The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Black Arrow, by Robert Louis Stevenson

Published：2026-07-30 00:44:20 Source: gift ideas with splash pads for toddlers Author: Community Event Toys

THE BLACK ARROW—A TALE OF THE TWO ROSES

Critic on top rated baby dollsthe Hearth:

No one but myself knows what I have suffered, nor what mybooks have gained, by your unsleeping watchfulness and admirablepertinacity. And now here is a volume that goes into theworld and lacks your imprimatur: a strange thing in ourjoint lives; and the reason of it stranger still! I have watchedwith interest, with pain, and at length with amusement, yourunavailing attempts to peruse The Black Arrow; and I thinkI should lack humour indeed, if I let the occasion slip and didnot place your name in the fly-leaf of the only book of mine thatyou have never read—and never will read.

That others may display more constancy is still my hope.The tale was written years ago for a particular audience and (Imay say) in rivalry with a particular author; I think I should dowell to name him, Mr. Alfred R. Phillips. It was notwithout its reward at the time. I could not, indeed,displace Mr. Phillips from his well-won priority; but in the eyesof readers who thought less than nothing of TreasureIsland, The Black Arrowwas supposed to mark a clearadvance. Those who read volumes and those who read storypapers belong to different worlds. The verdict onTreasure Islandwas reversed in the other court; I wonder,will it be the same with its successor?

R. L. S.

Saranac Lake, April 8, 1888.

PROLOGUE—JOHN AMEND-ALL

On a certain afternoon, in the late springtime, the bell uponTunstall Moat House was heard ringing at an unaccustomedhour. Far and near, in the forest and in the fields alongthe river, people began to desert their labours and hurry towardsthe sound; and in Tunstall hamlet a group of poor country-folkstood wondering at the summons.

Tunstall hamlet at that period, in the reign of old King HenryVI., wore much the same appearance as it wears to-day. Ascore or so of houses, heavily framed with oak, stood scatteredin a long green valley ascending from the river. At thefoot, the road crossed a bridge, and mounting on the other side,disappeared into the fringes of the forest on its way to the MoatHouse, and further forth to Holywood Abbey. Half-way up thevillage, the church stood among yews. On every side theslopes were crowned and the view bounded by the green elms andgreening oak-trees of the forest.

Hard by the bridge, there was a stone cross upon a knoll, andhere the group had collected—half a dozen women and onetall fellow in a russet smock—discussing what the bellbetided. An express had gone through the hamlet half anhour before, and drunk a pot of ale in the saddle, not daring todismount for the hurry of his errand; but he had been ignoranthimself of what was forward, and only bore sealed letters fromSir Daniel Brackley to Sir Oliver Oates, the parson, who kept theMoat House in the master’s absence.

But now there was the noise of a horse; and soon, out of theedge of the wood and over the echoing bridge, there rode up youngMaster Richard Shelton, Sir Daniel’s ward. He, at theleast, would know, and they hailed him and begged him toexplain. He drew bridle willingly enough—a youngfellow not yet eighteen, sun-browned and grey-eyed, in a jacketof deer’s leather, with a black velvet collar, a green hoodupon his head, and a steel cross-bow at his back. Theexpress, it appeared, had brought great news. A battle wasimpending. Sir Daniel had sent for every man that coulddraw a bow or carry a bill to go post-haste to Kettley, underpain of his severe displeasure; but for whom they were to fight,or of where the battle was expected, Dick knew nothing. SirOliver would come shortly himself, and Bennet Hatch was arming atthat moment, for he it was who should lead the party.

“It is the ruin of this kind land,” a womansaid. “If the barons live at war, ploughfolk must eatroots.”

“Nay,” said Dick, “every man that followsshall have sixpence a day, and archers twelve.”

“If they live,” returned the woman, “thatmay very well be; but how if they die, my master?”

“They cannot better die than for their naturallord,” said Dick.

“No natural lord of mine,” said the man in thesmock. “I followed the Walsinghams; so we all diddown Brierly way, till two years ago, come Candlemas. Andnow I must side with Brackley! It was the law that did it;call ye that natural? But now, what with Sir Daniel andwhat with Sir Oliver—that knows more of law thanhonesty—I have no natural lord but poor King Harry theSixt, God bless him!—the poor innocent that cannot tell hisright hand from his left.”

“Ye speak with an ill tongue, friend,” answeredDick, “to miscall your good master and my lord the king inthe same libel. But King Harry—praised be thesaints!—has come again into his right mind, and will haveall things peaceably ordained. And as for Sir Daniel,y’ are very brave behind his back. But I will be notale-bearer; and let that suffice.”

“I say no harm of you, Master Richard,” returnedthe peasant. “Y’ are a lad; but when ye come toa man’s inches, ye will find ye have an empty pocket.I say no more: the saints help Sir Daniel’s neighbours, andthe Blessed Maid protect his wards!”

“Clipsby,” said Richard, “you speak what Icannot hear with honour. Sir Daniel is my good master, andmy guardian.”

“Come, now, will ye read me a riddle?” returnedClipsby. “On whose side is Sir Daniel?”

“I know not,” said Dick, colouring a little; forhis guardian had changed sides continually in the troubles ofthat period, and every change had brought him some increase offortune.

“Ay,” returned Clipsby, “you, nor noman. For, indeed, he is one that goes to bed Lancaster andgets up York.”

Just then the bridge rang under horse-shoe iron, and the partyturned and saw Bennet Hatch come galloping—a brown-faced,grizzled fellow, heavy of hand and grim of mien, armed with swordand spear, a steel salet on his head, a leather jack upon hisbody. He was a great man in these parts; Sir Daniel’sright hand in peace and war, and at that time, by hismaster’s interest, bailiff of the hundred.

“Clipsby,” he shouted, “off to the MoatHouse, and send all other laggards the same gate. Bowyerwill give you jack and salet. We must ride beforecurfew. Look to it: he that is last at the lych-gate SirDaniel shall reward. Look to it right well! I knowyou for a man of naught. Nance,” he added, to one ofthe women, “is old Appleyard up town?”

“I’ll warrant you,” replied the woman.“In his field, for sure.”

So the group dispersed, and while Clipsby walked leisurelyover the bridge, Bennet and young Shelton rode up the roadtogether, through the village and past the church.

“Ye will see the old shrew,” said Bennet.“He will waste more time grumbling and prating of Harry theFift than would serve a man to shoe a horse. And allbecause he has been to the French wars!”

The house to which they were bound was the last in thevillage, standing alone among lilacs; and beyond it, on threesides, there was open meadow rising towards the borders of thewood.

Hatch dismounted, threw his rein over the fence, and walkeddown the field, Dick keeping close at his elbow, to where the oldsoldier was digging, knee-deep in his cabbages, and now andagain, in a cracked voice, singing a snatch of song. He wasall dressed in leather, only his hood and tippet were of blackfrieze, and tied with scarlet; his face was like a walnut-shell,both for colour and wrinkles; but his old grey eye was stillclear enough, and his sight unabated. Perhaps he was deaf;perhaps he thought it unworthy of an old archer of Agincourt topay any heed to such disturbances; but neither the surly notes ofthe alarm bell, nor the near approach of Bennet and the lad,appeared at all to move him; and he continued obstinatelydigging, and piped up, very thin and shaky:

“Now, dear lady, if thy will be,
I pray you that you will rue on me.”

“Nick Appleyard,” said Hatch, “Sir Olivercommends him to you, and bids that ye shall come within this hourto the Moat House, there to take command.”

The old fellow looked up.

“Save you, my masters!” he said, grinning.“And where goeth Master Hatch?”

“Master Hatch is off to Kettley, with every man that wecan horse,” returned Bennet. “There is a fighttoward, it seems, and my lord stays a reinforcement.”

“Ay, verily,” returned Appleyard. “Andwhat will ye leave me to garrison withal?”

“I leave you six good men, and Sir Oliver toboot,” answered Hatch.

“It’ll not hold the place,” said Appleyard;“the number sufficeth not. It would take two score tomake it good.”

“Why, it’s for that we came to you, oldshrew!” replied the other. “Who else is therebut you that could do aught in such a house with such agarrison?”

“Ay! when the pinch comes, ye remember the oldshoe,” returned Nick. “There is not a man ofyou can back a horse or hold a bill; and as for archery—St.Michael! if old Harry the Fift were back again, he would standand let ye shoot at him for a farthen a shoot!”

“Nay, Nick, there’s some can draw a good bowyet,” said Bennet.

“Draw a good bow!” cried Appleyard.“Yes! But who’ll shoot me a good shoot?It’s there the eye comes in, and the head between yourshoulders. Now, what might you call a long shoot, BennetHatch?”

“Well,” said Bennet, looking about him, “itwould be a long shoot from here into the forest.”

“Ay, it would be a longish shoot,” said the oldfellow, turning to look over his shoulder; and then he put up hishand over his eyes, and stood staring.

“Why, what are you looking at?” asked Bennet, witha chuckle. “Do, you see Harry the Fift?”

The veteran continued looking up the hill in silence.The sun shone broadly over the shelving meadows; a few whitesheep wandered browsing; all was still but the distant jangle ofthe bell.

“What is it, Appleyard?” asked Dick.

“Why, the birds,” said Appleyard.

And, sure enough, over the top of the forest, where it randown in a tongue among the meadows, and ended in a pair of goodlygreen elms, about a bowshot from the field where they werestanding, a flight of birds was skimming to and fro, in evidentdisorder.

“What of the birds?” said Bennet.

“Ay!” returned Appleyard, “y’ are awise man to go to war, Master Bennet. Birds are a goodsentry; in forest places they be the first line of battle.Look you, now, if we lay here in camp, there might be archersskulking down to get the wind of us; and here would you be, nonethe wiser!”

“Why, old shrew,” said Hatch, “there be nomen nearer us than Sir Daniel’s, at Kettley; y’ areas safe as in London Tower; and ye raise scares upon a man for afew chaffinches and sparrows!”

“Hear him!” grinned Appleyard. “Howmany a rogue would give his two crop ears to have a shoot ateither of us? Saint Michael, man! they hate us like twopolecats!”

“Well, sooth it is, they hate Sir Daniel,”answered Hatch, a little sobered.

“Ay, they hate Sir Daniel, and they hate every man thatserves with him,” said Appleyard; “and in the firstorder of hating, they hate Bennet Hatch and old Nicholas thebowman. See ye here: if there was a stout fellow yonder inthe wood-edge, and you and I stood fair for him—as, bySaint George, we stand!—which, think ye, would hechoose?”

“You, for a good wager,” answered Hatch.

“My surcoat to a leather belt, it would be you!”cried the old archer. “Ye burned Grimstone,Bennet—they’ll ne’er forgive you that, mymaster. And as for me, I’ll soon be in a good place,God grant, and out of bow-shoot—ay, andcannon-shoot—of all their malices. I am an old man,and draw fast to homeward, where the bed is ready. But foryou, Bennet, y’ are to remain behind here at your ownperil, and if ye come to my years unhanged, the old true-blueEnglish spirit will be dead.”

“Y’ are the shrewishest old dolt in TunstallForest,” returned Hatch, visibly ruffled by thesethreats. “Get ye to your arms before Sir Oliver come,and leave prating for one good while. An ye had talked somuch with Harry the Fift, his ears would ha’ been richerthan his pocket.”

An arrow sang in the air, like a huge hornet; it struck oldAppleyard between the shoulder-blades, and pierced him cleanthrough, and he fell forward on his face among thecabbages. Hatch, with a broken cry, leapt into the air;then, stooping double, he ran for the cover of the house.And in the meanwhile Dick Shelton had dropped behind a lilac, andhad his crossbow bent and shouldered, covering the point of theforest.

Not a leaf stirred. The sheep were patiently browsing;the birds had settled. But there lay the old man, with acloth-yard arrow standing in his back; and there were Hatchholding to the gable, and Dick crouching and ready behind thelilac bush.

“D’ye see aught?” cried Hatch.

“Not a twig stirs,” said Dick.

“I think shame to leave him lying,” said Bennet,coming forward once more with hesitating steps and a very palecountenance. “Keep a good eye on the wood, MasterShelton—keep a clear eye on the wood. The saintsassoil us! here was a good shoot!”

Bennet raised the old archer on his knee. He was not yetdead; his face worked, and his eyes shut and opened likemachinery, and he had a most horrible, ugly look of one inpain.

“Can ye hear, old Nick?” asked Hatch.“Have ye a last wish before ye wend, oldbrother?”

“Pluck out the shaft, and let me pass, a’Mary’s name!” gasped Appleyard. “I bedone with Old England. Pluck it out!”

“Master Dick,” said Bennet, “come hither,and pull me a good pull upon the arrow. He would fain pass,the poor sinner.”

Dick laid down his cross-bow, and pulling hard upon the arrow,drew it forth. A gush of blood followed; the old archerscrambled half upon his feet, called once upon the name of God,and then fell dead. Hatch, upon his knees among thecabbages, prayed fervently for the welfare of the passingspirit. But even as he prayed, it was plain that his mindwas still divided, and he kept ever an eye upon the corner of thewood from which the shot had come. When he had done, he gotto his feet again, drew off one of his mailed gauntlets, andwiped his pale face, which was all wet with terror.

“Ay,” he said, “it’ll be my turnnext.”

“Who hath done this, Bennet?” Richard asked, stillholding the arrow in his hand.

“Nay, the saints know,” said Hatch.“Here are a good two score Christian souls that we havehunted out of house and holding, he and I. He has paid hisshot, poor shrew, nor will it be long, mayhap, ere I paymine. Sir Daniel driveth over-hard.”

“This is a strange shaft,” said the lad, lookingat the arrow in his hand.

“Ay, by my faith!” cried Bennet.“Black, and black-feathered. Here is an ill-favouredshaft, by my sooth! for black, they say, bodes burial. Andhere be words written. Wipe the blood away. What readye?”

“‘Appulyaird fro JonAmend-All,’” read Shelton. “Whatshould this betoken?”

“Nay, I like it not,” returned the retainer,shaking his head. “John Amend-All! Here is arogue’s name for those that be up in the world! Butwhy stand we here to make a mark? Take him by the knees,good Master Shelton, while I lift him by the shoulders, and letus lay him in his house. This will be a rare shog to poorSir Oliver; he will turn paper colour; he will pray like awindmill.”

They took up the old archer, and carried him between them intohis house, where he had dwelt alone. And there they laidhim on the floor, out of regard for the mattress, and sought, asbest they might, to straighten and compose his limbs.

Appleyard’s house was clean and bare. There was abed, with a blue cover, a cupboard, a great chest, a pair ofjoint-stools, a hinged table in the chimney corner, and hung uponthe wall the old soldier’s armoury of bows and defensivearmour. Hatch began to look about him curiously.

“Nick had money,” he said. “He mayhave had three score pounds put by. I would I could lightupon’t! When ye lose an old friend, Master Richard,the best consolation is to heir him. See, now, thischest. I would go a mighty wager there is a bushel of goldtherein. He had a strong hand to get, and a hard hand tokeep withal, had Appleyard the archer. Now may God rest hisspirit! Near eighty year he was afoot and about, and evergetting; but now he’s on the broad of his back, poor shrew,and no more lacketh; and if his chattels came to a good friend,he would be merrier, methinks, in heaven.”

“Come, Hatch,” said Dick, “respect hisstone-blind eyes. Would ye rob the man before hisbody? Nay, he would walk!”

Hatch made several signs of the cross; but by this time hisnatural complexion had returned, and he was not easily to bedashed from any purpose. It would have gone hard with thechest had not the gate sounded, and presently after the door ofthe house opened and admitted a tall, portly, ruddy, black-eyedman of near fifty, in a surplice and black robe.

“Appleyard”—the newcomer was saying, as heentered; but he stopped dead. “Ave Maria!” hecried. “Saints be our shield! What cheer isthis?”

