsieur will take with him."

Harry was perturbed at this news.  It was clear that
Polignac intended to depart in haste; but whether on
political grounds, having found his character as spy
detected, or in pursuance of the plot hinted at by
Simmons, it was impossible to know.  If the latter, there
was certainly not a moment to lose, and it behoved to
push on with all speed to Lindendaal.  Fresh horses had
been waiting for some minutes.  Harry and Sherebiah
were soon in the saddle, and set off at a gallop along
the miry road, into the gathering night.

.. vspace:: 2

Some hours previously a traveller approaching Lindendaal
from the opposite direction had passed through Breda.
He had found it impossible there to get a change of team
for his coach; all the horses in the town were out,
conveying to their homes the gentry of the countryside who had
come into Breda for a grand ball given the night before by
the officers of the garrison, the finale of a week of
entertainments.  Not even Mynheer Grootz's liberal offers
sufficed to secure a team at once.  The motive of his
journey was clearly urgent, for instead of waiting a few
hours until some of the hacks returned, he pushed on at
once with his tired animals to Tilburg, four leagues
farther on the road.  There he succeeded in hiring fresh
horses, and without delay continued his journey.

He was himself very much fatigued, having risen from
a sick bed on receiving the letter sent him by Harry from
Landau.  As he drew out of Oerschot, where the team
was again changed, he pulled up the wooden slat blinds,
and settled himself in the corner of his seat for a short
nap.  So much exhausted was he that he was still sound
asleep when, nearly two hours later, the coach reached
the end of the park wall of Lindendaal.

It was now growing dark.  All at once Grootz was
roused from sleep by the stopping of the coach.  In his
half-awake condition he thought that he was at his
journey's end, and was rising to lower the blinds when there
was a shout and the report of a pistol-shot.  Wide-awake
in an instant he groped in the darkness for his own pistol.
But just as he laid his hand upon it the coach jolted on
again, throwing him back into his seat.  It was rattling
and swaying from side to side, the horses being urged
to their utmost speed.  His first impulse was to let down
the blinds and endeavour to get a shot at one of the men
who had waylaid him.  Then he hesitated; a sudden
thought had occurred to him; he gave a quiet chuckle,
and peeped through the slats of the blinds, first on one
side, then on the other.  He could just see that a
horseman was riding at each side of the carriage, and through
the small window at the back he saw a third following.
He smiled grimly, and, holding his pistol ready, waited
for what he suspected must happen before long.

His own postilion, he guessed, had been killed or
wounded by the pistol-shot he had heard, and the coach
was now driven by a stranger.  He was thus one against
four.  He might shoot one of them, but would clearly be
at the mercy of the three others.  It was a lonely road;
there was nothing for the present to be gained by
resistance, and besides, he had a further reason for biding
his time.  Delay would not worsen his own situation;
while if his suspicions were correct the longer he remained
passive the better his purpose would be served.

After a headlong, rattling, bumping flight of about
two miles, as it seemed to Grootz, he heard the horseman
on his right shout an order to the postilion.  The
coach was pulled up; the horseman threw himself from
the saddle, and wrenching open the door peered in.

"I regret, Madame, the necessity——"

He started back, for in the waning light he had just
become aware that there was but one figure in the
carriage, and that clearly the figure of a man.

"Triché, morbleu!" he cried in fury.  "Someone shall
pay for this.  Come out, or I will empty this pistol into
you!"

The only answer was the click of a pistol within the
coach, and a flash from the corner.  Grootz's weapon
had missed fire.  Whipping his own pistol from his belt
Polignac fired; and the Dutchman fell back, hit in the
shoulder.  With a cry to his companions Polignac sprang
on his horse, and galloped furiously back along the road
he had come, the other two horsemen hard at his heels.
Immediately afterwards the postilion cut the traces and
set off in haste after his employer, leaving Grootz, the
coach, and one horse to themselves.

Five minutes later, from the Eyndhoven direction, up rode
two horsemen at speed.  It was now almost totally dark;
the coach could barely be discerned in the middle of the
road, and Harry, who was foremost, pulled up only just in
time to save his horse's knees.  In a moment he was out of
the saddle; Sherebiah was by his side, and while the man
held the horses, Harry, anxiety tearing at his heart, looked
into the coach.  There was a huddled heap upon the floor.

"Steel and tinder!" he cried to Sherebiah.

A light was struck.

"Good heavens! it is Mynheer Grootz."

He bent down and touched the wounded man's hand,
fearing he might be already dead.  The touch revived
Grootz from his swoon.

"On to Lindendaal!" he said faintly and brokenly.
"Leave me!  Ladies in danger.  Take care.  Desperate
men: four; at once!"

Loth as Harry was to leave his friend in so ill a plight,
the imminence of the peril to which the ladies were exposed
was predominant.

"I will send a man back to you, Mynheer," he said.
"Sherebiah, we must hasten."

The short halt had given the horses time to recover
their wind.  They had not travelled far, nor had they far
to go.  The two sprang to their saddles, and as they rode
off into the darkness there was a look on Harry's face that
boded ill for Polignac or any of his party.  Never before,
even when carried bound on board the *Merry Maid*, even
when his own life had been attempted, had he felt the
overmastering desire for vengeance that burnt within him
now.  The sight of his friend and benefactor wounded and
helpless had quickened his indignation with Polignac and
his crew into a fury of resentment, and at the back of his
consciousness there was another and a subtler feeling
which he did not pause to analyse.  With eyes staring
into the distance, ears strained to catch the slightest
sound, every sense on the alert, he led the way over the
heavy miry road, Sherebiah a short length behind.  If
anyone could have seen the riders' faces he would have
been struck by the contrast between their expressions.
Harry's was grim and tense with white rage; Sherebiah's
round cheeks wore their settled look of cheerful
placidity—the unruffled carelessness of a man of peace.

It was a furious gallop, over the two miles from the
halted coach to the gates of Lindendaal.  Harry's eager
eyes at length caught a twinkle of light ahead to the right
of the road.  A moment later the faint sound of a shout
came down the wind, then the crack of a pistol-shot.
Digging his spurs into his steed's heaving flanks he drew his
sword; it was a matter of seconds now.  He flew past
the ruined barn, standing bare and black on the right;
and there, before him on the road, shone a light, from a
carriage lamp as he supposed.  Now mingled with shouts
and oaths he heard the clash of steel; in a moment there
loomed up before him at the entrance to the balustraded
avenue a dark still mass, and in the yellow glare of the
lamp he perceived two men on foot fighting desperately.
He was still some yards away when he saw the man
farthest from him shorten his sword and run his opponent
through the body, then with lightning speed prepare to
meet the horseman, whether friend or foe, whose coming
the ring of hoofs had announced.  As he dashed forward,
Harry recognized in the sinister features and the wry mouth
the evil face of Polignac.  Leaning low over his horse's
neck he made a sweeping blow with his heavy cavalry
sabre that would have cut the Frenchman's spare frame
into halves had he not with rare presence of mind sunk on
one knee and allowed the blade to swish harmlessly over
his head.

Harry was carried on for some yards before he could
check the impetus of his horse, and then he found himself
in the thick of a fight in which he could distinguish neither
friend nor foe.  A fierce oath on his right, however,
proclaimed the identity of one of the group, and, turning, he
saw the bulky form of Captain Aglionby on horseback
outlined against the light from the distant house.  Leaving
Polignac for the moment Harry made straight for his elder
enemy, who was wheeling to deal with the new-comer.  It
was no moment for nice sword-play on either side; cut
and thrust, lunge and parry—thus the two engaged in
the dark.  Blade clashed on blade, horse pressed against
horse, their hoofs struck sparks; nothing to choose
between the combatants except that Aglionby was between
Harry and the light.

Suddenly the captain made a supreme effort to quell his
assailant by main force for good and all.  Rising in his
saddle, he brought his sword down with the full weight of
his arm.  But, thanks to the friendly light from Lindendaal,
Harry saw the movement in time.  Parrying the swashing
blow with ease, he replied with a thrust that tumbled the
captain groaning from his saddle.  The horse plunged and
galloped madly into the night.  Harry did not wait to
discover the full effect of his blow, but wheeled round to find
Polignac, the duel on his left having terminated in the
flight of one of the parties and pursuit by the other.

At the moment of wheeling he heard the voice of
Sherebiah at his elbow.

"Hold, sir!  'Tis done.  Mounseer ha' paid his score."

"You have killed him?"

"My sword went through un.  He be on ground: no
risin' for he."

"Then secure Aglionby.  He fell from his horse a few
yards up the road."

He himself sprang from the saddle and ran to the door
of the coach.  Wrenching it open, he saw by the light of
the lamp Adèle de Vaudrey erect on the seat, supporting
the unconscious form of her mother.  The girl's cheeks
were the colour of death; her lips were ashen; upon her
face was the fixed look of resigned despair.

"Mademoiselle," cried Harry breathlessly, "all is well.
You are safe."

A sob broke from the girl's dry lips; tears welled in
her eyes.

"Mother has swooned," she said in a whisper.

Harry darted to the canal side, stuck his handkerchief
on the point of his sword and let it down to the water,
returning with it dripping wet to the coach.  Bathing the
lady's temples they revived her, and Adèle whispered the
news that they were safe.  Madame's nerves were quite
unstrung; incapable of heeding what was said to her she
wept and laughed alternately, to Harry's great alarm.

"We must get her home," said Adèle.

"Yes; I will find a man to lead the coach.  You will
not mind my going: Mynheer Grootz is wounded two
miles away."

"Oh, Monsieur Harry, go then at once.  I can take care
of Mother."

Harry ran back to the road to find Sherebiah, who in
his absence had made an examination of the ground with
the aid of the carriage lamp.  Polignac was stone dead;
his body lay at the very brink of the canal.  There was no
sign of Aglionby or of the other two men, though traces
of blood were found on the spot where the captain had
fallen.  Of the house party two men were badly wounded;
these Harry despatched to the house for ministration while
himself with Sherebiah hurried back at full speed to
Mynheer Grootz.  The coach stood undisturbed where
they had left it.  Grootz lay on the seat, conscious but
very weak.

"Well?" he said, as they appeared.

"Well, thank God!" replied Harry.  "The ladies are
safe, Polignac is dead, Aglionby and the rest have fled."

"Zo!"

Quite content, the merchant said no more.  He was
taken at a walking pace to Lindendaal.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A Bundle of Letters`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXV


.. class:: center large bold

   A Bundle of Letters

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

Jealousy—Hard Facts—A Special Plea—Family
History—Brother and Sister—Marriage Lines—A
Fair Claimant—Air Castles

.. vspace:: 2

Some hours later, when Madame de Vaudrey had been
composed to sleep, and the three patients made as
comfortable as possible pending the arrival of the doctor, who
had been summoned from the village, Adèle left her
mother's bed-side and joined Harry in the dining-room.

"I must thank you," she said, advancing to him with
outstretched hands.  "We have always to thank you.  It
seems to be fated that you should save us from that
bad man."

"He will trouble you no more, Mademoiselle."

Adèle looked a question.

"Yes, he is dead."

The girl shuddered, and looked involuntarily towards
the sword at Harry's side.

"No, it was not I; it was my man."

There was a look of relief in Adèle's face.

"How thankful to God we must be that you came in
time, Monsieur!"

"Did Madame not get my letter?"

"Did you write a letter?"

"Yes; I learnt some time ago that this plot was hatching,
and I wrote twice.  The first letter, I know, must have
miscarried, but the second—it should have reached you,
for I am sure Mynheer Grootz must have received a letter
written at the same time.  That is why he is here now."

"We have been away from home: stay, Monsieur, I will
enquire."

She soon returned with the letter unopened.

"It came three days ago," she said.  "We have been
for a week in Breda; there were festivities given by the
officers of the garrison, and the servants did not think
to send the letter, knowing that we should soon return.
M. de——he must have found out the time of our
departure, and so planned to waylay us.  But we were late
in starting; Mother was fatigued; and I see how it
happened.  Mynheer Grootz's coach was taken for ours; when
the—the man found that it was not, he thought it had
been sent on in front to deceive him.  Oh, Monsieur Harry,
but for your letter to Mynheer Grootz, and your coming so
soon yourself——"

"Think no more of it, Mademoiselle.  I cannot say how
glad I am that I happened to be able to serve you.
Forgive me; you are worn out; it will not do to have another
invalid, you know——"

Adèle smiled in answer.

"Yes, I will go to bed," she said, "and I do thank you
for Mother and myself."

She clasped his hands again, then ran from the room.
Harry had never seen her so much moved.  Hitherto she
had always been so cold, so reserved, seeming to grudge
the few words that courtesy demanded.  Even when
something claimed her active help, as in the stratagem
by which Lindendaal had been saved from the raiders
nearly eighteen months before, she had acted, indeed,
with decision and courage, as a good comrade, but had
at once relapsed into her former attitude of aloofness,
almost disdain.  With Fanshawe, on the contrary, she
had been frank and gay, ready with quip and jest, gently
correcting his French, merrily laughing at her own
attempts to speak English, never wearying of accompanying
on the harpsichord his west-country songs, which she
quickly picked up by ear.  Fanshawe was thoroughly in
love with her—and Harry remembered with a pang that
he bore a letter from Fanshawe to her mother, once more
urging his suit.

"Confound him!" he thought, and, his hands tight
clasped behind him, he strode up and down the room
with compressed lips and lowering brow.

He had no doubt now of the relationship in which he
stood to Fanshawe; he was both his rival and friend.
He tried to face the situation calmly.  Fanshawe was a
good fellow, an officer in the English army, and heir to
a baronetcy and a fine estate.  He could sell out at any
moment, and doubtless enjoy by the liberality of his father
an income sufficient to maintain a wife in something more
than comfort.  It gave Harry a pang to contrast his own
position.  He had no property, no family influence, nothing
beyond his pay and the income so generously allowed by
Mynheer Grootz.  True, he was now in the service of
Prince Eugene, and the circumstances in which he had
joined the Austrian service gave him a good prospect of
ultimate advancement; but it might be many years before
he could venture to ask a lady to share his fortunes.
Besides, if Mademoiselle de Vaudrey was indeed heiress
to an estate, as Simmons had reported, a poor man could
not seek her hand without incurring the suspicion of being
a fortune-hunter: the mere suggestion brought a hot flush
to Harry's cheeks.  No; he could but stand aside.
Fanshawe had failed once; he might yet succeed; and if it
should so turn out, Harry could but wish his friend joy
and go his way.

"Heigh ho!  Some fellows are lucky!" he thought, and,
heaving a tremendous sigh, he went to bed.

A good night's rest, and the knowledge that Polignac
could never disturb her again, cured Madame de Vaudrey's
hysteria, and she came down next morning somewhat pale,
but in her usual health.  After breakfast Harry took the
first opportunity of finding his hostess alone, to deliver
Fanshawe's letter.  She smiled as she took it and noticed
the handwriting.

"From that dear Monsieur Fanshawe, is it not?" she said.

"Yes, Madame."

"What can he have to write about, I wonder?  Do you
know, Harry?"

"Fanshawe told me, and—well, he asked me—that is,
I promised to put in a word for him."

"Vraiment!  Then I think I guess the subject of his
letter.  Come, mon ami, what have you to say for him, then?"

The comtesse watched Harry with a twinkle of enjoyment.
Her mother's eye had penetrated the state of the
case.

"Godfrey is a good fellow, Madame; amiable—you know
that; he will be rich some day; he—sings a good song;
he—in short, Madame, he is very fond of Mademoiselle,
and—and——"

"And would make a good husband, you think?  Well,
my dear Harry, I shall tell Adèle that he has written to
me, and repeat what you have said in his behalf; but you
know her: she has a mind of her own; and I can only give
her my advice."

And she left Harry in a tormenting perplexity as to what
her advice would be.

It was a week or two before Mynheer Grootz was well
enough to leave his room, and during those days his
kind attendants were careful to avoid all but the most
necessary references to what had happened.  He was told
that Polignac was dead and the hue and cry was out after
Aglionby, and his convalescence was not retarded by any
fears on the ladies' behalf.  One morning, when the doctor
allowed him to come downstairs, he sent Harry to find
Madame de Vaudrey.  It was time, he said, that the
motive of Polignac's recent attempt should be seriously
considered.

"Madame," he said in French, when with Harry they
were closeted in the reception-room, "it has not yet been
told you, but we have reason to believe that Polignac
urged his suit upon Adèle because he had information that
she is heiress to some estates."

"As she is—heiress to Lindendaal."

"Yes, but the estates in question must be of greater
value.  Your little estate here is not of so much worth
as to account for Polignac promising large sums to
Aglionby, first on his marriage with Adèle, secondly on her
succession to her property.  Tell me, Madame, know you
of anything that could give colour to the beliefs of these
wretches?"

"Nothing, my friend.  My husband, as you know well,
was a refugee, an exile: his family estates in France were
confiscated long ago.  As for me, I had nothing but my
poor little dowry.  No relatives of mine are owners of
estates."

"But on Monsieur le Comte's side: his mother: she
was an Englishwoman, I believe?"

"Yes.  I know little of her; she died very soon after
the birth of her only child, my dear husband."

"What was her name?"

"I do not remember.  Certainly I have heard it, but
it is many years ago, and English names are so difficult
to keep in mind."

"But Monsieur le Comte—had he not some souvenir of
his mother?—some portrait, or heirloom, or family papers?"

"I never saw any.  But I have upstairs a box in which
I treasure many little things that were his: perhaps you
would like to see it?"

"Certainly.  It would be as well."

Madame de Vaudrey sent a servant to a private room
in the turret, whence he returned presently with a
leather-covered brass-studded box.  After some search the key
was discovered, the box was opened, and the comtesse
took out, one after another, various memorials of her
dead husband.  Among them was a bundle of papers
tied up with ribbon; this she laid with trembling hands
before her friend.

"You permit me, Madame?" he said.

She nodded through her tears.

Grootz untied the ribbon, and unfolded the topmost
paper.  A cursory glance showed that it threw no light
on the subject all had at heart.  Several other papers
were examined with a like result; then, nearly at the
bottom of the bundle, Grootz came upon a smaller packet
separately tied.  The outer wrapper bore, in a faded,
delicate handwriting, the words: "Dernières letters de la
famille de feu ma chère femme".  Harry got up and leant
towards him in some excitement.

"Wait, my son," said Grootz; "let us proceed with
quietness."

He opened the topmost letter, and read it slowly through.

"It tells us nothing," he said.  "It begins 'My dear
sister', and ends 'Eustace'.  We go to the next."

Unfolding this, he saw at the top the date June 12, 1659,
and an address in London.

"This is in the same hand," he said.  "It is cramped;
Harry, your eyes are young; read it, my boy, aloud."