“Cold cheer with Appleyard, sir parson,” answeredHatch, with perfect cheerfulness. “Shot at his owndoor, and alighteth even now at purgatory gates. Ay! there,if tales be true, he shall lack neither coal norcandle.”

Sir Oliver groped his way to a joint-stool, and sat down uponit, sick and white.

“This is a judgment! O, a great stroke!” hesobbed, and rattled off a leash of prayers.

Hatch meanwhile reverently doffed his salet and kneltdown.

“Ay, Bennet,” said the priest, somewhatrecovering, “and what may this be? What enemy hathdone this?”

“Here, Sir Oliver, is the arrow. See, it iswritten upon with words,” said Dick.

“Nay,” cried the priest, “this is a foulhearing! John Amend-All! A right Lollardy word.And black of hue, as for an omen! Sirs, this knave arrowlikes me not. But it importeth rather to takecounsel. Who should this be? Bethink you,Bennet. Of so many black ill-willers, which should he bethat doth so hardily outface us? Simnel? I do muchquestion it. The Walsinghams? Nay, they are not yetso broken; they still think to have the law over us, when timeschange. There was Simon Malmesbury, too. How thinkye, Bennet?”

“What think ye, sir,” returned Hatch, “ofEllis Duckworth?”

“Nay, Bennet, never. Nay, not he,” said thepriest. “There cometh never any rising, Bennet, frombelow—so all judicious chroniclers concord in theiropinion; but rebellion travelleth ever downward from above; andwhen Dick, Tom, and Harry take them to their bills, look evernarrowly to see what lord is profited thereby. Now, SirDaniel, having once more joined him to the Queen’s party,is in ill odour with the Yorkist lords. Thence, Bennet,comes the blow—by what procuring, I yet seek; but thereinlies the nerve of this discomfiture.”

“An’t please you, Sir Oliver,” said Bennet,“the axles are so hot in this country that I have long beensmelling fire. So did this poor sinner, Appleyard.And, by your leave, men’s spirits are so foully inclined toall of us, that it needs neither York nor Lancaster to spur themon. Hear my plain thoughts: You, that are a clerk, and SirDaniel, that sails on any wind, ye have taken many men’sgoods, and beaten and hanged not a few. Y’ are calledto count for this; in the end, I wot not how, ye have ever theuppermost at law, and ye think all patched. But give meleave, Sir Oliver: the man that ye have dispossessed and beatenis but the angrier, and some day, when the black devil is by, hewill up with his bow and clout me a yard of arrow through yourinwards.”

“Nay, Bennet, y’ are in the wrong. Bennet,ye should be glad to be corrected,” said Sir Oliver.“Y’ are a prater, Bennet, a talker, a babbler; yourmouth is wider than your two ears. Mend it, Bennet, mendit.”

“Nay, I say no more. Have it as ye list,”said the retainer.

The priest now rose from the stool, and from the writing-casethat hung about his neck took forth wax and a taper, and a flintand steel. With these he sealed up the chest and thecupboard with Sir Daniel’s arms, Hatch looking ondisconsolate; and then the whole party proceeded, somewhattimorously, to sally from the house and get to horse.

“’Tis time we were on the road, Sir Oliver,”said Hatch, as he held the priest’s stirrup while hemounted.

“Ay; but, Bennet, things are changed,” returnedthe parson. “There is now no Appleyard—rest hissoul!—to keep the garrison. I shall keep you,Bennet. I must have a good man to rest me on in this day ofblack arrows. ‘The arrow that flieth by day,’saith the evangel; I have no mind of the context; nay, I am asluggard priest, I am too deep in men’s affairs.Well, let us ride forth, Master Hatch. The jackmen shouldbe at the church by now.”

So they rode forward down the road, with the wind after them,blowing the tails of the parson’s cloak; and behind them,as they went, clouds began to arise and blot out the sinkingsun. They had passed three of the scattered houses thatmake up Tunstall hamlet, when, coming to a turn, they saw thechurch before them. Ten or a dozen houses clusteredimmediately round it; but to the back the churchyard was next themeadows. At the lych-gate, near a score of men weregathered, some in the saddle, some standing by theirhorses’ heads. They were variously armed and mounted;some with spears, some with bills, some with bows, and somebestriding plough-horses, still splashed with the mire of thefurrow; for these were the very dregs of the country, and all thebetter men and the fair equipments were already with Sir Danielin the field.

“We have not done amiss, praised be the cross ofHolywood! Sir Daniel will be right well content,”observed the priest, inwardly numbering the troop.

“Who goes? Stand! if ye be true!” shoutedBennet. A man was seen slipping through the churchyardamong the yews; and at the sound of this summons he discarded allconcealment, and fairly took to his heels for the forest.The men at the gate, who had been hitherto unaware of thestranger’s presence, woke and scattered. Those whohad dismounted began scrambling into the saddle; the rest rode inpursuit; but they had to make the circuit of the consecratedground, and it was plain their quarry would escape them.Hatch, roaring an oath, put his horse at the hedge, to head himoff; but the beast refused, and sent his rider sprawling in thedust. And though he was up again in a moment, and hadcaught the bridle, the time had gone by, and the fugitive hadgained too great a lead for any hope of capture.

The wisest of all had been Dick Shelton. Instead ofstarting in a vain pursuit, he had whipped his crossbow from hisback, bent it, and set a quarrel to the string; and now, when theothers had desisted, he turned to Bennet and asked if he shouldshoot.

“Shoot! shoot!” cried the priest, with sanguinaryviolence.

“Cover him, Master Dick,” said Bennet.“Bring me him down like a ripe apple.”

The fugitive was now within but a few leaps of safety; butthis last part of the meadow ran very steeply uphill; and the manran slower in proportion. What with the greyness of thefalling night, and the uneven movements of the runner, it was noeasy aim; and as Dick levelled his bow, he felt a kind of pity,and a half desire that he might miss. The quarrel sped.

The man stumbled and fell, and a great cheer arose from Hatchand the pursuers. But they were counting their corn beforethe harvest. The man fell lightly; he was lightly afootagain, turned and waved his cap in a bravado, and was out ofsight next moment in the margin of the wood.

“And the plague go with him!” cried Bennet.“He has thieves’ heels; he can run, by StBanbury! But you touched him, Master Shelton; he has stolenyour quarrel, may he never have good I grudge himless!”

“Nay, but what made he by the church?” asked SirOliver. “I am shrewdly afeared there has beenmischief here. Clipsby, good fellow, get ye down from yourhorse, and search thoroughly among the yews.”

Clipsby was gone but a little while ere he returned carrying apaper.

“This writing was pinned to the church door,” hesaid, handing it to the parson. “I found naught else,sir parson.”

“Now, by the power of Mother Church,” cried SirOliver, “but this runs hard on sacrilege! For theking’s good pleasure, or the lord of themanor—well! But that every run-the-hedge in a greenjerkin should fasten papers to the chancel door—nay, itruns hard on sacrilege, hard; and men have burned for matters ofless weight. But what have we here? The light fallsapace. Good Master Richard, y’ have young eyes.Read me, I pray, this libel.”

Dick Shelton took the paper in his hand and read italoud. It contained some lines of very rugged doggerel,hardly even rhyming, written in a gross character, and mostuncouthly spelt. With the spelling somewhat bettered, thisis how they ran:

“I had four blak arrows under my belt,
Four for the greefs that I have felt,
Four for the nomber of ill menne
That have opressid me now and then.

One is gone; one is wele sped;
Old Apulyaird is ded.

One is for Maister Bennet Hatch,
That burned Grimstone, walls and thatch.

One for Sir Oliver Oates,
That cut Sir Harry Shelton’s throat.

Sir Daniel, ye shull have the fourt;
We shall think it fair sport.

Ye shull each have your own part,
A blak arrow in each blak heart.
Get ye to your knees for to pray:
Ye are ded theeves, by yea and nay!

“JonAmend-All
of the Green Wood,
And his jolly fellaweship.

“Item, we have mo arrowes and goode hempen cord forotheres of your following.”

“Now, well-a-day for charity and the Christiangraces!” cried Sir Oliver, lamentably. “Sirs,this is an ill world, and groweth daily worse. I will swearupon the cross of Holywood I am as innocent of that goodknight’s hurt, whether in act or purpose, as the babeunchristened. Neither was his throat cut; for therein theyare again in error, as there still live credible witnesses toshow.”

“It boots not, sir parson,” said Bennet.“Here is unseasonable talk.”

“Nay, Master Bennet, not so. Keep ye in your dueplace, good Bennet,” answered the priest. “Ishall make mine innocence appear. I will, upon noconsideration, lose my poor life in error. I take all mento witness that I am clear of this matter. I was not evenin the Moat House. I was sent of an errand before nine uponthe clock”—

“Sir Oliver,” said Hatch, interrupting,“since it please you not to stop this sermon, I will takeother means. Goffe, sound to horse.”

And while the tucket was sounding, Bennet moved close to thebewildered parson, and whispered violently in his ear.

Dick Shelton saw the priest’s eye turned upon him for aninstant in a startled glance. He had some cause forthought; for this Sir Harry Shelton was his own naturalfather. But he said never a word, and kept his countenanceunmoved.

Hatch and Sir Oliver discussed together for a while theiraltered situation; ten men, it was decided between them, shouldbe reserved, not only to garrison the Moat House, but to escortthe priest across the wood. In the meantime, as Bennet wasto remain behind, the command of the reinforcement was given toMaster Shelton. Indeed, there was no choice; the men wereloutish fellows, dull and unskilled in war, while Dick was notonly popular, but resolute and grave beyond his age.Although his youth had been spent in these rough, country places,the lad had been well taught in letters by Sir Oliver, and Hatchhimself had shown him the management of arms and the firstprinciples of command. Bennet had always been kind andhelpful; he was one of those who are cruel as the grave to thosethey call their enemies, but ruggedly faithful and well willingto their friends; and now, while Sir Oliver entered the nexthouse to write, in his swift, exquisite penmanship, a memorandumof the last occurrences to his master, Sir Daniel Brackley,Bennet came up to his pupil to wish him God-speed upon hisenterprise.

“Ye must go the long way about, Master Shelton,”he said; “round by the bridge, for your life! Keep asure man fifty paces afore you, to draw shots; and go softly tilly’ are past the wood. If the rogues fall upon you,ride for ’t; ye will do naught by standing. And keepever forward, Master Shelton; turn me not back again, an ye loveyour life; there is no help in Tunstall, mind ye that. Andnow, since ye go to the great wars about the king, and I continueto dwell here in extreme jeopardy of my life, and the saintsalone can certify if we shall meet again below, I give you mylast counsels now at your riding. Keep an eye on SirDaniel; he is unsure. Put not your trust in thejack-priest; he intendeth not amiss, but doth the will of others;it is a hand-gun for Sir Daniel! Get your good lordshipwhere ye go; make you strong friends; look to it. And thinkever a pater-noster-while on Bennet Hatch. There are worserogues afoot than Bennet. So, God-speed!”

“And Heaven be with you, Bennet!” returnedDick. “Ye were a good friend to me-ward, and so Ishall say ever.”

“And, look ye, master,” added Hatch, with acertain embarrassment, “if this Amend-All should get ashaft into me, ye might, mayhap, lay out a gold mark or mayhap apound for my poor soul; for it is like to go stiff with me inpurgatory.”

“Ye shall have your will of it, Bennet,” answeredDick. “But, what cheer, man! we shall meet again,where ye shall have more need of ale than masses.”

“The saints so grant it, Master Dick!” returnedthe other. “But here comes Sir Oliver. An hewere as quick with the long-bow as with the pen, he would be abrave man-at-arms.”

Sir Oliver gave Dick a sealed packet, with thissuperscription: “To my ryght worchypful master, Sir DanielBrackley, knyght, be thys delyvered in haste.”

And Dick, putting it in the bosom of his jacket, gave the wordand set forth westward up the village.

BOOK I—THE TWO LADS

CHAPTER I—AT THE SIGN OF THE SUN IN KETTLEY

Sir Daniel and his men lay in and about Kettley that night,warmly quartered and well patrolled. But the Knight ofTunstall was one who never rested from money-getting; and evennow, when he was on the brink of an adventure which should makeor mar him, he was up an hour after midnight to squeeze poorneighbours. He was one who trafficked greatly in disputedinheritances; it was his way to buy out the most unlikelyclaimant, and then, by the favour he curried with great lordsabout the king, procure unjust decisions in his favour; or, ifthat was too roundabout, to seize the disputed manor by force ofarms, and rely on his influence and Sir Oliver’s cunning inthe law to hold what he had snatched. Kettley was one suchplace; it had come very lately into his clutches; he still metwith opposition from the tenants; and it was to overawediscontent that he had led his troops that way.

By two in the morning, Sir Daniel sat in the inn room, closeby the fireside, for it was cold at that hour among the fens ofKettley. By his elbow stood a pottle of spiced ale.He had taken off his visored headpiece, and sat with his baldhead and thin, dark visage resting on one hand, wrapped warmly ina sanguine-coloured cloak. At the lower end of the roomabout a dozen of his men stood sentry over the door or lay asleepon benches; and somewhat nearer hand, a young lad, apparently oftwelve or thirteen, was stretched in a mantle on the floor.The host of the Sun stood before the great man.

“Now, mark me, mine host,” Sir Daniel said,“follow but mine orders, and I shall be your good lordever. I must have good men for head boroughs, and I willhave Adam-a-More high constable; see to it narrowly. Ifother men be chosen, it shall avail you nothing; rather it shallbe found to your sore cost. For those that have paid rentto Walsingham I shall take good measure—you among the rest,mine host.”

“Good knight,” said the host, “I will swearupon the cross of Holywood I did but pay to Walsingham uponcompulsion. Nay, bully knight, I love not the rogueWalsinghams; they were as poor as thieves, bully knight.Give me a great lord like you. Nay; ask me among theneighbours, I am stout for Brackley.”

“It may be,” said Sir Daniel, dryly.“Ye shall then pay twice.”

The innkeeper made a horrid grimace; but this was a piece ofbad luck that might readily befall a tenant in these unrulytimes, and he was perhaps glad to make his peace so easily.

“Bring up yon fellow, Selden!” cried theknight.

And one of his retainers led up a poor, cringing old man, aspale as a candle, and all shaking with the fen fever.

“Sirrah,” said Sir Daniel, “yourname?”

“An’t please your worship,” replied the man,“my name is Condall—Condall of Shoreby, at your goodworship’s pleasure.”

“I have heard you ill reported on,” returned theknight. “Ye deal in treason, rogue; ye trudge thecountry leasing; y’ are heavily suspicioned of the death ofseverals. How, fellow, are ye so bold? But I willbring you down.”

“Right honourable and my reverend lord,” the mancried, “here is some hodge-podge, saving your goodpresence. I am but a poor private man, and have hurtnone.”

“The under-sheriff did report of you most vilely,”said the knight. “‘Seize me,’ saith he,‘that Tyndal of Shoreby.’”

“Condall, my good lord; Condall is my poor name,”said the unfortunate.

“Condall or Tyndal, it is all one,” replied SirDaniel, coolly. “For, by my sooth, y’ are hereand I do mightily suspect your honesty. If ye would saveyour neck, write me swiftly an obligation for twentypound.”

“For twenty pound, my good lord!” criedCondall. “Here is midsummer madness! My wholeestate amounteth not to seventy shillings.”

“Condall or Tyndal,” returned Sir Daniel,grinning, “I will run my peril of that loss. Write medown twenty, and when I have recovered all I may, I will be goodlord to you, and pardon you the rest.”

“Alas! my good lord, it may not be; I have no skill towrite,” said Condall.

“Well-a-day!” returned the knight.“Here, then, is no remedy. Yet I would fain havespared you, Tyndal, had my conscience suffered. Selden,take me this old shrew softly to the nearest elm, and hang me himtenderly by the neck, where I may see him at my riding.Fare ye well, good Master Condall, dear Master Tyndal; y’are post-haste for Paradise; fare ye then well!”