Harry took the letter and read:

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

"MY DEARE SISTER,

.. vspace:: 1

"It will please you to heare the Affaire goes according to
our hopes.  The people are well dispos'd to the Gentleman you
wot of, & the rule of the Saintes is abhorr'd of the moste.  But
businesse of State holds lesse in your Estimation than the fortunes
of your brother, and I have a peece of Newes that will put your
gentle heart all in a Flutter.  What do 'ee think, sweete?  You
never had a sister: will you thanke me if I give you one?
There! not to keepe you on tenterhooks, I designe—now is yr heart
going pit-a-pat—to wed: ay, Mary, your brother has met his
fate.  This daye weeke the Knot is to be ty'd.  I knowe the
questions that at this Newes flocke into your mind: is she black
or faire, tall or short, of court or cottage?  I am not carefull to
answer; you shall love her, my sweet; 'tis the fairest, dearest
ladie lucky man ever wonne, yonge, freshe, winsome as you could
wishe.  I dare not, as you may beleeve, wed in my owne name;
'tis too perilous as yet, my Businesse being what it is; indeede,
Lucy herselfe knows not of my family, for being so yonge and
simple, she might let fall in an unwatch'd moment what might
bring me to the block.  She shall knowe all in due season.  I
have not open'd my Designe to our brother, for in truthe I find no
reason to truste him; his warm professions of Zeale for us seeme
to me but Flams.  I feare he has play'd throughout a Double
Game.  He stands exceeding well with the Godly Partie, &
having been at Paines to enquire thro' a sure friend I can
heare of nothing done in our behalfe, but rather of endeavors
to feather his owne nest.  But enough of that; if our hopes are
crown'd, as praye God they may be speedilie, Nicolas will
have——"

.. vspace:: 2

Harry paused as he read the name.

.. vspace:: 2

——"Nicolas will have no choice but to quitte the Hall, and
make what Profitte he may of his owne farmes.  Ask in yr prayers
that the Happie Daie be hasten'd.  And now no more from your
righte loving Brother EUSTACE."

.. vspace:: 2

Harry laid the letter down, and looked at Mynheer
Grootz.

"Why did you pause?" asked the Dutchman.

"'Twas a thought I had, Mynheer.  It may be vain.
Before I say more, will you look at the next paper?"

"Hé!" exclaimed Madame de Vaudrey, "I am
becoming curious."

Mynheer Grootz with the same imperturbable calm
unfolded the next paper of the bundle.

"This," he said, scanning it over his spectacles, "is
not a letter; it is a document.  It records the marriage,
in the Huguenot church in Paris, on May 2, 1658, of
Louis Marie Honoré, Comte de Vaudrey, aged 34, with
Mary Berkeley,"—he pronounced the name in three
syllables, foreign fashion—"aged 22, daughter of John
Berkeley Esquire of Winton Hall, in the county of
Wiltshire, England."

"'Tis found!" cried Harry, springing up in excitement.
"We call the name Barkley in England; Madame, Monsieur
le Comte was the son of Mr. Berkeley's sister; he
is the squire of my own village Winton St. Mary; without
a doubt it is his estates to which Mademoiselle is heiress.
What a discovery we have made!"

"Stay, Harry," said Mynheer Grootz quietly; "did you
not tell me that your squire has a son?"

"Yes, yes, but now I remember: at home I have heard
it said that Mr. Berkeley was lord of the manor only by
default of other heirs: yes, it comes back to me now:
the villagers did not like him; they grudged him his
estate; he was stepson of the former squire, and
step-brother of the lady who became Comtesse de Vaudrey."

"Still I do not understand.  The lady had a brother—the
gentleman whose name was Eustace; being employed
in state business, to do with the restoration of your King
Charles, I think, he was doubtless the elder of the two:
he would be his father's heir, and his children after him.
The letter, you see, announces his approaching marriage."

"You are right, Mynheer.  I heard him talked of, too;
he was killed in a fray with highwaymen on the Dover
road, when he was returning from France, after King
Charles came back, to claim his estates.  Yes, the squire's
family history is well known in the village; but I never
heard of a Mistress Eustace Berkeley; perhaps the
marriage did not take place after all."

"It would seem so."

"It must be so," cried Harry.  "Do you not now see
Captain Aglionby's part?  When he stayed with you,
Madame, six years ago, he must have discovered Monsieur
le Comte's relationship with Mr. Berkeley; that explains
his hold over the squire; it explains also the scheme
arranged between him and Monsieur de Polignac.  Indeed,
it is clear as daylight: the captain bled Mr. Berkeley on
pretence of keeping his secret; and he sold that secret
to Polignac."

"The odious man!" exclaimed Madame de Vaudrey,
who sat in a state of perfect amazement as link after link
was added to the chain.

"A very villain!" said Grootz, smiting the table.
"Madame, it appears that Adèle is indeed the rightful
owner of the estates now held by this miscreant Berkeley,
and I, Jan Grootz, will make it my business, as soon as I
am recovered, to see that right is done."

"And it is to Harry that we owe it all!  Oh, my dear
Harry, Adèle shall thank you!  If only my dear husband
could have lived to bless you too!"

"Zo!" exclaimed Grootz.  "But, Madame, I have a
thing to say.  Adèle shall thank Harry; yes; but I say
tell her nothing until I have been to London, and with
the aid of English law have overthrown the villain
Berkeley.  It will be best; yes, it will be best."

"Very well, my friend.  Dear Adèle! to think of her as
lady of an English manor!  She has thought much of her
English grandmother: she will love to live in England;
I have no English blood in me, and I dread the sea; but
I must live with her, of course I must."

Grootz compressed his lips.

"Il ne faut pas vendre la peau de l'ours avant de l'avoir
tué," he said sententiously.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The New Squire`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVI


.. class:: center large bold

   The New Squire

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

Jonahs—Step-brothers—Whose Gain?—The Female Line—The
End of the Story—Treason—The Fleet—In Italy with
Eugene—Home—Adèle Studies Geography—Lady
Bountiful—Minshull Remembers—A Warning from
Mr. Tape—Mr. Tape at Hungerford—Exit Harry
Rochester—At the Gate—A Royal Feast—What's in a
Name?—A Rustic Moralist—Wedding Bells

.. vspace:: 2

Giles Appleyard, giving a flick to the off leader, scraped
his well-rasped chin over the stiff collar of his coat and
addressed the outside passenger who had just mounted
his coach at Basingstoke.

"Why, Willum Nokes," he said, "'tis many a long
day since I set eyes on your noble frame.  How's the
wicked world sarven 'ee, Willum?"

"Fairish, Giles coachman, on'y fairish.  A've never bin
the same man since that tarrible day when John Simmons
gi' me the go-by.  Ay, I were constable then, a-sarven the
Queen and Sir Godfrey, and wi' the bodies of all the souls
in Winton Simmary under me.  Now I be on'y parish
beadle at Basingstoke, sarvant to pa'son, and rulen over
none but the misbehaven childer in church."

He sighed and shook his head.

"Ay, and th' on'y thing as keeps me above ground is a
journey once a year to th' old place, where I wanders round
a-thinken deep things o' the noble line o' life as used
to be."

"Ay, poor soul, 'ee did truly make a gashly fool o' yerself
that day, Willum.  Well, better a live fool than a dead
'oss, as you med say."

"An' yerself, Giles—you looks hale an' hearty as ever I
seed 'ee."

"Ay, Willum, I goos up an' down the world rain or
shine, merry as a grig."

"'Ee must see a powerful deal o' life, Giles; all sarts an'
perditions o' men, as pa'son sings in church.  Who med be
your insides to-day, if I med axe so homely a quest'on?"

"Only two to-day, Willum.  There be little travellen
for a week or two arter Christmas.  One on 'em be a Dutch
skipper; I mind I carried un once afore; ay, 'twas the
same day as young pa'son Rochester and Sherry Minshull
rode a-top, all agwine to Lun'on.  Young pa'son be now a
sojer, so 'tis said, an' hob-a-nob wi' the mighty o' the earth.
The way o' the world, Willum; some goos up, like young
pa'son; some goos down, like Willum Nokes; some goos
steady, like Giles Appleyard; eh, soul?"

"Ay, 'tis constables goos down, a' b'lieve.  But who
be your other inside, coachman?"

"Why, no one an't telled me, but I'd take my affidavy
afore any justice o' peace 'tis a limb o' the law.  I knows
they sart.  They ought to pay double; for why? 'cause
bean't safe to carry; last time I carried a lawyer fore off
wheel broke as we trundled through Winterslow.  When
I seed this chap at Angel and Crown this marnen, says I
to myself, 'Zooks!' says I, 'what poor mortal soul be
agwine to suffer now?'"

For the rest of the journey coachman and passenger
exchanged gossip on their common acquaintances.  William
Nokes alighted at the Queen's Head, at Winton St. Mary,
and shook his head in sympathy with Mistress Joplady
when he saw the two inside passengers descend from the
coach and enter the inn.

"One a furrener, t'other a lawyer!" he muttered.  "Ah! what
tarrible things some poor souls ha' got to putt up wi'!"

Mistress Joplady, however, welcomed both her guests
with her wonted heartiness, and with her own hands plied
the warming-pan for their beds.

At ten o'clock next morning the two strangers left the
inn together.  One of them carried a small portfolio.
They went through the village, across the common, and,
entering the park gates of Winton Hall, walked up the
long drive to the porch and asked whether Mr. Berkeley
was at home.  After a few minutes' delay they were invited
to step in, and conducted to a little room in the turret,
where they found the squire in cassock and skull-cap,
warming his withered hands at the fire.

"Mr. Berkeley?" said the elder of the two.

"That is my name.  What is your business?"

"My name, sir, Jan Grootz.  My friend Mr. Swettenham
Tape, of Lincoln's Inn."

"Well?"

"You will permit me to take a chair; dank you!  And
my friend Mr. Tape; dank you!"

At the mention of his name, Mr. Berkeley flashed a
shrewd glance under his bushy white eyebrows at the
Dutchman, then gripped the arms of his chair, and waited.

"Mr. Berkeley, my business will not hold you long.
You will pardon if I begin at de beginning and tell you
a little history?"

The squire kept his eyes fixed on his visitor, but said
nothing.  Taking his silence as permission to proceed,
Grootz settled himself in his chair, with his plump right
hand ready to punctuate his sentences.

"Dis history dat I tell you, sir, I hope you will find it
interesting.  It is ver much about yourself; you are old
man, but of dose old men, pardon me, who regard
demselves as de most interesting subjeck in de world; zo!
De history begin long ago; zixty-vive year indeed, when
your shadow first zink over dis place."  Grootz's hand
made a comprehensive sweep.  "You were den Nicolas
Heller, an eleven-year boy; your moder, a widow, she had
married Mr. John Berkeley, a widower, wid two children,
one"—here the forefinger wagged—"Eustace Berkeley, a
nine-year boy; de oder, Mary, a child four year.  On your
moder Mr. Berkeley settle de farms of—of——"

"Winton Chase and Odbury," said Mr. Swettenham
Tape, speaking for the first time.

"Zo; de farms of Winton Chase and Odbury; you took
de name Berkeley, and after your moder dese farms should
become yours.  Dree years go, your moder die; Mr. John
Berkeley is again a widower, and never marry no more.
War had broke out, he take part wid de king and fight
in de vield, your step-broder alzo whenever he is of age
to bear arms.  But Nicolas, poor boy! is not strong, he
is always at home to care for de estates; besides, he
do not love de king; no, Nicolas never love nobody—nobody
but himself."

Grootz paused and bent a little forward in his chair; the
squire had not moved a muscle.

"De king is killed, Oliver Cromwell is ruler in de
land, and after de battle of Worcester, Mr. John Berkeley,
his son and daughter, go for safety to France.  But
Nicolas—he find dat he is a Puritan, a saint in heart; he
give money—it was not his to give—to de Parliament side,
and he speak of his stepfader—of de man, mark you, to
whom he owe everyding—as a traitor, a malignant.  At
same time he write letters to de traitor in France telling
how he work to keep his estate for him, if chance come he
zall return and enjoy his own.  How kind is Nicolas! zo!

"Time flows; de chance come; King Charles wears
his fader's crown, but Mr. John Berkeley is not alive
to return alzo.  In 1658 he die.  But his son, Nicolas'
stepbroder Eustace, what of him?  In June 1660 he come
back to claim his inheritance, but he never see his home.
No, on de road he is set upon and murdered."

Still the old man sat rigid in grim silence.

"De murder of Eustace Berkeley, whom do it profit?
De men who killed him?—not zo; dey stay not to empty
his pockets.  It profit nobody but Nicolas Berkeley.
Dink you not dat is singular?  To me it is very singular.
Zo!"

The Dutchman spoke always with the same careful
deliberation.  His tone now became stern.

"I come now, Mr. Berkeley, to someding dat interest
you more.  Mr. John Berkeley had, not only a son, but
alzo a daughter."  The keen-eyed Dutchman noticed a
slight twitching of the squire's brow.  "Ah, I thought
dat would interest you!  De daughter, Mary, marry in
Paris de Comte de Vaudrey, a nobleman, a Huguenot;
dat is not long before King Charles come back.  Her
broder Eustace risk his life to come to England on service
for his sovereign; he write letters to his sister; interesting
letters; I take leave to read you someding he said."

He took the portfolio from the lawyer's hands, selected
a paper from it, and read the following passage:—

.. vspace:: 2

"'I feare he has play'd throughout a Double Game.  He
stands exceeding well with the Godly Partie, & having been at
Paines to enquire thro' a sure friend I can heare of nothing
done in our behalfe, but rather of endeavors to feather his
owne nest.  But enough of that; if our hopes are crown'd, as
praye God they may be speedilie, Nicolas will have no choice but
to quitte the Hall, and make what Profitte he may of his owne
farmes.'

.. vspace:: 2

"Zo! dis letter, and oders, was received by Madame la
Comtesse de Vaudrey—dat is, Mary Berkeley—when her
husband was absent from Paris.  He return; de poor lady
is dying; she leave a little boy.  He write to Eustace from
Paris; he get no reply; he write again, dree times in all;
still no reply, and he dink his wife's friends English and care
not any more.  As for him, he has pride and keep silence,
and believe Eustace Berkeley is now lord of Winton Hall.

"Zo time pass.  Den come trouble to de Huguenots in
France, and de Comte de Vaudrey take refuge wid his son
in Holland.  He read no English; but he keep dings dat
belong to his wife, among dem de letters of Eustace.  His
son Louis marry in Holland a Huguenot lady.  Fader, son,
both are dead, but"—he wagged his forefinger impressively—"but
Louis Comte de Vaudrey leave a daughter, Adèle,
and it is on behalf of Mademoiselle Adèle de Vaudrey I
wait upon you to-day.  I know well dese dings are not new
to you; I know dat.  It is now some years when Captain
Aglionby—an adventurer, a cut-droat—discover how
Mademoiselle Adèle is related to de house of Berkeley.
Already he know someding of you; he have an uncle
Minshull dat live on your estate.  He see a chance to
feader his very bare nest, and he take it.  You are de
squire, he dink; a rich man; you will pay well to keep
de secret.  He come to you; you do pay well; you become
his generous patron, and he do your dirty work.  But
sometimes you lose temper, and give him hard words and
close your purse.  Perhaps, dink he, he may find yet
anoder rich man who will buy de secret.  Such a man is
Monsieur de Polignac.  Your Aglionby take money from
you, and bargain wid Polignac to get more money when
he become by marriage owner of dis estate and turn you
out.  But de plan is found out; we have settle with
Polignac; he is dead; we search for Aglionby; he hide
himself; and now, Mr. Berkeley, it is your turn.  I come
to you to demand, on behalf of Mademoiselle Adèle de
Vaudrey, possession of her property in seven days from
dis present day.  My friend Mr. Tape of Lincoln's Inn
have copies of all de papers; he will show dem, at proper
time, to your lawyer.  De history is now at end,
Mr. Berkeley.  I dank you for your zo-patient hearing.  It is
now to you; zo!"

Mr. Berkeley had spoken never a word.  For a few
moments he remained motionless in his chair; then,
lengthening his arm, he pulled a bell-rope at his side.  A
servant entered.

"Thomas," said the squire in his thin hard voice,
"show these gentlemen to the door."

Grootz and the lawyer glanced at each other.  The
latter gave a slight shrug and began to tie up his
portfolio.  Grootz rose.

"I have de honour, Mr. Berkeley, to wish you good-day."

And with his companion he left the room.

.. vspace:: 2

An hour later the village was startled by the news that
the squire had had a stroke.  A man had ridden to
Salisbury for the physician, and the gossips at the Queen's
Head were already discussing the expected succession of
"young squire" to the estates.  But in the afternoon the
report was contradicted.  The squire had merely been
seized with a fainting fit; he had recovered and was to all
appearance his usual self.

A week passed; Mr. Berkeley had received from
Mr. Swettenham Tape of Lincoln's Inn a formal demand for
the surrender of the property, to which he made no
reply.  At the end of the week Mr. Tape filed a suit in
chancery.  But the mills of the law grind slowly.  Grootz
had returned to Holland, a new campaign had opened,
and Harry Rochester was with Prince Eugene in northern
Italy before Mr. Swettenham Tape had all his affidavits
sworn.

A few weeks before the case was to be opened before
Lord Chancellor Cowper, a bailiff armed with a warrant,
and accompanied by two strong tipstaves, appeared at
the house of a Mistress Consterdine near the Cockpit,
Whitehall.  The bailiff gained admittance, and when after
some time he returned to the street he was accompanied
by a tall bulky man in semi-military garb, with whom he
and the tipstaves entered a hackney coach and were driven
to Newgate.  The prisoner was at once brought before
the magistrate and charged under the name of Ralph
Aglionby with entering into a treasonable conspiracy on
behalf of the exiled Stuarts.  In addition to the letters
taken in his lodging, other papers that had been brought
from Germany were put in by the Crown, proving Aglionby
to have been in the service of Her Majesty's enemies; and
a man Simmons, a joiner in London, who had received a
free pardon, gave evidence that Aglionby had fought with
the Bavarians at Blenheim and elsewhere, holding a
commission in the Elector of Bavaria's forces.  His papers
were found to include letters from Mr. Nicolas Berkeley of
Winton Hall, forwarding sums of money to Aglionby in
Holland.  The sequel to this discovery was the arrest of
Mr. Berkeley at his inn in Soho, and his inclusion in the
indictment for conspiracy.

The trial came on in due course.  Captain Aglionby's
connection with the Jacobites was fully established, and
he was sentenced to be transported to the Plantations
for twenty years.  Mr. Berkeley's complicity was not so
clearly shown, though he could bring no evidence to prove
his statement that the sums remitted to his fellow-prisoner
were payment for private services totally unconnected with
the Jacobite cause.  The circumstances were suspicious,
and the judge considered that he showed great lenience in
condemning Mr. Berkeley to pay a fine of £500.  Although
he had for years enjoyed a large income, he had but little
ready money at command.  He had spent large sums in
purchasing lands adjoining the Winton property, and the
extravagance of his son had been a constant drain upon
his purse.  With the civil action de Vaudrey *v.* Berkeley
pending in the court of chancery, he found some difficulty
in borrowing sufficient money to pay his fine.

The chancery suit came on for hearing.  The claimants
had engaged the highest counsel of the day, and brought
a great array of evidence, documentary and oral, from
Holland.  Mr. Berkeley's case was ably argued, but the
evidence was irresistible; the decision was given against
him; he was ordered to produce the title deeds of the
property, and to render an account of all that he had
derived from the estates since his illegal usurpation of
them forty-five years before.  He wished to appeal; but,
discredited by the result of the trial for conspiracy, he was
unable to raise the necessary funds.  He was moving
heaven and earth to overcome his difficulties when
payment was demanded of the sum he had borrowed to meet
the fine, and as the money was not forthcoming he was
arrested and thrown into the debtors' prison in the Fleet.

It was December before the case was finally decided.
As soon as Mynheer Grootz was released from his business
cares by the armies going into winter quarters, he
accompanied Madame de Vaudrey with Adèle and part of their
household to England, and saw them installed in Winton
Hall.  At Adèle's wish, Mr. Berkeley was not pressed
for the costs of the suit he had lost; but his other creditors
were relentless, and determined to keep him in the Fleet
prison until the income from the farms he inherited from
his mother should have enabled him to pay his debts.