“Nay, my right pleasant lord,” replied Condall,forcing an obsequious smile, “an ye be so masterful, asdoth right well become you, I will even, with all my poor skill,do your good bidding.”

“Friend,” quoth Sir Daniel, “ye will nowwrite two score. Go to! y’ are too cunning for alivelihood of seventy shillings. Selden, see him write methis in good form, and have it duly witnessed.”

And Sir Daniel, who was a very merry knight, none merrier inEngland, took a drink of his mulled ale, and lay back,smiling.

Meanwhile, the boy upon the floor began to stir, and presentlysat up and looked about him with a scare.

“Hither,” said Sir Daniel; and as the other roseat his command and came slowly towards him, he leaned back andlaughed outright. “By the rood!” he cried,“a sturdy boy!”

The lad flushed crimson with anger, and darted a look of hateout of his dark eyes. Now that he was on his legs, it wasmore difficult to make certain of his age. His face lookedsomewhat older in expression, but it was as smooth as a youngchild’s; and in bone and body he was unusually slender, andsomewhat awkward of gait.

“Ye have called me, Sir Daniel,” he said.“Was it to laugh at my poor plight?”

“Nay, now, let laugh,” said the knight.“Good shrew, let laugh, I pray you. An ye could seeyourself, I warrant ye would laugh the first.”

“Well,” cried the lad, flushing, “ye shallanswer this when ye answer for the other. Laugh while yetye may!”

“Nay, now, good cousin,” replied Sir Daniel, withsome earnestness, “think not that I mock at you, except inmirth, as between kinsfolk and singular friends. I willmake you a marriage of a thousand pounds, go to! and cherish youexceedingly. I took you, indeed, roughly, as the timedemanded; but from henceforth I shall ungrudgingly maintain andcheerfully serve you. Ye shall be Mrs. Shelton—LadyShelton, by my troth! for the lad promiseth bravely. Tut!ye will not shy for honest laughter; it purgeth melancholy.They are no rogues who laugh, good cousin. Good mine host,lay me a meal now for my cousin, Master John. Sit ye down,sweetheart, and eat.”

“Nay,” said Master John, “I will break nobread. Since ye force me to this sin, I will fast for mysoul’s interest. But, good mine host, I pray you ofcourtesy give me a cup of fair water; I shall be much beholden toyour courtesy indeed.”

“Ye shall have a dispensation, go to!” cried theknight. “Shalt be well shriven, by my faith!Content you, then, and eat.”

But the lad was obstinate, drank a cup of water, and, oncemore wrapping himself closely in his mantle, sat in a far corner,brooding.

In an hour or two, there rose a stir in the village ofsentries challenging and the clatter of arms and horses; and thena troop drew up by the inn door, and Richard Shelton, splashedwith mud, presented himself upon the threshold.

“Save you, Sir Daniel,” he said.

“How! Dickie Shelton!” cried the knight; andat the mention of Dick’s name the other lad lookedcuriously across. “What maketh BennetHatch?”

“Please you, sir knight, to take cognisance of thispacket from Sir Oliver, wherein are all things fullystated,” answered Richard, presenting the priest’sletter. “And please you farther, ye were best makeall speed to Risingham; for on the way hither we encountered oneriding furiously with letters, and by his report, my Lord ofRisingham was sore bested, and lacked exceedingly yourpresence.”

“How say you? Sore bested?” returned theknight. “Nay, then, we will make speed sitting down,good Richard. As the world goes in this poor realm ofEngland, he that rides softliest rides surest. Delay, theysay, begetteth peril; but it is rather this itch of doing thatundoes men; mark it, Dick. But let me see, first, whatcattle ye have brought. Selden, a link here at thedoor!”

And Sir Daniel strode forth into the village street, and, bythe red glow of a torch, inspected his new troops. He wasan unpopular neighbour and an unpopular master; but as a leaderin war he was well-beloved by those who rode behind hispennant. His dash, his proved courage, his forethought forthe soldiers’ comfort, even his rough gibes, were all tothe taste of the bold blades in jack and salet.

“Nay, by the rood!” he cried, “what poordogs are these? Here be some as crooked as a bow, and someas lean as a spear. Friends, ye shall ride in the front ofthe battle; I can spare you, friends. Mark me this oldvillain on the piebald! A two-year mutton riding on a hogwould look more soldierly! Ha! Clipsby, are ye there,old rat? Y’ are a man I could lose with a good heart;ye shall go in front of all, with a bull’s eye painted onyour jack, to be the better butt for archery; sirrah, ye shallshow me the way.”

“I will show you any way, Sir Daniel, but the way tochange sides,” returned Clipsby, sturdily.

Sir Daniel laughed a guffaw.

“Why, well said!” he cried. “Hast ashrewd tongue in thy mouth, go to! I will forgive you forthat merry word. Selden, see them fed, both man andbrute.”

The knight re-entered the inn.

“Now, friend Dick,” he said, “fall to.Here is good ale and bacon. Eat, while that Iread.”

Sir Daniel opened the packet, and as he read his browdarkened. When he had done he sat a little, musing.Then he looked sharply at his ward.

“Dick,” said he, “Y’ have seen thispenny rhyme?”

The lad replied in the affirmative.

“It bears your father’s name,” continued theknight; “and our poor shrew of a parson is, by some madsoul, accused of slaying him.”

“He did most eagerly deny it,” answered Dick.

“He did?” cried the knight, very sharply.“Heed him not. He has a loose tongue; he babbles likea jack-sparrow. Some day, when I may find the leisure,Dick, I will myself more fully inform you of these matters.There was one Duckworth shrewdly blamed for it; but the timeswere troubled, and there was no justice to be got.”

“It befell at the Moat House?” Dick ventured, witha beating at his heart.

“It befell between the Moat House and Holywood,”replied Sir Daniel, calmly; but he shot a covert glance, blackwith suspicion, at Dick’s face. “Andnow,” added the knight, “speed you with your meal; yeshall return to Tunstall with a line from me.”

Dick’s face fell sorely.

“Prithee, Sir Daniel,” he cried, “send oneof the villains! I beseech you let me to the battle.I can strike a stroke, I promise you.”

“I misdoubt it not,” replied Sir Daniel, sittingdown to write. “But here, Dick, is no honour to bewon. I lie in Kettley till I have sure tidings of the war,and then ride to join me with the conqueror. Cry not oncowardice; it is but wisdom, Dick; for this poor realm so tossethwith rebellion, and the king’s name and custody so changethhands, that no man may be certain of the morrow. Toss-potand Shuttle-wit run in, but my Lord Good-Counsel sits o’one side, waiting.”

With that, Sir Daniel, turning his back to Dick, and quite atthe farther end of the long table, began to write his letter,with his mouth on one side, for this business of the Black Arrowstuck sorely in his throat.

Meanwhile, young Shelton was going on heartily enough with hisbreakfast, when he felt a touch upon his arm, and a very softvoice whispering in his ear.

“Make not a sign, I do beseech you,” said thevoice, “but of your charity tell me the straight way toHolywood. Beseech you, now, good boy, comfort a poor soulin peril and extreme distress, and set me so far forth upon theway to my repose.”

“Take the path by the windmill,” answered Dick, inthe same tone; “it will bring you to Till Ferry; thereinquire again.”

And without turning his head, he fell again to eating.But with the tail of his eye he caught a glimpse of the young ladcalled Master John stealthily creeping from the room.

“Why,” thought Dick, “he is a young asI. ‘Good boy’ doth he call me? An I hadknown, I should have seen the varlet hanged ere I had toldhim. Well, if he goes through the fen, I may come up withhim and pull his ears.”

Half an hour later, Sir Daniel gave Dick the letter, and badehim speed to the Moat House. And, again, some half an hourafter Dick’s departure, a messenger came, in hot haste,from my Lord of Risingham.

“Sir Daniel,” the messenger said, “ye losegreat honour, by my sooth! The fight began again thismorning ere the dawn, and we have beaten their van and scatteredtheir right wing. Only the main battle standeth fast.An we had your fresh men, we should tilt you them all into theriver. What, sir knight! Will ye be the last?It stands not with your good credit.”

“Nay,” cried the knight, “I was but now uponthe march. Selden, sound me the tucket. Sir, I amwith you on the instant. It is not two hours since the morepart of my command came in, sir messenger. What would yehave? Spurring is good meat, but yet it killed thecharger. Bustle, boys!”

By this time the tucket was sounding cheerily in the morning,and from all sides Sir Daniel’s men poured into the mainstreet and formed before the inn. They had slept upon theirarms, with chargers saddled, and in ten minutes five-scoremen-at-arms and archers, cleanly equipped and brisklydisciplined, stood ranked and ready. The chief part were inSir Daniel’s livery, murrey and blue, which gave thegreater show to their array. The best armed rode first; andaway out of sight, at the tail of the column, came the sorryreinforcement of the night before. Sir Daniel looked withpride along the line.

“Here be the lads to serve you in a pinch,” hesaid.

“They are pretty men, indeed,” replied themessenger. “It but augments my sorrow that ye had notmarched the earlier.”

“Well,” said the knight, “what wouldye? The beginning of a feast and the end of a fray, sirmessenger;” and he mounted into his saddle.“Why! how now!” he cried. “John!Joanna! Nay, by the sacred rood! where is she? Host,where is that girl?”

“Girl, Sir Daniel?” cried the landlord.“Nay, sir, I saw no girl.”

“Boy, then, dotard!” cried the knight.“Could ye not see it was a wench? She in themurrey-coloured mantle—she that broke her fast with water,rogue—where is she?”

“Nay, the saints bless us! Master John, ye calledhim,” said the host. “Well, I thought noneevil. He is gone. I saw him—her—I saw herin the stable a good hour agone; ’a was saddling a greyhorse.”

“Now, by the rood!” cried Sir Daniel, “thewench was worth five hundred pound to me and more.”

“Sir knight,” observed the messenger, withbitterness, “while that ye are here, roaring for fivehundred pounds, the realm of England is elsewhere being lost andwon.”

“It is well said,” replied Sir Daniel.“Selden, fall me out with six cross-bowmen; hunt me herdown. I care not what it cost; but, at my returning, let mefind her at the Moat House. Be it upon your head. Andnow, sir messenger, we march.”

And the troop broke into a good trot, and Selden and his sixmen were left behind upon the street of Kettley, with the staringvillagers.

CHAPTER II—IN THE FEN

It was near six in the May morning when Dick began to ridedown into the fen upon his homeward way. The sky was allblue; the jolly wind blew loud and steady; the windmill-sailswere spinning; and the willows over all the fen rippling andwhitening like a field of corn. He had been all night inthe saddle, but his heart was good and his body sound, and herode right merrily.

The path went down and down into the marsh, till he lost sightof all the neighbouring landmarks but Kettley windmill on theknoll behind him, and the extreme top of Tunstall Forest farbefore. On either hand there were great fields of blowingreeds and willows, pools of water shaking in the wind, andtreacherous bogs, as green as emerald, to tempt and to betray thetraveller. The path lay almost straight through themorass. It was already very ancient; its foundation hadbeen laid by Roman soldiery; in the lapse of ages much of it hadsunk, and every here and there, for a few hundred yards, it laysubmerged below the stagnant waters of the fen.

About a mile from Kettley, Dick came to one such break in theplain line of causeway, where the reeds and willows grewdispersedly like little islands and confused the eye. Thegap, besides, was more than usually long; it was a place whereany stranger might come readily to mischief; and Dick bethoughthim, with something like a pang, of the lad whom he had soimperfectly directed. As for himself, one look backward towhere the windmill sails were turning black against the blue ofheaven—one look forward to the high ground of TunstallForest, and he was sufficiently directed and held straight on,the water washing to his horse’s knees, as safe as on ahighway.

Half-way across, and when he had already sighted the pathrising high and dry upon the farther side, he was aware of agreat splashing on his right, and saw a grey horse, sunk to itsbelly in the mud, and still spasmodically struggling.Instantly, as though it had divined the neighbourhood of help,the poor beast began to neigh most piercingly. It rolled,meanwhile, a blood-shot eye, insane with terror; and as itsprawled wallowing in the quag, clouds of stinging insects roseand buzzed about it in the air.

“Alack!” thought Dick, “can the poor ladhave perished? There is his horse, for certain—abrave grey! Nay, comrade, if thou criest to me sopiteously, I will do all man can to help thee. Shalt notlie there to drown by inches!”

And he made ready his crossbow, and put a quarrel through thecreature’s head.

Dick rode on after this act of rugged mercy, somewhat soberedin spirit, and looking closely about him for any sign of his lesshappy predecessor in the way. “I would I had dared totell him further,” he thought; “for I fear he hasmiscarried in the slough.”

And just as he was so thinking, a voice cried upon his namefrom the causeway side, and, looking over his shoulder, he sawthe lad’s face peering from a clump of reeds.

“Are ye there?” he said, reining in.“Ye lay so close among the reeds that I had passed youby. I saw your horse bemired, and put him from his agony;which, by my sooth! an ye had been a more merciful rider, ye haddone yourself. But come forth out of your hiding.Here be none to trouble you.”

“Nay, good boy, I have no arms, nor skill to use them ifI had,” replied the other, stepping forth upon thepathway.

“Why call me ‘boy’?” cried Dick.“Y’ are not, I trow, the elder of ustwain.”

“Good Master Shelton,” said the other,“prithee forgive me. I have none the least intentionto offend. Rather I would in every way beseech yourgentleness and favour, for I am now worse bested than ever,having lost my way, my cloak, and my poor horse. To have ariding-rod and spurs, and never a horse to sit upon! Andbefore all,” he added, looking ruefully upon hisclothes—“before all, to be so sorrilybesmirched!”

“Tut!” cried Dick. “Would ye mind aducking? Blood of wound or dust oftravel—that’s a man’s adornment.”

“Nay, then, I like him better plain,” observed thelad. “But, prithee, how shall I do? Prithee,good Master Richard, help me with your good counsel. If Icome not safe to Holywood, I am undone.”

“Nay,” said Dick, dismounting, “I will givemore than counsel. Take my horse, and I will run awhile,and when I am weary we shall change again, that so, riding andrunning, both may go the speedier.”

So the change was made, and they went forward as briskly asthey durst on the uneven causeway, Dick with his hand upon theother’s knee.

“How call ye your name?” asked Dick.

“Call me John Matcham,” replied the lad.

“And what make ye to Holywood?” Dickcontinued.

“I seek sanctuary from a man that would oppressme,” was the answer. “The good Abbot ofHolywood is a strong pillar to the weak.”

“And how came ye with Sir Daniel, Master Matcham?”pursued Dick.

“Nay,” cried the other, “by the abuse offorce! He hath taken me by violence from my own place;dressed me in these weeds; ridden with me till my heart was sick;gibed me till I could ’a’ wept; and when certain ofmy friends pursued, thinking to have me back, claps me in therear to stand their shot! I was even grazed in the rightfoot, and walk but lamely. Nay, there shall come a daybetween us; he shall smart for all!”

“Would ye shoot at the moon with a hand-gun?” saidDick. “’Tis a valiant knight, and hath a handof iron. An he guessed I had made or meddled with yourflight, it would go sore with me.”

“Ay, poor boy,” returned the other,“y’ are his ward, I know it. By the same token,so am I, or so he saith; or else he hath bought mymarriage—I wot not rightly which; but it is some handle tooppress me by.”

“Boy again!” said Dick.

“Nay, then, shall I call you girl, good Richard?”asked Matcham.

“Never a girl for me,” returned Dick.“I do abjure the crew of them!”

“Ye speak boyishly,” said the other.“Ye think more of them than ye pretend.”

“Not I,” said Dick, stoutly. “Theycome not in my mind. A plague of them, say I! Give meto hunt and to fight and to feast, and to live with jollyforesters. I never heard of a maid yet that was for anyservice, save one only; and she, poor shrew, was burned for awitch and the wearing of men’s clothes in spite ofnature.”

Master Matcham crossed himself with fervour, and appeared topray.