It was many months before Harry learnt of the success
of Grootz's efforts on behalf of Adèle.  In March, 1705,
he left Austria with Prince Eugene for Italy, where the
prince's cousin, Victor Amadeus the Second of Savoy, was
maintaining a difficult struggle against Marshal Vendôme.
He was with the prince at the indecisive battle of Cassano
in August, and spent the winter in Turin.  There letters
reached him from England telling how Adèle had taken
up her residence at Winton as lady of the manor, and
when he wrote his warm letter of congratulation he said to
himself that his fate was now sealed.  At Turin also he
received a letter from Fanshawe reporting his father's
death and his own determination to sell out and live on
his estate.  This news gave Harry a fresh pang, for, though
he knew that Fanshawe's suit had been again rejected, he
felt that as next-door neighbours Adèle and he would see
much of each other, and their constant companionship
might at length end in a match which on many grounds
must be considered excellent.

Next year he served Prince Eugene as aide-de-camp at
the battle of Calcinate in April, and again five months
later at the brilliant victory of Turin, when the prince, by
his total defeat of the Duke of Orleans and Marshal
Marsin, finally saved Savoy from the clutches of King
Louis.  His own services did not go unrewarded.  The
prince gave him the colonelcy of an imperial dragoon
regiment, and held out hopes that if he remained in the
emperor's service he might before long gain an estate
and a title of nobility.  But a few days after the battle,
he received from England a letter which altered the whole
course of his life.  It was a short note from Madame de
Vaudrey, written at Winton nearly three months before.
Certain circumstances had come to light, wrote the lady,
that rendered his presence at Winton desirable as soon
as he could obtain leave.  It was nearly four years since
the black day on which he had left his home so sadly;
he was hungry for a sight of the old scenes and the old
faces, and felt something more than curiosity to see Adèle
de Vaudrey as lady bountiful of the parish.  He went at
once to Prince Eugene with the letter; the prince drew
from him the whole story of his connection with the
family of Lindendaal, and with a twinkling eye consented
to his immediate departure for England.

"The French will give us no more trouble here," he
said.  "My next battle will be fought on other soil.  I
said before, you remember, that you were in love.  You
thought not.  We shall see.  Go home; but the war is not
over.  I shall hope to see you at the head of your regiment
in the next campaign."

Sherebiah was as much delighted as his master at the
thought of seeing home again.

"To tell 'ee the truth, sir," he said, when Harry ordered
him to make preparations for departure, "I be a-thinken
o' Katrinka.  I don't feel happy in my mind at the notion
o' her at Winton Simmary wi'out me.  Why, old feyther
o' mine, ancient soul as he be, if he knows what a hand
her've got for griddle-cakes—zooks! sir, he'll be a-marryen
her hisself, never thinken as I be more'n a boy."

One October day Harry and Sherebiah embarked at
Leghorn for the voyage home.  Their vessel made quick
sailing as far as Gibraltar, where Sir George Rooke had
planted the flag of England two years before; but was
beset by contrary winds in the Atlantic, beat about for
days in the Bay of Biscay, and reached Southampton sadly
buffeted six weeks after leaving Leghorn.  The travellers
lost no time in taking horse, and rode up to Winton Hall
late one November evening.  Harry was received with a
warmth of greeting that made him glow with pleasure.
Even Adèle welcomed him with more frankness than she
had ever before shown him, though he detected a different
constraint, a something new in her manner, that puzzled
him.  The evening was spent in talking over old times
and the strange events that had happened since their last
meeting.  Mynheer Grootz, Harry learnt, had visited
Winton more than once since he had installed Adèle in
her property nearly a year before, and was coming over
to spend Christmas with them.  Godfrey Fanshawe, now
Sir Godfrey, was a frequent visitor and had been the
means of introducing them to many of the best people in
the county, who had welcomed Adèle with open arms.
Madame afterwards told Harry privately that Sir Godfrey
had once more proposed to Adèle, and been finally refused.
Adèle herself looked older and more womanly.  She had
acquired considerable fluency in English, and was fond
of going about among the villagers, taking the keenest
interest in ways of life and thought so novel to her.

"But the dear girl is not happy," said Madame with
a sigh.  "No, she is not happy.  I fear she is home-sick.
We have sold Lindendaal and repaid Mynheer Grootz's
friend who so generously bought up that odious man's
mortgages.  But Adèle was happier at Lindendaal than
she is here.  She has been restless ever since we came
to England, and you would be surprised to know, Harry,
how she throws herself lately into the details of this
horrible war.  The *Courant* comes to us every day by
the coach from London, and the house is littered, perfectly
littered, mon ami, with maps of Italy.  Decidedly she is
a changed creature."

"Mamma," interrupted Adèle, "don't give Monsieur
Harry a wrong idea.  I am happy enough, but——"

"Hé! voila!" exclaimed Madame with a little gesture.
"She is happy, but——"

"And what is this business that required my presence?"
said Harry, to relieve the girl of her manifest embarrassment.

"Oh!  Adèle must explain that.  It has been her affair
always."

"Really, Mamma, I think you should explain.  You
wrote to Monsieur Harry."

"Eh bien! but it was you who told me what to say.
No, I leave it to you: I have no head for affairs, especially
for affairs so complicated.  But it is growing late, and
Harry must be tired.  We will let him have a good night's
rest: then to-morrow, ma chérie, you can have a whole
morning together."

The morning turned out bright, and after breakfast
Adèle proposed a walk round the grounds.  Harry was
nothing loth, and when Madame did not offer to accompany
them, he concluded that, living in England, she had
decided to conform to English ways.  In the course of that
ramble Harry heard a story that amazed him.

During the past year Adèle had made many friends
among the villagers, and one friend in particular, old
Gaffer Minshull.  She had been specially gracious to him
for the sake of Katrinka, who, however quick she might
be in learning how to cook Wiltshire bacon and to sing
Wiltshire songs, was certainly slow in learning Wiltshire
English.  The Lady Squire, as he called her, had become
a great favourite with the old man, and, as she grew
accustomed to his dialect, he talked to her freely about
the village, the late parson, and the late squire, of whom
he was no longer "afeard".  Adèle, like everyone else,
had always been puzzled about Mr. Berkeley's hatred of
Harry, and she asked the old man whether he knew of
any reason for it beyond his being the son of the squire's
sturdy opponent, Parson Rochester.  Minshull confessed
that he was as much perplexed as she.  The old squire's
man Jock had told him of the incident witnessed at the
park gate on the day of Harry's departure for London,
when, seeing him walk by, Mr. Berkeley had looked as
if he had had a shock; and he remembered that Squire
had left the Hall in a post-chaise the next day, though
whither they went Jock never would tell.

This set Adèle thinking.  She made further enquiries
of the old man.  Had not the squire a brother?  At the
question Minshull looked hard at her, and replied with
some hesitation that such was the case; he had a brother,
or rather a step-brother.  Adèle enquired what had become
of him; she knew, for Grootz had made no secret of his
discovery; but she asked in order to get more information.
He died, said the old man, on the Dover road; a
fine young man, though he did hold to that false Charles
One and his light son Charles Two.  Then insensibly the
old man was led on to talk at large; he seemed anxious
to ease his mind of a burden; and with the garrulity of
old age, and being no longer "afeard" of the squire, he
at length poured out the whole pitiful story.

Forty-seven years before, in '59, when he was a
Republican trooper and his regiment was stationed at
Blackheath, he was passing one morning through London on
his way back to camp after—he was ashamed to confess
it—a riotous night.  Suddenly he was called into a church
to witness a marriage.  No one was present save the clergy,
bride and bridegroom, and the other witness, apparently
a lady's-maid.  In his half-fuddled state he had no clear
recollection of anything beyond the facts that he signed
his name and came away with a guinea.

About a year later, after the Restoration, when his
regiment was gloomily expecting the order for disbandment,
he was strolling one evening in the direction of Shooter's
Hill, and attracted by a crowd about an inn door.  A
young gentleman had been discovered a few miles down
the road, lying unconscious, and severely wounded.  He
had been brought to the inn, and soon afterwards his
servant appeared, a Frenchman, who had fled when his
master was attacked by footpads.  From him it was
learnt that the name of the wounded man was Berkeley,
and that he was on his way to Winton St. Mary to take
possession of the family estates.  Minshull, out of sheer
curiosity, asked with many other bystanders to be shown
the unfortunate gentleman, and to his amazement he
recognized him as the bridegroom whose wedding he had
witnessed nearly a year before.  A message was sent
to Winton St. Mary, and two days later Mr. Nicolas
Berkeley appeared on the scene.  Minshull meanwhile
had hung about, partly out of curiosity, partly out of
interest in the man whose murder had followed so quickly
upon his marriage.

The wounded man never recovered consciousness.  He
died soon after his brother's arrival.  Minshull found an
opportunity of speaking to the squire, and condoled with
him on the loss of so handsome a brother, and on the sad
plight of the young widow left to mourn his loss.
Mr. Berkeley had appeared surprised at the mention of a
widow, and asked the trooper to tell him all he knew.
This was very little; he could not remember the church
where the marriage had been performed, nor the name of
the bride; all he was sure of was the identity of the
bridegroom; he did not even remember the name Berkeley.
The squire had shaken his head and frowned: a secret
marriage!—there was something suspicious in that; his
brother had some reason to be ashamed of his alliance:
he would look into it; but for the present it was best to
drop the curtain on the episode.  He had then offered the
trooper a situation at the Hall, which Minshull, with no
settled livelihood after nearly twenty years' military
service, eagerly accepted.  He received good wages, and by
and by a cottage on the estate.  He was well aware that
the squire treated him thus generously to keep his mouth
shut, and though many times he had felt the prick of
conscience, he was so comfortable, and, as time went on, so
much afraid of the squire, that he had never broken the
tacit pact between them.