“What make ye?” Dick inquired.

“I pray for her spirit,” answered the other, witha somewhat troubled voice.

“For a witch’s spirit?” Dick cried.“But pray for her, an ye list; she was the best wench inEurope, was this Joan of Arc. Old Appleyard the archer ranfrom her, he said, as if she had been Mahoun. Nay, she wasa brave wench.”

“Well, but, good Master Richard,” resumed Matcham,“an ye like maids so little, y’ are no true naturalman; for God made them twain by intention, and brought true loveinto the world, to be man’s hope and woman’scomfort.”

“Faugh!” said Dick. “Y’ are amilk-sopping baby, so to harp on women. An ye think I be notrue man, get down upon the path, and whether at fists,back-sword, or bow and arrow, I will prove my manhood on yourbody.”

“Nay, I am no fighter,” said Matcham,eagerly. “I mean no tittle of offence. I meantbut pleasantry. And if I talk of women, it is because Iheard ye were to marry.”

“I to marry!” Dick exclaimed. “Well,it is the first I hear of it. And with whom was I tomarry?”

“One Joan Sedley,” replied Matcham,colouring. “It was Sir Daniel’s doing; he hathmoney to gain upon both sides; and, indeed, I have heard the poorwench bemoaning herself pitifully of the match. It seemsshe is of your mind, or else distasted to thebridegroom.”

“Well! marriage is like death, it comes to all,”said Dick, with resignation. “And she bemoanedherself? I pray ye now, see there how shuttle-witted arethese girls: to bemoan herself before that she had seen me!Do I bemoan myself? Not I. An I be to marry, I willmarry dry-eyed! But if ye know her, prithee, of what favouris she? fair or foul? And is she shrewish orpleasant?”

“Nay, what matters it?” said Matcham.“An y’ are to marry, ye can but marry. Whatmatters foul or fair? These be but toys. Y’ areno milksop, Master Richard; ye will wed with dry eyes,anyhow.”

“It is well said,” replied Shelton.“Little I reck.”

“Your lady wife is like to have a pleasant lord,”said Matcham.

“She shall have the lord Heaven made her for,”returned Dick. “It trow there be worse as well asbetter.”

“Ah, the poor wench!” cried the other.

“And why so poor?” asked Dick.

“To wed a man of wood,” replied hiscompanion. “O me, for a wooden husband!”

“I think I be a man of wood, indeed,” said Dick,“to trudge afoot the while you ride my horse; but it isgood wood, I trow.”

“Good Dick, forgive me,” cried the other.“Nay, y’ are the best heart in England; I butlaughed. Forgive me now, sweet Dick.”

“Nay, no fool words,” returned Dick, a littleembarrassed by his companion’s warmth. “No harmis done. I am not touchy, praise the saints.”

And at that moment the wind, which was blowing straight behindthem as they went, brought them the rough flourish of SirDaniel’s trumpeter.

“Hark!” said Dick, “the tucketsoundeth.”

“Ay,” said Matcham, “they have found myflight, and now I am unhorsed!” and he became pale asdeath.

“Nay, what cheer!” returned Dick.“Y’ have a long start, and we are near theferry. And it is I, methinks, that am unhorsed.”

“Alack, I shall be taken!” cried thefugitive. “Dick, kind Dick, beseech ye help me but alittle!”

“Why, now, what aileth thee?” said Dick.“Methinks I help you very patently. But my heart issorry for so spiritless a fellow! And see ye here, JohnMatcham—sith John Matcham is your name—I, RichardShelton, tide what betideth, come what may, will see you safe inHolywood. The saints so do to me again if I defaultyou. Come, pick me up a good heart, Sir White-face.The way betters here; spur me the horse. Go faster!faster! Nay, mind not for me; I can run like adeer.”

So, with the horse trotting hard, and Dick running easilyalongside, they crossed the remainder of the fen, and came outupon the banks of the river by the ferryman’s hut.

CHAPTER III—THE FEN FERRY

The river Till was a wide, sluggish, clayey water, oozing outof fens, and in this part of its course it strained among somescore of willow-covered, marshy islets.

It was a dingy stream; but upon this bright, spirited morningeverything was become beautiful. The wind and the martensbroke it up into innumerable dimples; and the reflection of thesky was scattered over all the surface in crumbs of smilingblue.

A creek ran up to meet the path, and close under the bank theferryman’s hut lay snugly. It was of wattle and clay,and the grass grew green upon the roof.

Dick went to the door and opened it. Within, upon a foulold russet cloak, the ferryman lay stretched and shivering; agreat hulk of a man, but lean and shaken by the countryfever.

“Hey, Master Shelton,” he said, “be ye forthe ferry? Ill times, ill times! Look toyourself. There is a fellowship abroad. Ye werebetter turn round on your two heels and try thebridge.”

“Nay; time’s in the saddle,” answeredDick. “Time will ride, Hugh Ferryman. I am hotin haste.”

“A wilful man!” returned the ferryman,rising. “An ye win safe to the Moat House, y’have done lucky; but I say no more.” And thencatching sight of Matcham, “Who be this?” he asked,as he paused, blinking, on the threshold of his cabin.

“It is my kinsman, Master Matcham,” answeredDick.

“Give ye good day, good ferryman,” said Matcham,who had dismounted, and now came forward, leading thehorse. “Launch me your boat, I prithee; we are sorein haste.”

The gaunt ferryman continued staring.

“By the mass!” he cried at length, and laughedwith open throat.

Matcham coloured to his neck and winced; and Dick, with anangry countenance, put his hand on the lout’s shoulder.

“How now, churl!” he cried. “Fall tothy business, and leave mocking thy betters.”

Hugh Ferryman grumblingly undid his boat, and shoved it alittle forth into the deep water. Then Dick led in thehorse, and Matcham followed.

“Ye be mortal small made, master,” said Hugh, witha wide grin; “something o’ the wrong model,belike. Nay, Master Shelton, I am for you,” he added,getting to his oars. “A cat may look at a king.I did but take a shot of the eye at Master Matcham.”

“Sirrah, no more words,” said Dick.“Bend me your back.”

They were by that time at the mouth of the creek, and the viewopened up and down the river. Everywhere it was enclosedwith islands. Clay banks were falling in, willows nodding,reeds waving, martens dipping and piping. There was no signof man in the labyrinth of waters.

“My master,” said the ferryman, keeping the boatsteady with one oar, “I have a shrew guess thatJohn-a-Fenne is on the island. He bears me a black grudgeto all Sir Daniel’s. How if I turned me up stream andlanded you an arrow-flight above the path? Ye were best notmeddle with John Fenne.”

“How, then? is he of this company?” askedDick.

“Nay, mum is the word,” said Hugh.“But I would go up water, Dick. How if Master Matchamcame by an arrow?” and he laughed again.

“Be it so, Hugh,” answered Dick.

“Look ye, then,” pursued Hugh. “Sithit shall so be, unsling me your cross-bow—so: now make itready—good; place me a quarrel. Ay, keep it so, andlook upon me grimly.”

“What meaneth this?” asked Dick.

“Why, my master, if I steal you across, it must be underforce or fear,” replied the ferryman; “for else, ifJohn Fenne got wind of it, he were like to prove my mostdistressful neighbour.”

“Do these churls ride so roughly?” Dickinquired. “Do they command Sir Daniel’s ownferry?”

“Nay,” whispered the ferryman, winking.“Mark me! Sir Daniel shall down. His time isout. He shall down. Mum!” And he bentover his oars.

They pulled a long way up the river, turned the tail of anisland, and came softly down a narrow channel next the oppositebank. Then Hugh held water in midstream.

“I must land you here among the willows,” hesaid.

“Here is no path but willow swamps and quagmires,”answered Dick.

“Master Shelton,” replied Hugh, “I dare nottake ye nearer down, for your own sake now. He watcheth methe ferry, lying on his bow. All that go by and owe SirDaniel goodwill, he shooteth down like rabbits. I heard himswear it by the rood. An I had not known you of olddays—ay, and from so high upward—I would’a’ let you go on; but for old days’remembrance, and because ye had this toy with you that’snot fit for wounds or warfare, I did risk my two poor ears tohave you over whole. Content you; I can no more, on mysalvation!”

Hugh was still speaking, lying on his oars, when there came agreat shout from among the willows on the island, and soundsfollowed as of a strong man breasting roughly through thewood.

“A murrain!” cried Hugh. “He was onthe upper island all the while!” He pulled straightfor shore. “Threat me with your bow, good Dick;threat me with it plain,” he added. “I havetried to save your skins, save you mine!”

The boat ran into a tough thicket of willows with acrash. Matcham, pale, but steady and alert, at a sign fromDick, ran along the thwarts and leaped ashore; Dick, taking thehorse by the bridle, sought to follow, but what with theanimal’s bulk, and what with the closeness of the thicket,both stuck fast. The horse neighed and trampled; and theboat, which was swinging in an eddy, came on and off and pitchedwith violence.

“It may not be, Hugh; here is no landing,” criedDick; but he still struggled valiantly with the obstinate thicketand the startled animal.

A tall man appeared upon the shore of the island, a long-bowin his hand. Dick saw him for an instant, with the cornerof his eye, bending the bow with a great effort, his face crimsonwith hurry.

“Who goes?” he shouted. “Hugh, whogoes?”

“’Tis Master Shelton, John,” replied theferryman.

“Stand, Dick Shelton!” bawled the man upon theisland. “Ye shall have no hurt, upon the rood!Stand! Back out, Hugh Ferryman.”

Dick cried a taunting answer.

“Nay, then, ye shall go afoot,” returned the man;and he let drive an arrow.

The horse, struck by the shaft, lashed out in agony andterror; the boat capsized, and the next moment all werestruggling in the eddies of the river.

When Dick came up, he was within a yard of the bank; andbefore his eyes were clear, his hand had closed on something firmand strong that instantly began to drag him forward. It wasthe riding-rod, that Matcham, crawling forth upon an overhangingwillow, had opportunely thrust into his grasp.

“By the mass!” cried Dick, as he was helpedashore, “that makes a life I owe you. I swim like acannon-ball.” And he turned instantly towards theisland.

Midway over, Hugh Ferryman was swimming with his upturnedboat, while John-a-Fenne, furious at the ill-fortune of his shot,bawled to him to hurry.

“Come, Jack,” said Shelton, “run forit! Ere Hugh can hale his barge across, or the pair of’em can get it righted, we may be out of cry.”

And adding example to his words, he began to run, dodgingamong the willows, and in marshy places leaping from tussock totussock. He had no time to look for his direction; all hecould do was to turn his back upon the river, and put all hisheart to running.

Presently, however, the ground began to rise, which showed himhe was still in the right way, and soon after they came forthupon a slope of solid turf, where elms began to mingle with thewillows.

But here Matcham, who had been dragging far into the rear,threw himself fairly down.

“Leave me, Dick!” he cried, pantingly; “Ican no more.”

Dick turned, and came back to where his companion lay.

“Nay, Jack, leave thee!” he cried.“That were a knave’s trick, to be sure, when yerisked a shot and a ducking, ay, and a drowning too, to save mylife. Drowning, in sooth; for why I did not pull you inalong with me, the saints alone can tell!”

“Nay,” said Matcham, “I would’a’ saved us both, good Dick, for I canswim.”

“Can ye so?” cried Dick, with open eyes. Itwas the one manly accomplishment of which he was himselfincapable. In the order of the things that he admired, nextto having killed a man in single fight came swimming.“Well,” he said, “here is a lesson to despiseno man. I promised to care for you as far as Holywood, and,by the rood, Jack, y’ are more capable to care forme.”

“Well, Dick, we’re friends now,” saidMatcham.

“Nay, I never was unfriends,” answered Dick.“Y’ are a brave lad in your way, albeit something ofa milksop, too. I never met your like before thisday. But, prithee, fetch back your breath, and let uson. Here is no place for chatter.”

“My foot hurts shrewdly,” said Matcham.

“Nay, I had forgot your foot,” returnedDick. “Well, we must go the gentlier. I would Iknew rightly where we were. I have clean lost the path; yetthat may be for the better, too. An they watch the ferry,they watch the path, belike, as well. I would Sir Danielwere back with two score men; he would sweep me these rascals asthe wind sweeps leaves. Come, Jack, lean ye on my shoulder,ye poor shrew. Nay, y’ are not tall enough.What age are ye, for a wager?—twelve?”

“Nay, I am sixteen,” said Matcham.

“Y’ are poorly grown to height, then,”answered Dick. “But take my hand. We shall gosoftly, never fear. I owe you a life; I am a good repayer,Jack, of good or evil.”

They began to go forward up the slope.

“We must hit the road, early or late,” continuedDick; “and then for a fresh start. By the mass! buty’ ’ave a rickety hand, Jack. If I had a handlike that, I would think shame. I tell you,” he wenton, with a sudden chuckle, “I swear by the mass I believeHugh Ferryman took you for a maid.”

“Nay, never!” cried the other, colouring high.

“A’ did, though, for a wager!” Dickexclaimed. “Small blame to him. Ye look likermaid than man; and I tell you more—y’ are astrange-looking rogue for a boy; but for a hussy, Jack, ye wouldbe right fair—ye would. Ye would be well favoured fora wench.”

“Well,” said Matcham, “ye know right wellthat I am none.”

“Nay, I know that; I do but jest,” saidDick. “Ye’ll be a man before your mother,Jack. What cheer, my bully! Ye shall strike shrewdstrokes. Now, which, I marvel, of you or me, shall be firstknighted, Jack? for knighted I shall be, or die for’t. ‘Sir Richard Shelton, Knight’: itsoundeth bravely. But ‘Sir John Matcham’soundeth not amiss.”

“Prithee, Dick, stop till I drink,” said theother, pausing where a little clear spring welled out of theslope into a gravelled basin no bigger than a pocket.“And O, Dick, if I might come by anything to eat!—myvery heart aches with hunger.”

“Why, fool, did ye not eat at Kettley?” askedDick.

“I had made a vow—it was a sin I had been ledinto,” stammered Matcham; “but now, if it were butdry bread, I would eat it greedily.”

“Sit ye, then, and eat,” said Dick, “whilethat I scout a little forward for the road.” And hetook a wallet from his girdle, wherein were bread and pieces ofdry bacon, and, while Matcham fell heartily to, struck fartherforth among the trees.

A little beyond there was a dip in the ground, where astreamlet soaked among dead leaves; and beyond that, again, thetrees were better grown and stood wider, and oak and beech beganto take the place of willow and elm. The continued tossingand pouring of the wind among the leaves sufficiently concealedthe sounds of his footsteps on the mast; it was for the ear whata moonless night is to the eye; but for all that Dick wentcautiously, slipping from one big trunk to another, and lookingsharply about him as he went. Suddenly a doe passed like ashadow through the underwood in front of him, and he paused,disgusted at the chance. This part of the wood had beencertainly deserted, but now that the poor deer had run, she waslike a messenger he should have sent before him to announce hiscoming; and instead of pushing farther, he turned him to thenearest well-grown tree, and rapidly began to climb.

Luck had served him well. The oak on which he hadmounted was one of the tallest in that quarter of the wood, andeasily out-topped its neighbours by a fathom and a half; and whenDick had clambered into the topmost fork and clung there,swinging dizzily in the great wind, he saw behind him the wholefenny plain as far as Kettley, and the Till wandering among woodyislets, and in front of him, the white line of high-road windingthrough the forest. The boat had been righted—it waseven now midway on the ferry. Beyond that there was no signof man, nor aught moving but the wind. He was about todescend, when, taking a last view, his eye lit upon a string ofmoving points about the middle of the fen. Plainly a smalltroop was threading the causeway, and that at a good pace; andthis gave him some concern as he shinned vigorously down thetrunk and returned across the wood for his companion.