Old Minshull's story worked so powerfully upon Adèle's
imagination that she became at length ill at ease.  What
had become of the bride whose marriage he had witnessed?
Adèle remembered how Eustace Berkeley had spoken of
her in his letters to Mary de Vaudrey; she remembered,
too, that he had married under a feigned name.  Her
uneasiness grew so intolerable that she persuaded her mother,
not without difficulty, to put the facts before the same
lawyer whom Mynheer Grootz had employed—Mr. Swettenham
Tape of Lincoln's Inn.  He warned her that enquiry
might result in the loss of her property, but she insisted on
an investigation, and as it promised to be an interesting
enquiry, the attorney took it up with enthusiasm.

One of his first steps was to interrogate Mr. Berkeley's
man Jock, who had driven with his master to Hungerford
on that November day three years before.  As the result
of the interview, the lawyer himself made a journey to
Hungerford, where he called at the parsonage and had a
conversation with the vicar, enquiring particularly about
his predecessors in the living.  He learnt that the former
rector had died in 1680 at the age of sixty-eight, leaving
a grandson, his only daughter's child, a young man of
twenty-one who had just taken deacon's orders.  The
grandson's name was Rochester.  Did the vicar know
anything of the young man's father?  Nothing but the
vaguest rumours; it was generally understood that Lucy
Rochester's husband had deserted her a few months after
their marriage, and that was naturally a subject on which
the family would say nothing.  Was the lady still living?
She had died ten years before her father.  If Mr. Tape
desired further details, there was one person who might
gratify him if she wished: the wife of the landlord of the
Bear Inn, who had been lady's-maid to Mistress Rochester.

The attorney hastened to the inn, engaged a room for
the night, and took the first opportunity of having a gossip
with Mrs. Pemberton, the hostess, a comely, pleasant old
dame of near seventy years.  She had the keenest recollection
of the one romantic incident of her life.  Mistress
Lucy!—of course she remembered the sweet pretty
creature.  She had been with her in London the year before
the King came back, when she was visiting her aunt.
And Mr. Rochester, too—ah! such a handsome young
gentleman; but a wicked deceiver, she feared.  He had
protected Mistress Lucy from footpads one evening:
that was the beginning of it, and the end was a marriage,
and a sad end it was, for Mr. Rochester went away to
France three months afterwards, on some urgent business
which he did not explain, and he never returned.
Mrs. Rochester remained for nearly a year in London, then
returned to her father at Hungerford with her infant son,
a bonny boy who grew up a blessing to her, and became a
parson, and died only three years back at Winton St. Mary,
she had heard.

Mr. Tape asked whether she remembered the church in
which the wedding had taken place.  To be sure she did;
it was St. Andrew's Undershaft; she remembered how dark
it looked, and how awed the other witness had appeared
to be, a rough soldier who was fetched in from the street,
and was a little overtaken with liquor.  And, strange to
say, this was the second time she had been asked about
this incident of long ago, a miserable-looking old
gentleman having called upon her three years before; after
talking with her, he had left the house without so much as
asking for a tankard of her home-brewed.

On returning to London, the attorney examined the
register of St. Andrew's Undershaft, and made a copy of
the entry of a marriage on June 19, 1659, between Eustace
Rochester, bachelor, of St. Andrew's parish, and Lucy
Fleming, spinster, of Hungerford.  The information given
by Gaffer Minshull and Mrs. Pemberton was then
embodied in affidavits, and the whole case being complete,
Mr. Tape laid the result of his investigations before
Madame de Vaudrey and her daughter, and asked for
their instructions.

Harry had listened to Adèle's story, as they rambled
round and round the park, with a strange mixture of
emotions.  Astonishment was perhaps the dominant one,
but there was also the happiness of knowing something
about his family, and dismay at the knowledge that he, and
not Adèle, was the rightful owner of the Berkeley estates.

"Why, then you are my cousin, Adèle!" he said.

"Yes, Harry,—and you are head of the family."

"How plain it makes everything!  And do you know,
I pity the wretched old man who has lived for nearly fifty
years with these crimes on his conscience.  He must have
led a miserable life."

"That is why I am glad all is discovered.  I should lead
a miserable life too if I found I was enjoying what did
not belong to me."

"But that is nonsense, Adèle.  You don't imagine I
shall take the estates?  Not I.  The good folks here adore
you already; I won't take from them their lady squire."

"You must."

"No, no!  Only weak or foolish sovereigns abdicate,
Adèle: you are not weak or foolish.  Besides, I have my
career.  I am on the high road to preferment.  Prince
Eugene has given me a regiment, and—I didn't mean
to tell you this—promises me an estate and a title in
Austria."

"And you know perfectly well that you would rather
be plain Mr. Berkeley, an English squire, than count or
prince or royal highness in Austria.  No; I will not listen
to you: if you insist on being an Austrian—well, I shall
give up the estates to the crown: Queen Anne shall be lady
of the manor."

"You cannot: you are not of age, and Madame would
never hear of it."

"Mr. Henry Berkeley, I have only two years to wait."

They had come round to the gate leading from the park
to the graveyard.

"Come and see the monument the people put up in the
church to your father, Harry," said Adèle, with a change
of tone.  He opened the gate for her; she passed through,
then turned, and said: "It is you or Queen Anne,
Mr. Berkeley."

Harry was on the other side of the gate.  They looked
into each other's eyes.  He knew her strength of character:
he had no doubt that she would do anything to which she
had made up her mind.  He was troubled, and, resting his
arms on the upper bar of the gate, stood thus pondering.

"Adèle," he said presently, "but for me you would stay
at the Hall?"

"If I were the rightful owner, certainly; but now it is
clearly impossible."

"Not quite impossible, Adèle, even so."

He waited for an answer, but she was unexpectedly
silent, her eyes cast down.

"Not quite impossible, Adèle.  If you will not stay for
any other reason—tell me, Adèle, will you not stay for my
sake?"

Still she made no answer, only looked up with a shy
startled glance.  But in that look Harry found courage to
repeat his question.

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"Never did I ply my fark at such a roaren dinner—never
in my born days; I tells 'ee true, souls."

"Ay, I seed 'ee myself, Lumpy, a-scoopen chidlens
an' plum-pudden an' furmenty into your thropple till I
thowt 'ee'd bust.  'Twere noble eatin', to be sure."

"Ay, Soapy, an' cost a pretty penny, I warrant.  Squire
Harry be a different sart o' feller to old Squire as was.
Never did he gi' us a warmen-up, nor never would, if
there'd ha' bin farty weddens."

"Why bean't every day a marryen day?  'T'ould keep
all our innards warm an' cosy 'ithout us doen a hand's turn."

"'T'ould be the ruin of a poor stunpoll like 'ee,
Jemmy.  I'm afeard 'ee'll never be a man, an' if 'ee got
your vittles so easy 'ee'd be more like a fatted calf 'n ever."

"Ah!  I knows my dumb brain be weak by natur'.  I
mind how dazed I were the black day young pa'son went
to Lun'on, and John painter made Mis'ess Joplady's pictur'
the colour o' sut."

"An' it'll be the colour o' sut to-morrer, souls, I gi' my
word for that.  They tells me 'tis treason, but John painter
do blot out Queen's yead to-morrer, and inn turns to
Berkeley Arms again."

"Like a 'ooman, changes her name at a wedden.—Ah! here
be neighbour Minshull; a scantling o' cheese and a
mug o' old stingo for gaffer, Mistress Joplady; he'll want
a summat to comfort un, poor aged soul, this night o'
fearsome joy."

"True, Tom cobbler, I be gone eighty-vive.  I ha' seed
un home-along, souls; my boy Sherebiah be a man at
last, an' I be proud as a grandfeyther a'ready.  Never did
I think my boy an' young pa'son 'd say the awful words in
church the same day.  'I take thee, Addle,' says Master
Harry in a feelin' key, and 'I take thee, Katrinka,' says
my boy when the gentry was done; and they little small
words do have a world o' better or wuss in 'em."

"Ay, gaffer; 'ee can sing 'Now lettest thou thy sarvant
depart', wi' a honest mind, hey!"

"Hoy!  Not me!  I bean't got no vurther 'n 'My soul
doth magnify' yet.  I'll bide a bit longer afore I goos to
churchyard, trust me.  My boy as was do say there'll
be another wedden afore long; the Dutchman and Mis'ess
Addle's mother be a-comen to't.  He've been sweet on
her, a' b'lieve, for many a forlorn day.  My boy ha'
carried many a noble gift from the man to th' 'ooman."

"Two furreners makes a better match nor one o' one
sart, t'other o' t'other.  Mistress Addle be a goodly
maid, nesh as a ripe apple; but her be French; that you
cannet deny; and French and English be like oil and
vinegar."

"And what do mix better in a sallet-dressen?—tell me
that, souls."

"Ay, Mistress Joplady, we cannet gainsay 'ee on a
matter o' that homeliness; but what med 'ee say o' the
name?  Addle! it bean't a very coaxen name for a squire's
lady, be jowned if it be."

"Dear lamb! to take her name in vain!  You, Soapy
Dick you, we all knows 'ee for a addle-pate; else your
hair wouldn' grow so fiery red.  What do a bide-at-home
like 'ee know o' high names an' titles?  Addle be the true
French for a bloomy cheek—Sherry Minshull telled me so
hisself.  Bean't that the true meanen on't, gaffer?"

"Sherry's yead be full o' rare knowledge, Mis'ess.
But daze me, name or no name, 'tis all one: French her
were, English her be; and if any twanken feller do say her
bean't good, and comely, and a comforten wife for young
Squire—why, old as I be I'll try the thickness of his poll,
I will so."

"I'll help 'ee, gaffer.  My weak head cannet make no
goodness out o' Addle, but her gi' me a zilver zixpence for
choppen wood, her did, and if I cracks a poll wi' 'ee, mebbe
her'll gi' me another."