CHAPTER IV—A GREENWOOD COMPANY

Matcham was well rested and revived; and the two lads, wingedby what Dick had seen, hurried through the remainder of theoutwood, crossed the road in safety, and began to mount into thehigh ground of Tunstall Forest. The trees grew more andmore in groves, with heathy places in between, sandy, gorsy, anddotted with old yews. The ground became more and moreuneven, full of pits and hillocks. And with every step ofthe ascent the wind still blew the shriller, and the trees bentbefore the gusts like fishing-rods.

They had just entered one of the clearings, when Dick suddenlyclapped down upon his face among the brambles, and began to crawlslowly backward towards the shelter of the grove. Matcham,in great bewilderment, for he could see no reason for thisflight, still imitated his companion’s course; and it wasnot until they had gained the harbour of a thicket that he turnedand begged him to explain.

For all reply, Dick pointed with his finger.

At the far end of the clearing, a fir grew high above theneighbouring wood, and planted its black shock of foliage clearagainst the sky. For about fifty feet above the ground thetrunk grew straight and solid like a column. At that level,it split into two massive boughs; and in the fork, like amast-headed seaman, there stood a man in a green tabard, spyingfar and wide. The sun glistened upon his hair; with onehand he shaded his eyes to look abroad, and he kept slowlyrolling his head from side to side, with the regularity of amachine.

The lads exchanged glances.

“Let us try to the left,” said Dick.“We had near fallen foully, Jack.”

Ten minutes afterwards they struck into a beaten path.

“Here is a piece of forest that I know not,” Dickremarked. “Where goeth me this track?”

“Let us even try,” said Matcham.

A few yards further, the path came to the top of a ridge andbegan to go down abruptly into a cup-shaped hollow. At thefoot, out of a thick wood of flowering hawthorn, two or threeroofless gables, blackened as if by fire, and a single tallchimney marked the ruins of a house.

“What may this be?” whispered Matcham.

“Nay, by the mass, I know not,” answeredDick. “I am all at sea. Let us gowarily.”

With beating hearts, they descended through thehawthorns. Here and there, they passed signs of recentcultivation; fruit trees and pot herbs ran wild among thethicket; a sun-dial had fallen in the grass; it seemed they weretreading what once had been a garden. Yet a little fartherand they came forth before the ruins of the house.

It had been a pleasant mansion and a strong. A dry ditchwas dug deep about it; but it was now choked with masonry, andbridged by a fallen rafter. The two farther walls stillstood, the sun shining through their empty windows; but theremainder of the building had collapsed, and now lay in a greatcairn of ruin, grimed with fire. Already in the interior afew plants were springing green among the chinks.

“Now I bethink me,” whispered Dick, “thismust be Grimstone. It was a hold of one Simon Malmesbury;Sir Daniel was his bane! ’Twas Bennet Hatch thatburned it, now five years agone. In sooth, ’twaspity, for it was a fair house.”

Down in the hollow, where no wind blew, it was both warm andstill; and Matcham, laying one hand upon Dick’s arm, heldup a warning finger.

“Hist!” he said.

Then came a strange sound, breaking on the quiet. It wastwice repeated ere they recognised its nature. It was thesound of a big man clearing his throat; and just then a hoarse,untuneful voice broke into singing.

“Then up and spake the master, the king ofthe outlaws:
‘What make ye here, my merry men, among the greenwoodshaws?’
And Gamelyn made answer—he looked never adown:
‘O, they must need to walk in wood that may not walk intown!’”

The singer paused, a faint clink of iron followed, and thensilence.

The two lads stood looking at each other. Whoever hemight be, their invisible neighbour was just beyond theruin. And suddenly the colour came into Matcham’sface, and next moment he had crossed the fallen rafter, and wasclimbing cautiously on the huge pile of lumber that filled theinterior of the roofless house. Dick would have withheldhim, had he been in time; as it was, he was fain to follow.

Right in the corner of the ruin, two rafters had fallencrosswise, and protected a clear space no larger than a pew inchurch. Into this the lads silently loweredthemselves. There they were perfectly concealed, andthrough an arrow-loophole commanded a view upon the fartherside.

Peering through this, they were struck stiff with terror attheir predicament. To retreat was impossible; they scarcedared to breathe. Upon the very margin of the ditch, notthirty feet from where they crouched, an iron caldron bubbled andsteamed above a glowing fire; and close by, in an attitude oflistening, as though he had caught some sound of their clamberingamong the ruins, a tall, red-faced, battered-looking man stoodpoised, an iron spoon in his right hand, a horn and a formidabledagger at his belt. Plainly this was the singer; plainly hehad been stirring the caldron, when some incautious step amongthe lumber had fallen upon his ear. A little further off,another man lay slumbering, rolled in a brown cloak, with abutterfly hovering above his face. All this was in aclearing white with daisies; and at the extreme verge, a bow, asheaf of arrows, and part of a deer’s carcase, hung upon aflowering hawthorn.

Presently the fellow relaxed from his attitude of attention,raised the spoon to his mouth, tasted its contents, nodded, andthen fell again to stirring and singing.

“‘O, they must need to walk in wood that may notwalk in town,’” he croaked, taking up his song wherehe had left it.

“O, sir, we walk not here at all an evilthing to do.
But if we meet with the good king’s deer to shoot a shaftinto.”

Still as he sang, he took from time to time, another spoonfulof the broth, blew upon it, and tasted it, with all the airs ofan experienced cook. At length, apparently, he judged themess was ready; for taking the horn from his girdle, he blewthree modulated calls.

The other fellow awoke, rolled over, brushed away thebutterfly, and looked about him.

“How now, brother?” he said.“Dinner?”

“Ay, sot,” replied the cook, “dinner it is,and a dry dinner, too, with neither ale nor bread. Butthere is little pleasure in the greenwood now; time was when agood fellow could live here like a mitred abbot, set aside therain and the white frosts; he had his heart’s desire bothof ale and wine. But now are men’s spirits dead; andthis John Amend-All, save us and guard us! but a stuffed booby toscare crows withal.”

“Nay,” returned the other, “y’ are tooset on meat and drinking, Lawless. Bide ye a bit; the goodtime cometh.”

“Look ye,” returned the cook, “I have evenwaited for this good time sith that I was so high. I havebeen a grey friar; I have been a king’s archer; I have beena shipman, and sailed the salt seas; and I have been in greenwoodbefore this, forsooth! and shot the king’s deer. Whatcometh of it? Naught! I were better to have bided inthe cloister. John Abbot availeth more than JohnAmend-All. By ’r Lady! here they come.”

One after another, tall, likely fellows began to stroll intothe lawn. Each as he came produced a knife and a horn cup,helped himself from the caldron, and sat down upon the grass toeat. They were very variously equipped and armed; some inrusty smocks, and with nothing but a knife and an old bow; othersin the height of forest gallantry, all in Lincoln green, bothhood and jerkin, with dainty peacock arrows in their belts, ahorn upon a baldrick, and a sword and dagger at theirsides. They came in the silence of hunger, and scarcegrowled a salutation, but fell instantly to meat.

There were, perhaps, a score of them already gathered, when asound of suppressed cheering arose close by among the hawthorns,and immediately after five or six woodmen carrying a stretcherdebauched upon the lawn. A tall, lusty fellow, somewhatgrizzled, and as brown as a smoked ham, walked before them withan air of some authority, his bow at his back, a brightboar-spear in his hand.

“Lads!” he cried, “good fellows all, and myright merry friends, y’ have sung this while on a drywhistle and lived at little ease. But what said Iever? Abide Fortune constantly; she turneth, turnethswift. And lo! here is her little firstling—even thatgood creature, ale!”

There was a murmur of applause as the bearers set down thestretcher and displayed a goodly cask.

“And now haste ye, boys,” the man continued.“There is work toward. A handful of archers are butnow come to the ferry; murrey and blue is their wear; they areour butts—they shall all taste arrows—no man of themshall struggle through this wood. For, lads, we are heresome fifty strong, each man of us most foully wronged; for somethey have lost lands, and some friends; and some they have beenoutlawed—all oppressed! Who, then, hath done thisevil? Sir Daniel, by the rood! Shall he then profit?shall he sit snug in our houses? shall he till our fields? shallhe suck the bone he robbed us of? I trow not. Hegetteth him strength at law; he gaineth cases; nay, there is onecase he shall not gain—I have a writ here at my belt that,please the saints, shall conquer him.”

Lawless the cook was by this time already at his second hornof ale. He raised it, as if to pledge the speaker.

“Master Ellis,” he said, “y’ are forvengeance—well it becometh you!—but your poor brothero’ the greenwood, that had never lands to lose nor friendsto think upon, looketh rather, for his poor part, to the profitof the thing. He had liever a gold noble and a pottle ofcanary wine than all the vengeances in purgatory.”

“Lawless,” replied the other, “to reach theMoat House, Sir Daniel must pass the forest. We shall makethat passage dearer, pardy, than any battle. Then, when hehath got to earth with such ragged handful as escapethus—all his great friends fallen and fled away, and none togive him aid—we shall beleaguer that old fox about, andgreat shall be the fall of him. ’Tis a fat buck; hewill make a dinner for us all.”

“Ay,” returned Lawless, “I have eaten manyof these dinners beforehand; but the cooking of them is hot work,good Master Ellis. And meanwhile what do we? We makeblack arrows, we write rhymes, and we drink fair cold water, thatdiscomfortable drink.”

“Y’ are untrue, Will Lawless. Ye still smellof the Grey Friars’ buttery; greed is your undoing,”answered Ellis. “We took twenty pounds fromAppleyard. We took seven marks from the messenger lastnight. A day ago we had fifty from the merchant.”

“And to-day,” said one of the men, “Istopped a fat pardoner riding apace for Holywood. Here ishis purse.”

Ellis counted the contents.

“Five score shillings!” he grumbled.“Fool, he had more in his sandal, or stitched into histippet. Y’ are but a child, Tom Cuckow; ye have lostthe fish.”

But, for all that, Ellis pocketed the purse withnonchalance. He stood leaning on his boar-spear, and lookedround upon the rest. They, in various attitudes, tookgreedily of the venison pottage, and liberally washed it downwith ale. This was a good day; they were in luck; butbusiness pressed, and they were speedy in their eating. Thefirst-comers had by this time even despatched their dinner.Some lay down upon the grass and fell instantly asleep, likeboa-constrictors; others talked together, or overhauled theirweapons: and one, whose humour was particularly gay, holdingforth an ale-horn, began to sing:

“Here is no law in good green shaw,
  Here is no lack of meat;
’Tis merry and quiet, with deer for our diet,
  In summer, when all is sweet.

Come winter again, with wind and rain—
  Come winter, with snow and sleet,
Get home to your places, with hoods on your faces,
  And sit by the fire and eat.”

All this while the two lads had listened and lain close; onlyRichard had unslung his cross-bow, and held ready in one hand thewindac, or grappling-iron that he used to bend it.Otherwise they had not dared to stir; and this scene of forestlife had gone on before their eyes like a scene upon atheatre. But now there came a strange interruption.The tall chimney which over-topped the remainder of the ruinsrose right above their hiding-place. There came a whistlein the air, and then a sounding smack, and the fragments of abroken arrow fell about their ears. Some one from the upperquarters of the wood, perhaps the very sentinel they saw postedin the fir, had shot an arrow at the chimney-top.

Matcham could not restrain a little cry, which he instantlystifled, and even Dick started with surprise, and dropped thewindac from his fingers. But to the fellows on the lawn,this shaft was an expected signal. They were all afoottogether, tightening their belts, testing their bow-strings,loosening sword and dagger in the sheath. Ellis held up hishand; his face had suddenly assumed a look of savage energy; thewhite of his eyes shone in his sun-brown face.

“Lads,” he said, “ye know your places.Let not one man’s soul escape you. Appleyard was awhet before a meal; but now we go to table. I have threemen whom I will bitterly avenge—Harry Shelton, SimonMalmesbury, and”—striking his broadbosom—“and Ellis Duckworth, by the mass!”

Another man came, red with hurry, through the thorns.

“’Tis not Sir Daniel!” he panted.“They are but seven. Is the arrow gone?”

“It struck but now,” replied Ellis.

“A murrain!” cried the messenger.“Methought I heard it whistle. And I godinnerless!”

In the space of a minute, some running, some walking sharply,according as their stations were nearer or farther away, the menof the Black Arrow had all disappeared from the neighbourhood ofthe ruined house; and the caldron, and the fire, which was nowburning low, and the dead deer’s carcase on the hawthorn,remained alone to testify they had been there.

CHAPTER V—“BLOODY AS THE HUNTER”

The lads lay quiet till the last footstep had melted on thewind. Then they arose, and with many an ache, for they wereweary with constraint, clambered through the ruins, and recrossedthe ditch upon the rafter. Matcham had picked up the windacand went first, Dick following stiffly, with his cross-bow on hisarm.

“And now,” said Matcham, “forth toHolywood.”

“To Holywood!” cried Dick, “when goodfellows stand shot? Not I! I would see you hangedfirst, Jack!”

“Ye would leave me, would ye?” Matcham asked.

“Ay, by my sooth!” returned Dick. “AnI be not in time to warn these lads, I will go die withthem. What! would ye have me leave my own men that I havelived among. I trow not! Give me mywindac.”

But there was nothing further from Matcham’s mind.

“Dick,” he said, “ye sware before the saintsthat ye would see me safe to Holywood. Would ye beforsworn? Would you desert me—a perjurer?”

“Nay, I sware for the best,” returned Dick.“I meant it too; but now! But look ye, Jack, turnagain with me. Let me but warn these men, and, if needsmust, stand shot with them; then shall all be clear, and I willon again to Holywood and purge mine oath.”

“Ye but deride me,” answered Matcham.“These men ye go to succour are the I same that hunt me tomy ruin.”

Dick scratched his head.

“I cannot help it, Jack,” he said.“Here is no remedy. What would ye? Ye run nogreat peril, man; and these are in the way of death.Death!” he added. “Think of it! What amurrain do ye keep me here for? Give me the windac.Saint George! shall they all die?”

“Richard Shelton,” said Matcham, looking himsquarely in the face, “would ye, then, join party with SirDaniel? Have ye not ears? Heard ye not this Ellis,what he said? or have ye no heart for your own kindly blood andthe father that men slew? ‘Harry Shelton,’ hesaid; and Sir Harry Shelton was your father, as the sun shines inheaven.”

“What would ye?” Dick cried again.“Would ye have me credit thieves?”

“Nay, I have heard it before now,” returnedMatcham. “The fame goeth currently, it was Sir Danielslew him. He slew him under oath; in his own house he shedthe innocent blood. Heaven wearies for the avengingon’t; and you—the man’s son—ye go aboutto comfort and defend the murderer!”

“Jack,” cried the lad “I know not. Itmay be; what know I? But, see here: This man hath bred meup and fostered me, and his men I have hunted with and playedamong; and to leave them in the hour of peril—O, man, if Idid that, I were stark dead to honour! Nay, Jack, ye wouldnot ask it; ye would not wish me to be base.”

“But your father, Dick?” said Matcham, somewhatwavering. “Your father? and your oath to me? Yetook the saints to witness.”

“My father?” cried Shelton. “Nay, hewould have me go! If Sir Daniel slew him, when the hourcomes this hand shall slay Sir Daniel; but neither him nor hiswill I desert in peril. And for mine oath, good Jack, yeshall absolve me of it here. For the lives’ sake ofmany men that hurt you not, and for mine honour, ye shall set mefree.”

“I, Dick? Never!” returned Matcham.“An ye leave me, y’ are forsworn, and so I shalldeclare it.”

“My blood heats,” said Dick. “Give methe windac! Give it me!”

“I’ll not,” said Matcham.“I’ll save you in your teeth.”

“Not?” cried Dick. “I’ll makeyou!”

“Try it,” said the other.

They stood, looking in each other’s eyes, each ready fora spring. Then Dick leaped; and though Matcham turnedinstantly and fled, in two bounds he was over-taken, the windacwas twisted from his grasp, he was thrown roughly to the ground,and Dick stood across him, flushed and menacing, with doubledfist. Matcham lay where he had fallen, with his face in thegrass, not thinking of resistance.