"Ay, hers be a good heart, 'tis true.  Why, her went
along to Grange and begged and prayed young Sir Godfrey
to putt poor Willum Nokes back into 's ancient place
o' constable.  And Sir Godfrey he can't refuse her nothen,
for all her have refused he, as 'tis said; and so wi' noo
year poor Willum'll be back in his little small cottage,
a-rulen over parish in the Queen's name once more."

"Such changes as the world do see!  Look 'ee, souls,
I be eighty-vive, and I've seed a mort o' things in my time.
I ha' growed like a oak from boy well-nigh to grandfeyther,
an' seed six high and mighty sovrans goo to yearth: two
Jameses, two Charleses, Noll Crum'ell, and Dutch Willum
to end the tale.  Ay, the world be full o' ups and downs.
To think, now, that old Squire—him as once I were so
tarrible afeard on—be now eatin' the bread and water of
affliction in a Lun'on prison-house!  And they do say as
how his son Piers be joined in matrimony to a Dutch
'ooman o' great tonnage, full o' years an' goold pieces.
An he were a right youth a'd pay his old feyther's debts an'
set the captive free; but not he, I warrant: he'll lay out all
the goold th' old wife gies un on wigs and furbelows.
And there be Squire Harry—young pa'son as was: who'd
a thowt, when his poor feyther went under ground, 'twas a
rightful squire Bill sexton had dug for, and the boy
a-droppen warm tears into his holler grave ought to ha'
been squire that minute in his place?  Ay, I mind the
sermon as pa'son spoke out in church fust Sunday arter
news come o' Master Harry bein' true squire.  I seed un
climb pulpit steps, and I know'd by the spread o' his
petticoats summat awful for poor sinners was a-comen, an'
I felt all leery down the small o' my back.  'God is the
judge,' says pa'son in his slow, tarrifyen way: 'he putteth
down one, and setteth up another.'  That were the holy
text, out of Thy sarvant David's psa'ms, and daze me if
pa'son didn't scarify old Squire as if 'twas pa'son hisself
was choused out o' his rightful proputty.  'Twas a powerful
bit o' preachen; every 'ooman there was took wi' a longen
to let the water-drops tummle, but none on 'em durst begin
till Mis'ess Addle's mother set the key.  Then 'twas a
little Noah's flood; you mind, souls?—such a fall o' tears
bean't seed in Winton Simmary since pa'son told us
Princess Henrietta were dead in France."

"And be Squire Harry a-gwine to gi' up the trade o'
killen, and bide at home wi' poor peaceful folks like we
as never slays nowt but pigs and other beasts o' the
field?"

"Ay, 'tis so.  My boy do zay he med ha' been a knight
or lard at a word wi' Prince Eugene; but bless 'ee, he've
got his lands to look arter, and we poor folks besides, and
like his feyther afore un he have a true heart for home an'
friends.  Why, he wouldn' gi' up the charge o' we poor
souls, not to be the Lord's anointed."

"Hark 'ee, Gaffer Minshull; bean't they the bells at last?"

"Ay, 'tis so.  Pa'son commanded a peal at zeven o'clock
by way o' holy consolation to bride an' bridegroom.  Old
Everlasten ha' took his coat off; 'tis he do call the changes;
and i' feck, the bells 'll romp through a rare randy afore
he've done wi' 'em.  Now, sonnies, what d'ye say to
wenden out-along an' callen choir and orchestry together?
Then we'll march up t' Hall, and sing 'em a lively ditty
as 'll cheer 'em up arter the Christian doens o' the day.
Sackbut, psalteery, an' all sarts o' music, says the Book;
we cannet muster they holy instruments, to be sure, but
wi' fiddle and bass-viol and serpent, and a little bit o'
tribble an' bass, we'll make a shift to raise a goodish randy
toon.  What d'ye say, sonnies?"

"Be jowned if it bean't a fine notion for such a old aged
martal.  Ay, let's out-along and make all the nise we can."

"A thimbleful afore 'ee goos, souls.  Mugs all, an' lift
up your hearts in a noble cheer for Squire an' Lady Squire,
wishen 'em long life an' a happy end.  All together now;
spet it out o' your wynd-pipes; hurray! hurray! hurray!"





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.. _`Visitors at Winton Hall`:

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   CHAPTER XXVII


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   Visitors at Winton Hall

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Weather-bound—A Home Circle—Marlborough Unbends—Of
Princes—A Certain Harry Rochester

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One January evening, in the year 1712, a little group was
gathered in the turret-room of Winton Hall.  The wind
was roaring without; snow had been falling steadily all
day; but within all was warmth and peace.  A big wood
fire blazed on the open hearth, lighting up with its ruddy
glare as charming a scene as any English country-house
could show.  It was the children's hour; little Eustace
Berkeley, a sturdy boy of five, stood by his mother's knee
on one side of the hearth, and on the other, Mary, two
years younger, nestled in her father's arms.

Squire Berkeley looked up from his copy of the *Courant*.

"The duke is dismissed from all his offices, Adèle."

"What that mean, Faver?" said the boy instantly.

"The Queen has sent away the great man who fought
her battles so bravely; he will hang up his sword and
perhaps never use it again."

"Why did the naughty Queen send the great duke
away, Faver?"

"Why naughty tween send dute away?" echoed Mary,
a golden-haired fairy, the image, as Mevrouw Grootz was
wont to declare, of Adèle at the same age.

"Because the Queen does not like him as she used to
do.  She likes somebody else better, and there are unkind
people who whisper in her ear stories about him that are
very likely not true.  He is a great man, Eustace, and
there are always little men to say unkind things about
the great."

"Are you a great man, Faver?"

"No, my son; I am a plain English squire, that would
rather live here with you all than in any king's palace."

"But your father might have been a great man," said
Mistress Berkeley.  "A great prince——"

"Nay, nay, my dear," interrupted the squire, "leave
that story till the children are older.  It is bed-time now,
my chicks.  Hark how the wind roars!  Think of the little
birds out in the cold; they have no warm cosy cots like
yours.  In the morning, remember, we are to make a
figure of the great duke in the snow.—But what is that?"

The deep-toned house-bell had clanged in the hall below.

"'Tis late for a visitor, and in this snowstorm too!"

He threw open the door, and stood waiting.  In a few
moments a man appeared.

"An't please 'ee, sir, a coach be snowed up a hunnerd
yards or so beyond church, an' the travellers be come afoot
to axe if 'ee'll give 'em shelter."

"Of course!  I will come down.  Tell Dick to take a
couple of horses and haul the coach out of the drift, and
ask Sherebiah to prepare some hot cordial."

He followed the man downstairs.  Just within the doorway
stood two white figures muffled up to the ears in long
cloaks.  They doffed their snow-laden hats as Harry
appeared, and the elder came forward.

"I crave your pardon, sir," he said in smooth mellow
tones that revived old memories and quickened Harry's
pulse—"I crave your pardon for troubling you at such an
unseasonable hour, but my coach is blocked in a drift a
hundred yards or so beyond the church, and as my friend
Lord Godolphin is far from well, I have come to ask your
hospitality until we can free the coach and return to the
inn.  I am the Duke of Marlborough."

"Your grace is heartily welcome.  But pray do me the
honour to accept beds for the night.  The inn is near a
mile away, and you are cold and wet.  Let me remove
your things.  I have already sent a man to bring your
coach to my stables, and there is a good fire above."

"I thank you.  I cannot resist your invitation.  To
whom are we indebted for our welcome?"

"Henry Berkeley, my lord; this is Winton Hall."

"Ah!  I remember the name.  There was some little
romance, if I mistake not, about the inheritance a few
years since.  Thank you, Mr. Berkeley! this is indeed
a haven of refuge to worn-out travellers."

Divested of their outer garments and provided with
slippers, the two noblemen preceded their host up the stairs.
At the door of the turret-room he advanced a few paces.

"My dear, his grace the Duke of Marlborough and Lord
Godolphin.  They are our guests to-night."

Mistress Berkeley rose and made a sweeping curtsy,
blushing prettily, and throwing a half-startled, half-amused
glance at her husband.  The children made round eyes of
wonder.

"Madame, 'tis a charming welcome.  We were driving
to my lord Pembroke's at Wilton Park, and were besnowed.
'Tis indeed a delightful transformation."

He patted the children's cheeks playfully.  Lord Godolphin,
who was evidently ill, had already thrown himself
wearily into a chair.

"Well, my little man, what is your name?" asked Marlborough
of the boy.

"Eustace Berkeley, sir."

"A pretty name, egad.  And what would you like to be
when you are a man, eh?"

"A soldier, and wear a red coat, and a sword, and fight
for the Queen."

"A proper answer, indeed.  Well, if you grow strong, and
do what your father and mother tell you, you may be a
soldier one day, and perhaps—who knows?—a great man."

"I do not want to be a great man."

"Why not, my boy?"

"Faver says people are not kind to great men, and the
Queen likes somebody else better, and sends them away."

"A little philosopher already, Mr. Berkeley," said my
lord, smiling at the child.  "Well, well, my little fellow,
be a good man; not even the Queen could wish you better
than that."

"'Tis the children's bed hour, my lord," said Mistress
Berkeley.  "I pray you excuse me."

As mother and children left the room, Sherebiah, who
as butler at Winton Hall had settled down as a very
comfortable man of peace, entered with a tray on which were
silver tankards of mulled wine.  The good fellow looked
not a day older than when he had led Katrinka to the
altar six years before.  He placed the tray on a table and
silently withdrew.  The guests sipped the grateful liquor
and sat in tired silence gazing into the fire.

Presently Mistress Berkeley returned.

"Supper is served, my lords," she said.

"A sweet word to famished men."

The duke offered her his arm and led the way to the
supper room, followed by Lord Godolphin and Harry.  At
the table he kept up an animated conversation with his
hostess, yielding as all men did to the charm of a rarely
gracious personality.  Lord Godolphin was as little
inclined to talk as to eat.  When the cloth was removed,
and Sherebiah had placed bottles on the table and left the
gentlemen to themselves, Marlborough crossed his knees
and said:

"Egad, Mr. Berkeley, you are a lucky man, with such
a wife and such children.  We could not have fared more
happily—eh, my lord?"

"Nay indeed," replied Godolphin, thawing a little.
"We could never have reached Wilton to-night.  The
wind, hark you, is gaining in fury—a sorry night for
travellers."

"Ay; that poor wretch at Basingstoke is well quit of his
troubles.  A sad case, Mr. Berkeley; but too common, I
fear.  'Twas a broken soldier; they had clapt him in the
stocks as a vagrant; never in my life saw I a more piteous
object.  He was outside the inn, and hailed me as we
alighted to dine and change horses.  Had fought at
Blenheim, he told me, captain in a Hanoverian regiment,
Aglionby by name, and lately returned from the Indies.
We had him released; but the poor fellow was even worse
than he seemed; for he died of a sudden before we left the
inn.  He was on his way to this very village to see a
cousin, I bethink me he said.  'Tis thus we serve the men
who have fought our battles."

There was a note of bitterness in Marlborough's voice.

"Your pity, I fear, was ill-deserved, my lord," said the
Squire.  "I know the man.  He fought at Blenheim,
indeed, but on the other side, and for treasonable practices
was sent some six years ago on a long term to the
Plantations.  He must have escaped."

"Poor wretch!  He had a miserable end.  In spite of
what you tell me, Mr. Berkeley, I pity him.  Such is the
fate of too many loyal soldiers also, the innocent victims
of war.  You who live a quiet country life have certainly
chosen the better part.  The prizes of court and camp are
in the end but Dead-Sea fruit.  'Put not your trust in
princes': 'tis the truest of warnings, as we old
stagers—eh, my lord?—have reason to know."

A cheerful fire, good fare, and a fine vintage of
much-travelled Madeira had completed the good impression
made by the host.  The elder men began to talk freely,
with none of the constraint which the presence of a
younger man and a stranger might in other circumstances
have produced.  Harry was amused to find that the
passage of years had altered him beyond recognition, and
wondered when a suitable opportunity would occur of
recalling himself to the recollection of his guests.  All at
once Lord Godolphin said:

"'Tis strange, Mr. Berkeley, that I am for the second
time detained in this village by an accident.  My host on
that occasion was, I think, a Mr. Fanshawe.  Is he still
living?  It was ten years ago."

"Sir Godfrey Fanshawe is dead, my lord; his son now
owns the Grange."

"It all comes back to me.  We were travelling to
London—Frank and I, Jack—and our coach broke down
as we left a cricket match.  Sir Godfrey Fanshawe was
good enough to give us beds for the night, and we had
gone but a few miles on the road next morning when we
were pulled up by a fallen tree, and in a trice were looking
down the muzzles of half-a-dozen horse pistols.  I had
sent some of my young men ahead to arrange a change
of horses; the others bolted, and there we were in the
midst of the gang.  'Twas an uncommonly tight place;
Frank, always handy with his pistol, got in a shot, but
in another half-minute we should have been stripped or
worse when there came from the wall at our left a wild
hullabaloo worse than a dozen Thames bargemen touting
for a fare.  The rascals turned tail and bolted; over the
wall sprang a man and a boy, and egad, I remember now
how I laughed when they told me they'd done the trick
betwixt 'em.  'Twas a rare flam.  And the boy——"

"I think, my lord——" began Harry, feeling somewhat
uncomfortable; but Marlborough, setting his glass down
on the table, bent forward and interrupted.

"Egad, Godolphin, you bring things back to me.  The
boy—we were always going to do something for him.  He
found his way to the Low Countries, and showed himself
a lad of mettle.  I came across him once or twice; noted
him—for the second time, by the way—for an ensigncy,
and found that he was already a cornet in a Dutch
regiment.  He did well with Eugene, I believe.
Rochester—that was his name—Harry Rochester.  I wonder what
became of him!  Certainly he owed nothing to patronage—yours
or mine.  Wasn't he the son of the parson here?
Mr. Berkeley, has he ever revisited these parts?  'Pon my
soul, I should like to meet him again."

"I was about to explain, your grace, that—I am that
Harry Rochester."

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   A Selection from the
   Catalogue of

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   \G. \P. PUTNAM'S SONS

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   Complete Catalogues sent
   on application

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   The Light Brigade
   in Spain

.. class:: center medium bold

or

.. class:: center large bold

The Last Fight of Sir John Moore

.. class:: center large bold

By Herbert Strang

.. class:: center small

Author of "Tom Burnaby," etc.

.. class:: center medium

With a Preface by Lieut.-Col. WILLOUGHBY VERNER.

.. class:: center medium

Illustrated by William Rainey, R.I.  12mo.  $1.50

.. vspace:: 2

"In 'Boys of the Light Brigade' Mr. Strang draws upon the
resources of the Peninsular War, and succeeds in extracting much
freshness from well-worn themes, as Moore's retreat to Corunna and
the heroic defence of Saragossa.  The personal interest of the story
is kept at a high tension....  It is a book which no boy will
be able to put down when once started.  The volume is provided
with excellent maps and plans of the scenes in which the incidents
take place."—*The Standard*.

"This author has fairly earned the right to be accepted as the
legitimate successor of the late George A. Henty in furnishing
entertainment for youth.  Like Henty, Strang manages to galvanize
the dry bones of history into a close semblance of glorious life....
The present volume contains vivid and spirited descriptions
of campaign life in Spain ... with many rare and interesting
episodes....  This is good reading for young and old."—*Chicago
Post*.

"The author describes graphically with truth to history the last
fight of the British commander, Sir John Moore.  It is a stirring
military story in the manner of those written by the late George
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and character ... and with some pretty little love
passages."—*Cleveland Leader*.

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*BY THE SUCCESSOR TO HENTY*

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KOBO

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A Story of the Russo-Japanese War

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By HERBERT STRANG

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Author of "The Light Brigade in Spain," etc.

.. class:: center medium

*Illustrated by William Rainey, R.I.  12mo, $1.50*

.. vspace:: 2

"It is a dashing romance for boys, founded on the Russo-Japanese
War and worthy of the late Mr. Henty at his best.  A
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with much pleasure and profit by many older readers as
well."—*Cleveland Leader*.

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written and the author shows intimate knowledge of Japanese
character and customs."—*San Francisco Bulletin*.

"In one respect Mr. Strang's tale is even better than many
of the late G. A. Henty's.  It has more dash and dialogue.
These are strong points in the work of this writer, who is
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"A great amount of actual military history is incorporated
with an exciting and romantic plot."—*The Westminster
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.. class:: center large bold

By ELBRIDGE S. BROOKS

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

Historic Boys.  Their Endeavors, Their Achievements and
Their Times.  With 29 full-page illustrations.
8vo, pp. viii + 259.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

Historic Girls.  Stories of Girls Who Have Influenced the
History of Their Times.  8vo, illustrated, pp. viii + 225.

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Chivalric Days and Youthful Deeds.  Stirring Stories,
presenting faithful pictures of historic times.  Illustrated,
8vo.  $1.25

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Heroic Happenings.  Told in Verse and Story.
Illustrated, 8vo.  $1.25

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Great Men's Sons.  Stories of the Sons of Great Men from
Socrates to Napoleon.  Fully illustrated, 8vo.  $1.25

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Including the Sons of Socrates, Alexander, Cicero, Marcus
Aurelius, Mahomet, Charlemagne, Alfred, William the
Conqueror, Saladin, Dante, Tamerlane, Columbus, Luther,
Shakespeare, Cromwell, Peter the Great, Napoleon.

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The Long Walls.  An American Boy's Adventures in Greece.
A Story of Digging and Discovery, Temples and Treasures.
By E. S. Brooks and John Alden.  Illustrated by George
Foster Barnes.  8vo.   $1.25



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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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FOR YOUNG PEOPLE

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ROYAL ROGUES

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By ALBERTA BANCROFT.  With Illustrations by Louis
Betts.  12mo.  $1.25

There are few healthy-minded folk, whatever their
time of life, who will not confess to a fondness for fairy
tales of the right sort.  "Royal Rogues" has that
quality which makes a children's book win the hearts of
grown-ups.  The heroes are merry twin rogues, king's
sons of course, but with a strain of fairy blood in their
veins.  Wildly strange and delightful are their
explorations in the realms of fairyland.

"A charming story ... must be accounted
one of the prettiest and cleverest of modern fairy
stories."—*Worcester Spy*.

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ON BOARD A WHALER

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An Adventurous Cruise through Southern Seas.  By
THOMAS WEST HAMMOND.  With 16 full-page
illustrations by HARRY GEORGE BURGESS.  12mo.  $1.25

"Thrilling throughout....  In the name of
American youth, we thank Mr. Hammond for
resuscitating a memory that had slumbered so
long."—*Com. Advertiser*.

"The yarn he spins of that and other trips in search
of oil is one of the best I ever read.  It is indeed a
thrilling, exciting, dangerous story of the sea, a tale of
personal experience put into book form by as brave a
sailor as ever chased whales, and it is full of that local
color which makes a fellow's blood tingle as he turns
the pages.  The illustrations are excellent."—HENRY
HAYNIE in *The Boston Times*.

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\G. \P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK LONDON

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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By HERBERT STRANG

.. vspace:: 2

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The Adventures of Harry Rochester: A
Tale of the Days of Marlborough and Eugene.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent

The Light Brigade in Spain; or, The Last
Fight of Sir John Moore.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent

Kobo.  A Story of the Russo-Japanese War.

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.. pgfooter::