Dick bent his bow.

“I’ll teach you!” he cried, fiercely.“Oath or no oath, ye may go hang for me!”

And he turned and began to run. Matcham was on his feetat once, and began running after him.

“What d’ye want?” cried Dick,stopping. “What make ye after me? Standoff!”

“Will follow an I please,” said Matcham.“This wood is free to me.”

“Stand back, by ’r Lady!” returned Dick,raising his bow.

“Ah, y’ are a brave boy!” retortedMatcham. “Shoot!”

Dick lowered his weapon in some confusion.

“See here,” he said. “Y’ havedone me ill enough. Go, then. Go your way in fairwise; or, whether I will or not, I must even drive you toit.”

“Well,” said Matcham, doggedly, “y’are the stronger. Do your worst. I shall not leave tofollow thee, Dick, unless thou makest me,” he added.

Dick was almost beside himself. It went against hisheart to beat a creature so defenceless; and, for the life ofhim, he knew no other way to rid himself of this unwelcome and,as he began to think, perhaps untrue companion.

“Y’ are mad, I think,” he cried.“Fool-fellow, I am hasting to your foes; as fast as footcan carry me, go I thither.”

“I care not, Dick,” replied the lad.“If y’ are bound to die, Dick, I’ll dietoo. I would liever go with you to prison than to go freewithout you.”

“Well,” returned the other, “I may stand nolonger prating. Follow me, if ye must; but if ye play mefalse, it shall but little advance you, mark ye that. Shalthave a quarrel in thine inwards, boy.”

So saying, Dick took once more to his heels, keeping in themargin of the thicket and looking briskly about him as hewent. At a good pace he rattled out of the dell, and cameagain into the more open quarters of the wood. To the lefta little eminence appeared, spotted with golden gorse, andcrowned with a black tuft of firs.

“I shall see from there,” he thought, and struckfor it across a heathy clearing.

He had gone but a few yards, when Matcham touched him on thearm, and pointed. To the eastward of the summit there was adip, and, as it were, a valley passing to the other side; theheath was not yet out; all the ground was rusty, like anunscoured buckler, and dotted sparingly with yews; and there, onefollowing another, Dick saw half a score green jerkins mountingthe ascent, and marching at their head, conspicuous by hisboar-spear, Ellis Duckworth in person. One after anothergained the top, showed for a moment against the sky, and thendipped upon the further side, until the last was gone.

Dick looked at Matcham with a kindlier eye.

“So y’ are to be true to me, Jack?” heasked. “I thought ye were of the otherparty.”

Matcham began to sob.

“What cheer!” cried Dick. “Now thesaints behold us! would ye snivel for a word?”

“Ye hurt me,” sobbed Matcham. “Ye hurtme when ye threw me down. Y’ are a coward to abuseyour strength.”

“Nay, that is fool’s talk,” said Dick,roughly. “Y’ had no title to my windac, MasterJohn. I would ’a’ done right to have wellbasted you. If ye go with me, ye must obey me; and so,come.”

Matcham had half a thought to stay behind; but, seeing thatDick continued to scour full-tilt towards the eminence and not somuch as looked across his shoulder, he soon thought better ofthat, and began to run in turn. But the ground was verydifficult and steep; Dick had already a long start, and had, atany rate, the lighter heels, and he had long since come to thesummit, crawled forward through the firs, and ensconced himselfin a thick tuft of gorse, before Matcham, panting like a deer,rejoined him, and lay down in silence by his side.

Below, in the bottom of a considerable valley, the short cutfrom Tunstall hamlet wound downwards to the ferry. It waswell beaten, and the eye followed it easily from point topoint. Here it was bordered by open glades; there theforest closed upon it; every hundred yards it ran beside anambush. Far down the path, the sun shone on seven steelsalets, and from time to time, as the trees opened, Selden andhis men could be seen riding briskly, still bent upon SirDaniel’s mission. The wind had somewhat fallen, butstill tussled merrily with the trees, and, perhaps, had Appleyardbeen there, he would have drawn a warning from the troubledconduct of the birds.

“Now, mark,” Dick whispered. “They bealready well advanced into the wood; their safety lieth rather incontinuing forward. But see ye where this wide gladerunneth down before us, and in the midst of it, these two scoretrees make like an island? There were their safety.An they but come sound as far as that, I will make shift to warnthem. But my heart misgiveth me; they are but seven againstso many, and they but carry cross-bows. The long-bow, Jack,will have the uppermost ever.”

Meanwhile, Selden and his men still wound up the path,ignorant of their danger, and momently drew nearer hand.Once, indeed, they paused, drew into a group, and seemed to pointand listen. But it was something from far away across theplain that had arrested their attention—a hollow growl ofcannon that came, from time to time, upon the wind, and told ofthe great battle. It was worth a thought, to be sure; forif the voice of the big guns were thus become audible in TunstallForest, the fight must have rolled ever eastward, and the day, byconsequence, gone sore against Sir Daniel and the lords of thedark rose.

But presently the little troop began again to move forward,and came next to a very open, heathy portion of the way, wherebut a single tongue of forest ran down to join the road.They were but just abreast of this, when an arrow shoneflying. One of the men threw up his arms, his horse reared,and both fell and struggled together in a mass. Even fromwhere the boys lay they could hear the rumour of the men’svoices crying out; they could see the startled horses prancing,and, presently, as the troop began to recover from their firstsurprise, one fellow beginning to dismount. A second arrowfrom somewhat farther off glanced in a wide arch; a second riderbit the dust. The man who was dismounting lost hold uponthe rein, and his horse fled galloping, and dragged him by thefoot along the road, bumping from stone to stone, and battered bythe fleeing hoofs. The four who still kept the saddleinstantly broke and scattered; one wheeled and rode, shrieking,towards the ferry; the other three, with loose rein and flyingraiment, came galloping up the road from Tunstall. Fromevery clump they passed an arrow sped. Soon a horse fell,but the rider found his feet and continued to pursue his comradestill a second shot despatched him. Another man fell; thenanother horse; out of the whole troop there was but one fellowleft, and he on foot; only, in different directions, the noise ofthe galloping of three riderless horses was dying fast into thedistance.

All this time not one of the assailants had for a moment shownhimself. Here and there along the path, horse or manrolled, undespatched, in his agony; but no merciful enemy brokecover to put them from their pain.

The solitary survivor stood bewildered in the road beside hisfallen charger. He had come the length of that broad glade,with the island of timber, pointed out by Dick. He was not,perhaps, five hundred yards from where the boys lay hidden; andthey could see him plainly, looking to and fro in deadlyexpectation. But nothing came; and the man began to pluckup his courage, and suddenly unslung and bent his bow. Atthe same time, by something in his action, Dick recognisedSelden.

At this offer of resistance, from all about him in the covertof the woods there went up the sound of laughter. A scoreof men, at least, for this was the very thickest of the ambush,joined in this cruel and untimely mirth. Then an arrowglanced over Selden’s shoulder; and he leaped and ran alittle back. Another dart struck quivering at hisheel. He made for the cover. A third shaft leaped outright in his face, and fell short in front of him. And thenthe laughter was repeated loudly, rising and reechoing fromdifferent thickets.

It was plain that his assailants were but baiting him, as men,in those days, baited the poor bull, or as the cat still trifleswith the mouse. The skirmish was well over; farther downthe road, a fellow in green was already calmly gathering thearrows; and now, in the evil pleasure of their hearts, they gavethemselves the spectacle of their poor fellow-sinner in historture.

Selden began to understand; he uttered a roar of anger,shouldered his cross-bow, and sent a quarrel at a venture intothe wood. Chance favoured him, for a slight cryresponded. Then, throwing down his weapon, Selden began torun before him up the glade, and almost in a straight line forDick and Matcham.

The companions of the Black Arrow now began to shoot inearnest. But they were properly served; their chance hadpast; most of them had now to shoot against the sun; and Selden,as he ran, bounded from side to side to baffle and deceive theiraim. Best of all, by turning up the glade he had defeatedtheir preparations; there were no marksmen posted higher up thanthe one whom he had just killed or wounded; and the confusion ofthe foresters’ counsels soon became apparent. Awhistle sounded thrice, and then again twice. It wasrepeated from another quarter. The woods on either sidebecame full of the sound of people bursting through theunderwood; and a bewildered deer ran out into the open, stood fora second on three feet, with nose in air, and then plunged againinto the thicket.

Selden still ran, bounding; ever and again an arrow followedhim, but still would miss. It began to appear as if hemight escape. Dick had his bow armed, ready to support him;even Matcham, forgetful of his interest, took sides at heart forthe poor fugitive; and both lads glowed and trembled in theardour of their hearts.

He was within fifty yards of them, when an arrow struck himand he fell. He was up again, indeed, upon the instant; butnow he ran staggering, and, like a blind man, turned aside fromhis direction.

Dick leaped to his feet and waved to him.

“Here!” he cried. “This way! here ishelp! Nay, run, fellow—run!”

But just then a second arrow struck Selden in the shoulder,between the plates of his brigandine, and, piercing through hisjack, brought him, like a stone, to earth.

“O, the poor heart!” cried Matcham, with claspedhands.

And Dick stood petrified upon the hill, a mark forarchery.

Ten to one he had speedily been shot—for the foresterswere furious with themselves, and taken unawares by Dick’sappearance in the rear of their position—but instantly, outof a quarter of the wood surprisingly near to the two lads, astentorian voice arose, the voice of Ellis Duckworth.

“Hold!” it roared. “Shoot not!Take him alive! It is young Shelton—Harry’sson.”

And immediately after a shrill whistle sounded several times,and was again taken up and repeated farther off. Thewhistle, it appeared, was John Amend-All’s battle trumpet,by which he published his directions.

“Ah, foul fortune!” cried Dick. “Weare undone. Swiftly, Jack, come swiftly!”

And the pair turned and ran back through the open pine clumpthat covered the summit of the hill.

CHAPTER VI—TO THE DAY’S END

It was, indeed, high time for them to run. On every sidethe company of the Black Arrow was making for the hill.Some, being better runners, or having open ground to run upon,had far outstripped the others, and were already close upon thegoal; some, following valleys, had spread out to right and left,and outflanked the lads on either side.

Dick plunged into the nearest cover. It was a tall groveof oaks, firm under foot and clear of underbrush, and as it laydown hill, they made good speed. There followed next apiece of open, which Dick avoided, holding to his left. Twominutes after, and the same obstacle arising, the lads followedthe same course. Thus it followed that, while the lads,bending continually to the left, drew nearer and nearer to thehigh road and the river which they had crossed an hour or twobefore, the great bulk of their pursuers were leaning to theother hand, and running towards Tunstall.

The lads paused to breathe. There was no sound ofpursuit. Dick put his ear to the ground, and still therewas nothing; but the wind, to be sure, still made a turmoil inthe trees, and it was hard to make certain.

“On again,” said Dick; and, tired as they were,and Matcham limping with his injured foot, they pulled themselvestogether, and once more pelted down the hill.

Three minutes later, they were breasting through a low thicketof evergreen. High overhead, the tall trees made acontinuous roof of foliage. It was a pillared grove, ashigh as a cathedral, and except for the hollies among which thelads were struggling, open and smoothly swarded.

On the other side, pushing through the last fringe ofevergreen, they blundered forth again into the open twilight ofthe grove.

“Stand!” cried a voice.

And there, between the huge stems, not fifty feet before them,they beheld a stout fellow in green, sore blown with running, whoinstantly drew an arrow to the head and covered them.Matcham stopped with a cry; but Dick, without a pause, ranstraight upon the forester, drawing his dagger as he went.The other, whether he was startled by the daring of theonslaught, or whether he was hampered by his orders, did notshoot; he stood wavering; and before he had time to come tohimself, Dick bounded at his throat, and sent him sprawlingbackward on the turf. The arrow went one way and the bowanother with a sounding twang. The disarmed forestergrappled his assailant; but the dagger shone and descendedtwice. Then came a couple of groans, and then Dick rose tohis feet again, and the man lay motionless, stabbed to theheart.

“On!” said Dick; and he once more pelted forward,Matcham trailing in the rear. To say truth, they made butpoor speed of it by now, labouring dismally as they ran, andcatching for their breath like fish. Matcham had a cruelstitch, and his head swam; and as for Dick, his knees were likelead. But they kept up the form of running withundiminished courage.

Presently they came to the end of the grove. It stoppedabruptly; and there, a few yards before them, was the high roadfrom Risingham to Shoreby, lying, at this point, between two evenwalls of forest.

At the sight Dick paused; and as soon as he stopped running,he became aware of a confused noise, which rapidly grewlouder. It was at first like the rush of a very high gustof wind, but soon it became more definite, and resolved itselfinto the galloping of horses; and then, in a flash, a wholecompany of men-at-arms came driving round the corner, sweptbefore the lads, and were gone again upon the instant. Theyrode as for their lives, in complete disorder; some of them werewounded; riderless horses galloped at their side with bloodysaddles. They were plainly fugitives from the greatbattle.

The noise of their passage had scarce begun to die awaytowards Shoreby, before fresh hoofs came echoing in their wake,and another deserter clattered down the road; this time a singlerider and, by his splendid armour, a man of high degree.Close after him there followed several baggage-waggons, fleeingat an ungainly canter, the drivers flailing at the horses as iffor life. These must have run early in the day; but theircowardice was not to save them. For just before they cameabreast of where the lads stood wondering, a man in hackedarmour, and seemingly beside himself with fury, overtook thewaggons, and with the truncheon of a sword, began to cut thedrivers down. Some leaped from their places and plungedinto the wood; the others he sabred as they sat, cursing them thewhile for cowards in a voice that was scarce human.

All this time the noise in the distance had continued toincrease; the rumble of carts, the clatter of horses, the criesof men, a great, confused rumour, came swelling on the wind; andit was plain that the rout of a whole army was pouring, like aninundation, down the road.

Dick stood sombre. He had meant to follow the highwaytill the turn for Holywood, and now he had to change hisplan. But above all, he had recognised the colours of EarlRisingham, and he knew that the battle had gone finally againstthe rose of Lancaster. Had Sir Daniel joined, and was henow a fugitive and ruined? or had he deserted to the side ofYork, and was he forfeit to honour? It was an uglychoice.

“Come,” he said, sternly; and, turning on hisheel, he began to walk forward through the grove, with Matchamlimping in his rear.

For some time they continued to thread the forest insilence. It was now growing late; the sun was setting inthe plain beyond Kettley; the tree-tops overhead glowed golden;but the shadows had begun to grow darker and the chill of thenight to fall.

“If there were anything to eat!” cried Dick,suddenly, pausing as he spoke.

Matcham sat down and began to weep.

“Ye can weep for your own supper, but when it was tosave men’s lives, your heart was hard enough,” saidDick, contemptuously. “Y’ ’ave sevendeaths upon your conscience, Master John; I’ll ne’erforgive you that.”

“Conscience!” cried Matcham, looking fiercelyup. “Mine! And ye have the man’s redblood upon your dagger! And wherefore did ye slay him, thepoor soul? He drew his arrow, but he let not fly; he heldyou in his hand, and spared you! ’Tis as brave tokill a kitten, as a man that not defends himself.”

Dick was struck dumb.

“I slew him fair. I ran me in upon his bow,”he cried.

“It was a coward blow,” returned Matcham.“Y’ are but a lout and bully, Master Dick; ye butabuse advantages; let there come a stronger, we will see youtruckle at his boot! Ye care not for vengeance,neither—for your father’s death that goes unpaid, andhis poor ghost that clamoureth for justice. But if therecome but a poor creature in your hands that lacketh skill andstrength, and would befriend you, down she shall go!”

Dick was too furious to observe that “she.”

“Marry!” he cried, “and here is news!Of any two the one will still be stronger. The better manthroweth the worse, and the worse is well served. Yedeserve a belting, Master Matcham, for your ill-guidance andunthankfulness to meward; and what ye deserve ye shallhave.”

And Dick, who, even in his angriest temper, still preservedthe appearance of composure, began to unbuckle his belt.

“Here shall be your supper,” he said,grimly. Matcham had stopped his tears; he was as white as asheet, but he looked Dick steadily in the face, and nevermoved. Dick took a step, swinging the belt. Then hepaused, embarrassed by the large eyes and the thin, weary face ofhis companion. His courage began to subside.

“Say ye were in the wrong, then,” he said,lamely.

“Nay,” said Matcham, “I was in theright. Come, cruel! I be lame; I be weary; I resistnot; I ne’er did thee hurt; come, beatme—coward!”

Dick raised the belt at this last provocation, but Matchamwinced and drew himself together with so cruel an apprehension,that his heart failed him yet again. The strap fell by hisside, and he stood irresolute, feeling like a fool.

“A plague upon thee, shrew!” he said.“An ye be so feeble of hand, ye should keep the closerguard upon your tongue. But I’ll be hanged before Ibeat you!” and he put on his belt again. “Beatyou I will not,” he continued; “but forgiveyou?—never. I knew ye not; ye were my master’senemy; I lent you my horse; my dinner ye have eaten; y’’ave called me a man o’ wood, a coward, and abully. Nay, by the mass! the measure is filled, and runnethover. ’Tis a great thing to be weak, I trow: ye cando your worst, yet shall none punish you; ye may steal aman’s weapons in the hour of need, yet may the man not takehis own again;—y’ are weak, forsooth! Nay,then, if one cometh charging at you with a lance, and crieth heis weak, ye must let him pierce your body through! Tut!fool words!”

“And yet ye beat me not,” returned Matcham.

“Let be,” said Dick—“let be. Iwill instruct you. Y’ ’ave been ill-nurtured,methinks, and yet ye have the makings of some good, and, beyondall question, saved me from the river. Nay, I had forgottenit; I am as thankless as thyself. But, come, let uson. An we be for Holywood this night, ay, or to-morrowearly, we had best set forward speedily.”

But though Dick had talked himself back into his usualgood-humour, Matcham had forgiven him nothing. Hisviolence, the recollection of the forester whom he hadslain—above all, the vision of the upraised belt, werethings not easily to be forgotten.

“I will thank you, for the form’s sake,”said Matcham. “But, in sooth, good Master Shelton, Ihad liever find my way alone. Here is a wide wood; prithee,let each choose his path; I owe you a dinner and a lesson.Fare ye well!”

“Nay,” cried Dick, “if that be your tune, sobe it, and a plague be with you!”

Each turned aside, and they began walking off severally, withno thought of the direction, intent solely on theirquarrel. But Dick had not gone ten paces ere his name wascalled, and Matcham came running after.

“Dick,” he said, “it were unmannerly to partso coldly. Here is my hand, and my heart with it. Forall that wherein you have so excellently served and helpedme—not for the form, but from the heart, I thank you.Fare ye right well.”

“Well, lad,” returned Dick, taking the hand whichwas offered him, “good speed to you, if speed youmay. But I misdoubt it shrewdly. Y’ are toodisputatious.” So then they separated for the secondtime; and presently it was Dick who was running afterMatcham.

“Here,” he said, “take my cross-bow; shaltnot go unarmed.”

“A cross-bow!” said Matcham. “Nay,boy, I have neither the strength to bend nor yet the skill to aimwith it. It were no help to me, good boy. But yet Ithank you.”

The night had now fallen, and under the trees they could nolonger read each other’s face.

“I will go some little way with you,” saidDick. “The night is dark. I would fain leaveyou on a path, at least. My mind misgiveth me, y’ arelikely to be lost.”

Without any more words, he began to walk forward, and theother once more followed him. The blackness grew thickerand thicker. Only here and there, in open places, they sawthe sky, dotted with small stars. In the distance, thenoise of the rout of the Lancastrian army still continued to befaintly audible; but with every step they left it farther in therear.

At the end of half an hour of silent progress they came forthupon a broad patch of heathy open. It glimmered in thelight of the stars, shaggy with fern and islanded with clumps ofyew. And here they paused and looked upon each other.

“Y’ are weary?” Dick said.

“Nay, I am so weary,” answered Matcham,“that methinks I could lie down and die.”

“I hear the chiding of a river,” returnedDick. “Let us go so far forth, for I am soreathirst.”

The ground sloped down gently; and, sure enough, in thebottom, they found a little murmuring river, running amongwillows. Here they threw themselves down together by thebrink; and putting their mouths to the level of a starry pool,they drank their fill.

“Dick,” said Matcham, “it may not be.I can no more.”

“I saw a pit as we came down,” said Dick.“Let us lie down therein and sleep.”

“Nay, but with all my heart!” cried Matcham.

The pit was sandy and dry; a shock of brambles hung upon onehedge, and made a partial shelter; and there the two lads laydown, keeping close together for the sake of warmth, theirquarrel all forgotten. And soon sleep fell upon them like acloud, and under the dew and stars they rested peacefully.

CHAPTER VII—THE HOODED FACE

They awoke in the grey of the morning; the birds were not yetin full song, but twittered here and there among the woods; thesun was not yet up, but the eastern sky was barred with solemncolours. Half starved and over-weary as they were, they laywithout moving, sunk in a delightful lassitude. And as theythus lay, the clang of a bell fell suddenly upon their ears.

“A bell!” said Dick, sitting up. “Canwe be, then, so near to Holywood?”

A little after, the bell clanged again, but this time somewhatnearer hand; and from that time forth, and still drawing nearerand nearer, it continued to sound brokenly abroad in the silenceof the morning.

“Nay, what should this betoken?” said Dick, whowas now broad awake.

“It is some one walking,” returned Matcham, and“the bell tolleth ever as he moves.”

“I see that well,” said Dick. “Butwherefore? What maketh he in Tunstall Woods?Jack,” he added, “laugh at me an ye will, but I likenot the hollow sound of it.”

“Nay,” said Matcham, with a shiver, “it hatha doleful note. An the day were not come”—

But just then the bell, quickening its pace, began to ringthick and hurried, and then it gave a single hammering jangle,and was silent for a space.

“It is as though the bearer had run for a pater-nosterwhile, and then leaped the river,” Dick observed.

“And now beginneth he again to pace soberlyforward,” added Matcham.

“Nay,” returned Dick—“nay, not sosoberly, Jack. ’Tis a man that walketh you rightspeedily. ’Tis a man in some fear of his life, orabout some hurried business. See ye not how swift thebeating draweth near?”

“It is now close by,” said Matcham.

They were now on the edge of the pit; and as the pit itselfwas on a certain eminence, they commanded a view over the greaterproportion of the clearing, up to the thick woods that closed itin.

The daylight, which was very clear and grey, showed them ariband of white footpath wandering among the gorse. Itpassed some hundred yards from the pit, and ran the whole lengthof the clearing, east and west. By the line of its course,Dick judged it should lead more or less directly to the MoatHouse.

Upon this path, stepping forth from the margin of the wood, awhite figure now appeared. It paused a little, and seemedto look about; and then, at a slow pace, and bent almost double,it began to draw near across the heath. At every step thebell clanked. Face, it had none; a white hood, not evenpierced with eye-holes, veiled the head; and as the creaturemoved, it seemed to feel its way with the tapping of astick. Fear fell upon the lads, as cold as death.

“A leper!” said Dick, hoarsely.

“His touch is death,” said Matcham.“Let us run.”

“Not so,” returned Dick. “See yenot?—he is stone blind. He guideth him with astaff. Let us lie still; the wind bloweth towards the path,and he will go by and hurt us not. Alas, poor soul, and weshould rather pity him!”

“I will pity him when he is by,” repliedMatcham.

The blind leper was now about halfway towards them, and justthen the sun rose and shone full on his veiled face. He hadbeen a tall man before he was bowed by his disgusting sickness,and even now he walked with a vigorous step. The dismalbeating of his bell, the pattering of the stick, the eyelessscreen before his countenance, and the knowledge that he was notonly doomed to death and suffering, but shut out for ever fromthe touch of his fellow-men, filled the lads’ bosoms withdismay; and at every step that brought him nearer, their courageand strength seemed to desert them.

As he came about level with the pit, he paused, and turned hisface full upon the lads.

“Mary be my shield! He sees us!” saidMatcham, faintly.

“Hush!” whispered Dick. “He doth buthearken. He is blind, fool!”

The leper looked or listened, whichever he was really doing,for some seconds. Then he began to move on again, butpresently paused once more, and again turned and seemed to gazeupon the lads. Even Dick became dead-white and closed hiseyes, as if by the mere sight he might become infected. Butsoon the bell sounded, and this time, without any fartherhesitation, the leper crossed the remainder of the little heathand disappeared into the covert of the woods.

“He saw us,” said Matcham. “I couldswear it!”

“Tut!” returned Dick, recovering some sparks ofcourage. “He but heard us. He was in fear, poorsoul! An ye were blind, and walked in a perpetual night, yewould start yourself, if ever a twig rustled or a bird cried‘Peep.’”

“Dick, good Dick, he saw us,” repeatedMatcham. “When a man hearkeneth, he doth not as thisman; he doth otherwise, Dick. This was seeing; it was nothearing. He means foully. Hark, else, if his bell benot stopped!”

Such was the case. The bell rang no longer.

“Nay,” said Dick, “I like not that.Nay,” he cried again, “I like that little. Whatmay this betoken? Let us go, by the mass!”

“He hath gone east,” added Matcham.“Good Dick, let us go westward straight; I shall notbreathe till I have my back turned upon that leper.”

“Jack, y’ are too cowardly,” repliedDick. “We shall go fair for Holywood, or as fair, atleast, as I can guide you, and that will be due north.”

They were afoot at once, passed the stream upon somestepping-stones, and began to mount on the other side, which wassteeper, towards the margin of the wood. The ground becamevery uneven, full of knolls and hollows; trees grew scattered orin clumps; it became difficult to choose a path, and the ladssomewhat wandered. They were weary, besides, withyesterday’s exertions and the lack of food, and they movedbut heavily and dragged their feet among the sand.

Presently, coming to the top of a knoll, they were aware ofthe leper, some hundred feet in front of them, crossing the lineof their march by a hollow. His bell was silent, his staffno longer tapped the ground, and he went before him with theswift and assured footsteps of a man who sees. Next momenthe had disappeared into a little thicket.

The lads, at the first glimpse, had crouched behind a tuft ofgorse; there they lay, horror-struck.

“Certain, he pursueth us,” saidDick—“certain! He held the clapper of his bellin one hand, saw ye? that it should not sound. Now may thesaints aid and guide us, for I have no strength to combatpestilence!”

“What maketh he?” cried Matcham. “Whatdoth he want? Who ever heard the like, that a leper, out ofmere malice, should pursue unfortunates? Hath he not hisbell to that very end, that people may avoid him? Dick,there is below this something deeper.”

“Nay, I care not,” moaned Dick; “thestrength is gone out of me; my legs are like water. Thesaints be mine assistance!”

“Would ye lie there idle?” cried Matcham.“Let us back into the open. We have the betterchance; he cannot steal upon us unawares.”

“Not I,” said Dick. “My time is come,and peradventure he may pass us by.”

“Bend me, then, your bow!” cried the other.“What! will ye be a man?”

Dick crossed himself. “Would ye have me shoot upona leper?” he cried. “The hand would failme. Nay, now,” he added—“nay, now, letbe! With sound men I will fight, but not with ghosts andlepers. Which this is, I wot not. One or other,Heaven be our protection!”

“Now,” said Matcham, “if this be man’scourage, what a poor thing is man! But sith ye will donaught, let us lie close.”

Then came a single, broken jangle on the bell.

“He hath missed his hold upon the clapper,”whispered Matcham. “Saints! how near heis!”

But Dick answered never a word; his teeth were nearchattering.

Soon they saw a piece of the white robe between some bushes;then the leper’s head was thrust forth from behind a trunk,and he seemed narrowly to scan the neighbourhood before he onceagain withdrew. To their stretched senses, the whole bushappeared alive with rustlings and the creak of twigs; and theyheard the beating of each other’s heart.

Suddenly, with a cry, the leper sprang into the open close by,and ran straight upon the lads. They, shrieking aloud,separated and began to run different ways. But theirhorrible enemy fastened upon Matcham, ran him swiftly down, andhad him almost instantly a prisoner. The lad gave onescream that echoed high and far over the forest, he had one spasmof struggling, and then all his limbs relaxed, and he fell limpinto his captor’s arms.

Dick heard the cry and turned. He saw Matcham fall; andon the instant his spirit and his strength revived; With a cry ofpity and anger, he unslung and bent his arblast. But ere hehad time to shoot, the leper held up his hand.

“Hold your shot, Dickon!” cried a familiarvoice. “Hold your shot, mad wag! Know ye not afriend?”

And then laying down Matcham on the turf, he undid the hoodfrom off his face, and disclosed the features of Sir DanielBrackley.

“Sir Daniel!” cried Dick.

“Ay, by the mass, Sir Daniel!” returned theknight. “Would ye shoot upon your guardian,rogue? But here is this”—And there he brokeoff, and pointing to Matcham, asked: “How call ye him,Dick?”

“Nay,” said Dick, “I call him MasterMatcham. Know ye him not? He said ye knewhim!”

“Ay,” replied Sir Daniel, “I know thelad;” and he chuckled. “But he has fainted;and, by my sooth, he might have had less to faint for! Hey,Dick? Did I put the fear of death upon you?”

“Indeed, Sir Daniel, ye did that,” said Dick, andsighed again at the mere recollection. “Nay, sir,saving your respect, I had as lief ’a’ met the devilin person; and to speak truth, I am yet all a-quake. Butwhat made ye, sir, in such a guise?”

Sir Daniel’s brow grew suddenly black with anger.

“What made I?” he said. “Ye do well tomind me of it! What? I skulked for my poor life in myown wood of Tunstall, Dick. We were ill sped at the battle;we but got there to be swept among the rout. Where be allmy good men-at-arms? Dick, by the mass, I know not!We were swept down; the shot fell thick among us; I have not seenone man in my own colours since I saw three fall. Formyself, I came sound to Shoreby, and being mindful of the BlackArrow, got me this gown and bell, and came softly by the path forthe Moat House. There is no disguise to be compared withit; the jingle of this bell would scare me the stoutest outlaw inthe forest; they would all turn pale to hear it. At lengthI came by you and Matcham. I could see but evilly throughthis same hood, and was not sure of you, being chiefly, and formany a good cause, astonished at the finding you together.Moreover, in the open, where I had to go slowly and tap with mystaff, I feared to disclose myself. But see,” headded, “this poor shrew begins a little to revive. Alittle good canary will comfort me the heart of it.”

The knight, from under his long dress, produced a stoutbottle, and began to rub the temples and wet the lips of thepatient, who returned gradually to consciousness, and began toroll dim eyes from one to another.

“What cheer, Jack!” said Dick. “It wasno leper, after all; it was Sir Daniel! See!”

“Swallow me a good draught of this,” said theknight. “This will give you manhood.Thereafter, I will give you both a meal, and we shall all threeon to Tunstall. For, Dick,” he continued, layingforth bread and meat upon the grass, “I will avow to you,in all good conscience, it irks me sorely to be safe between fourwalls. Not since I backed a horse have I been pressed sohard; peril of life, jeopardy of land and livelihood, and to sumup, all these losels in the wood to hunt me down. But I benot yet shent. Some of my lads will pick me their wayhome. Hatch hath ten fellows; Selden, he had six.Nay, we shall soon be strong again; and if I can but buy my peacewith my right fortunate and undeserving Lord of York, why, Dick,we’ll be a man again and go a-horseback!”

And so saying, the knight filled himself a horn of canary, andpledged his ward in dumb show.

“Selden,” Dickfaltered—“Selden”—And he pausedagain.

Sir Daniel put down the wine untasted.

“How!” he cried, in a changed voice.“Selden? Speak! What of Selden?”

Dick stammered forth the tale of the ambush and themassacre.

The knight heard in silence; but as he listened, hiscountenance became convulsed with rage and grief.

“Now here,” he cried, “on my right hand, Iswear to avenge it! If that I fail, if that I spill not tenmen’s souls for each, may this hand wither from mybody! I broke this Duckworth like a rush; I beggared him tohis door; I burned the thatch above his head; I drove him fromthis country; and now, cometh he back to beard me? Nay,but, Duckworth, this time it shall go bitter hard!”

He was silent for some time, his face working.

“Eat!” he cried, suddenly. “And youhere,” he added to Matcham, “swear me an oath tofollow straight to the Moat House.”

“I will pledge mine honour,” replied Matcham.

“What make I with your honour?” cried theknight. “Swear me upon your mother’swelfare!”

Matcham gave the required oath; and Sir Daniel re-adjusted thehood over his face, and prepared his bell and staff. To seehim once more in that appalling travesty somewhat revived thehorror of his two companions. But the knight was soon uponhis feet.

“Eat with despatch,” he said, “and follow meyarely to mine house.”

And with that he set forth again into the woods; and presentlyafter the bell began to sound, numbering his steps, and the twolads sat by their untasted meal, and heard it die slowly away uphill into the distance.

“And so ye go to Tunstall?” Dick inquired.

“Yea, verily,” said Matcham, “when needsmust! I am braver behind Sir Daniel’s back than tohis face.”

They ate hastily, and set forth along the path through theairy upper levels of the forest, where great beeches stood apartamong green lawns, and the birds and squirrels made merry on theboughs. Two hours later, they began to descend upon theother side, and already, among the tree-tops, saw before them thered walls and roofs of Tunstall House.

“Here,” said Matcham, pausing, “ye shalltake your leave of your friend Jack, whom y’ are to see nomore. Come, Dick, forgive him what he did amiss, as he, forhis part, cheerfully and lovingly forgiveth you.”

“And wherefore so?” asked Dick. “An weboth go to Tunstall, I shall see you yet again, I trow, and thatright often.”

“Ye’ll never again see poor Jack Matcham,”replied the other, “that was so fearful and burthensome,and yet plucked you from the river; ye’ll not see him more,Dick, by mine honour!” He held his arms open, and thelads embraced and kissed. “And, Dick,”continued Matcham, “my spirit bodeth ill. Y’are now to see a new Sir Daniel; for heretofore hath allprospered in his hands exceedingly, and fortune followed him; butnow, methinks, when his fate hath come upon him, and he runs theadventure of his life, he will prove but a foul lord to both ofus. He may be brave in battle, but he hath the liar’seye; there is fear in his eye, Dick, and fear is as cruel as thewolf! We go down into that house, Saint Mary guide us forthagain!”

And so they continued their descent in silence, and came outat last before Sir Daniel’s forest stronghold, where itstood, low and shady, flanked with round towers and stained withmoss and lichen, in the lilied waters of the moat. Even asthey appeared, the doors were opened, the bridge lowered, and SirDaniel himself, with Hatch and the parson at his side, stoodready to receive them.

BOOK II—THE MOAT HOUSE

CHAPTER I—DICK ASKS QUESTIONS

The Moat House stood not far from the rough forest road.Externally, it was a compact rectangle of red stone, flanked ateach corner by a round tower, pierced for archery andbattlemented at the top. Within, it enclosed a narrowcourt. The moat was perhaps twelve feet wide, crossed by asingle drawbridge. It was supplied with water by a trench,leading to a forest pool and commanded, through its whole length,from the battlements of the two southern towers. Exceptthat one or two tall and thick trees had been suffered to remainwithin half a bowshot of the walls, the house was in a goodposture for defence.

In the court, Dick found a part of the garrison, busy withpreparations for defence, and gloomily discussing the chances ofa siege. Some were making arrows, some sharpening swordsthat had long been disused; but even as they worked, they shooktheir heads.

Twelve of Sir Daniel’s party had escaped the battle, runthe gauntlet through the wood, and come alive to the MoatHouse. But out of this dozen, three had been gravelywounded: two at Risingham in the disorder of the rout, one byJohn Amend-All’s marksmen as he crossed the forest.This raised the force of the garrison, counting Hatch, SirDaniel, and young Shelton, to twenty-two effective men. Andmore might be continually expected to arrive. The dangerlay not therefore in the lack of men.

It was the terror of the Black Arrow that oppressed thespirits of the garrison. For their open foes of the partyof York, in these most changing times, they felt but a far-awayconcern. “The world,” as people said in thosedays, “might change again” before harm came.But for their neighbours in the wood, they trembled. It wasnot Sir Daniel alone who was a mark for hatred. His men,conscious of impunity, had carried themselves cruelly through allthe country. Harsh commands had been harshly executed; andof the little band that now sat talking in the court, there wasnot one but had been guilty of some act of oppression orbarbarity. And now, by the fortune of war, Sir Daniel hadbecome powerless to protect his instruments; now, by the issue ofsome hours of battle, at which many of them had not been present,they had all become punishable traitors to the State, outside thebuckler of the law, a shrunken company in a poor fortress thatwas hardly tenable, and exposed upon all sides to the justresentment of their victims. Nor had there been lackinggrisly advertisements of what they might expect.

At different periods of the evening and the night, no fewerthan seven riderless horses had come neighing in terror to thegate. Two were from Selden’s troop; five belonged tomen who had ridden with Sir Daniel to the field. Lastly, alittle before dawn, a spearman had come staggering to the moatside, pierced by three arrows; even as they carried him in, hisspirit had departed; but by the words that he uttered in hisagony, he must have been the last survivor of a considerablecompany of men.

Hatch himself showed, under his sun-brown, the pallour ofanxiety; and when he had taken Dick aside and learned the fate ofSelden, he fell on a stone bench and fairly wept. Theothers, from where they sat on stools or doorsteps in the sunnyangle of the court, looked at him with wonder and alarm, but noneventured to inquire the cause of his emotion.

“Nay, Master Shelton,” said Hatch, atlast—“nay, but what said I? We shall allgo. Selden was a man of his hands; he was like a brother tome. Well, he has gone second; well, we shall allfollow! For what said their knave rhyme?—‘Ablack arrow in each black heart.’ Was it not so itwent? Appleyard, Selden, Smith, old Humphrey gone; andthere lieth poor John Carter, crying, poor sinner, for thepriest.”

Dick gave ear. Out of a low window, hard by where theywere talking, groans and murmurs came to his ear.

“Lieth he there?” he asked.

“Ay, in the second porter’s chamber,”answered Hatch. “We could not bear him further, souland body were so bitterly at odds. At every step we liftedhim, he thought to wend. But now, methinks, it is the soulthat suffereth. Ever for the priest he crieth, and SirOliver, I wot not why, still cometh not. ’Twill be along shrift; but poor Appleyard and poor Selden, they hadnone.”

Dick stooped to the window and looked in. The littlecell was low and dark, but he could make out the wounded soldierlying moaning on his pallet.

“Carter, poor friend, how goeth it?” he asked.

“Master Shelton,” returned the man, in an excitedwhisper, “for the dear light of heaven, bring thepriest. Alack, I am sped; I am brought very low down; myhurt is to the death. Ye may do me no more service; thisshall be the last. Now, for my poor soul’s interest,and as a loyal gentleman, bestir you; for I have that matter onmy conscience that shall drag me deep.”

He groaned, and Dick heard the grating of his teeth, whetherin pain or terror.

Just then Sir Daniel appeared upon the threshold of thehall. He had a letter in one hand.

“Lads,” he said, “we have had a shog, wehave had a tumble; wherefore, then, deny it? Rather itimputeth to get speedily again to saddle. This old Harrythe Sixt has had the undermost. Wash we, then, our hands ofhim. I have a good friend that rideth next the duke, theLord of Wensleydale. Well, I have writ a letter to myfriend, praying his good lordship, and offering largesatisfaction for the past and reasonable surety for thefuture. Doubt not but he will lend a favourable ear.A prayer without gifts is like a song without music: I surfeithim with promises, boys—I spare not to promise. What,then, is lacking? Nay, a great thing—wherefore shouldI deceive you?—a great thing and a difficult: a messengerto bear it. The woods—y’ are not ignorant ofthat—lie thick with our ill-willers. Haste is mostneedful; but without sleight and caution all is naught.Which, then, of this company will take me this letter, bear me itto my Lord of Wensleydale, and bring me the answerback?”

One man instantly arose.

“I will, an’t like you,” said he.“I will even risk my carcase.”

“Nay, Dicky Bowyer, not so,” returned theknight. “It likes me not. Y’ are slyindeed, but not speedy. Ye were a laggard ever.”

“An’t be so, Sir Daniel, here am I,” criedanother.

“The saints forfend!” said the knight.“Y’ are speedy, but not sly. Ye would blunderme headforemost into John Amend-All’s camp. I thankyou both for your good courage; but, in sooth, it may notbe.”

Then Hatch offered himself, and he also was refused.

“I want you here, good Bennet; y’ are my righthand, indeed,” returned the knight; and then several comingforward in a group, Sir Daniel at length selected one and gavehim the letter.

“Now,” he said, “upon your good speed andbetter discretion we do all depend. Bring me a good answerback, and before three weeks, I will have purged my forest ofthese vagabonds that brave us to our faces. But mark itwell, Throgmorton: the matter is not easy. Ye must stealforth under night, and go like a fox; and how ye are to crossTill I know not, neither by the bridge nor ferry.”

“I can swim,” returned Throgmorton. “Iwill come soundly, fear not.”

“Well, friend, get ye to the buttery,” replied SirDaniel. “Ye shall swim first of all in nut-brownale.” And with that he turned back into the hall.

“Sir Daniel hath a wise tongue,” said Hatch,aside, to Dick. “See, now, where many a lesser manhad glossed the matter over, he speaketh it out plainly to hiscompany. Here is a danger, ’a saith, and heredifficulty; and jesteth in the very saying. Nay, by SaintBarbary, he is a born captain! Not a man but he is somedeal heartened up! See how they fall again towork.”

This praise of Sir Daniel put a thought in the lad’shead.

“Bennet,” he said, “how came my father byhis end?”

“Ask me not that,” replied Hatch. “Ihad no hand nor knowledge in it; furthermore, I will even besilent, Master Dick. For look you, in a man’s ownbusiness there he may speak; but of hearsay matters and of commontalk, not so. Ask me Sir Oliver—ay, or Carter, if yewill; not me.”

And Hatch set off to make the rounds, leaving Dick in amuse.

“Wherefore would he not tell me?” thought thelad. “And wherefore named he Carter?Carter—nay, then Carter had a hand in it,perchance.”

He entered the house, and passing some little way along aflagged and vaulted passage, came to the door of the cell wherethe hurt man lay groaning. At his entrance Carter startedeagerly.

“Have ye brought the priest?” he cried.

“Not yet awhile,” returned Dick.“Y’ ’ave a word to tell me first. Howcame my father, Harry Shelton, by his death?”

The man’s face altered instantly.

“I know not,” he replied, doggedly.

“Nay, ye know well,” returned Dick.“Seek not to put me by.”

“I tell you I know not,” repeated Carter.

“Then,” said Dick, “ye shall dieunshriven. Here am I, and here shall stay. Thereshall no priest come near you, rest assured. For of whatavail is penitence, an ye have no mind to right those wrongs yehad a hand in? and without penitence, confession is butmockery.”

“Ye say what ye mean not, Master Dick,” saidCarter, composedly. “It is ill threatening the dying,and becometh you (to speak truth) little. And for as littleas it commends you, it shall serve you less. Stay, an yeplease. Ye will condemn my soul—ye shall learnnothing! There is my last word to you.” And thewounded man turned upon the other side.

Now, Dick, to say truth, had spoken hastily, and was ashamedof his threat. But he made one more effort.

“Carter,” he said, “mistake me not. Iknow ye were but an instrument in the hands of others; a churlmust obey his lord; I would not bear heavily on such anone. But I begin to learn upon many sides that this greatduty lieth on my youth and ignorance, to avenge my father.Prithee, then, good Carter, set aside the memory of mythreatenings, and in pure goodwill and honest penitence give me aword of help.”

The wounded man lay silent; nor, say what Dick pleased, couldhe extract another word from him.

“Well,” said Dick, “I will go call thepriest to you as ye desired; for howsoever ye be in fault to meor mine, I would not be willingly in fault to any, least of allto one upon the last change.”

Again the old soldier heard him without speech or motion; evenhis groans he had suppressed; and as Dick turned and left theroom, he was filled with admiration for that ruggedfortitude.

“And yet,” he thought, “of what use iscourage without wit? Had his hands been clean, he wouldhave spoken; his silence did confess the secret louder thanwords. Nay, upon all sides, proof floweth on me. SirDaniel, he or his men, hath done this thing.”

Dick paused in the stone passage with a heavy heart. Atthat hour, in the ebb of Sir Daniel’s fortune, when he wasbeleaguered by the archers of the Black Arrow and proscribed bythe victorious Yorkists, was Dick, also, to turn upon the man whohad nourished and taught him, who had severely punished, indeed,but yet unwearyingly protected his youth? The necessity, ifit should prove to be one, was cruel.

“Pray Heaven he be innocent!” he said.

And then steps sounded on the flagging, and Sir Oliver camegravely towards the lad.

“One seeketh you earnestly,” said Dick.

“I am upon the way, good Richard,” said thepriest. “It is this poor Carter. Alack, he isbeyond cure.”

“And yet his soul is sicker than his body,”answered Dick.

“Have ye seen him?” asked Sir Oliver, with amanifest start.

“I do but come from him,” replied Dick.

“What said he? what said he?” snapped the priest,with extraordinary eagerness.

“He but cried for you the more piteously, SirOliver. It were well done to go the faster, for his hurt isgrievous,” returned the lad.

“I am straight for him,” was the reply.“Well, we have all our sins. We must all come to ourlatter day, good Richard.”

“Ay, sir; and it were well if we all came fairly,”answered Dick.

The priest dropped his eyes, and with an inaudible benedictionhurried on.

“He, too!” thought Dick—“he, thattaught me in piety! Nay, then, what a world is this, if allthat care for me be blood-guilty of my father’sdeath? Vengeance! Alas! what a sore fate is mine, ifI must be avenged upon my friends!”

The thought put Matcham in his head. He smiled at theremembrance of his strange companion, and then wondered where hewas. Ever since they had come together to the doors of theMoat House the younger lad had disappeared, and Dick began toweary for a word with him.

About an hour after, mass being somewhat hastily run throughby Sir Oliver, the company gathered in the hall for dinner.It was a long, low apartment, strewn with green rushes, and thewalls hung with arras in a design of savage men and questingbloodhounds; here and there hung spears and bows and bucklers; afire blazed in the big chimney; there were arras-covered benchesround the wall, and in the midst the table, fairly spread,awaited the arrival of the diners. Neither Sir Daniel norhis lady made their appearance. Sir Oliver himself wasabsent, and here again there was no word of Matcham. Dickbegan to grow alarmed, to recall his companion’s melancholyforebodings, and to wonder to himself if any foul play hadbefallen him in that house.

After dinner he found Goody Hatch, who was hurrying to my LadyBrackley.

“Goody,” he said, “where is Master Matcham,I prithee? I saw ye go in with him when wearrived.”

The old woman laughed aloud.

“Ah, Master Dick,” she said, “y’ havea famous bright eye in your head, to be sure!” and laughedagain.

“Nay, but where is he, indeed?” persistedDick.

“Ye will never see him more,” shereturned—“never. It is sure.”

“An I do not,” returned the lad, “I willknow the reason why. He came not hither of his full freewill; such as I am, I am his best protector, and I will see himjustly used. There be too many mysteries; I do begin toweary of the game!”

But as Dick was speaking, a heavy hand fell on hisshoulder. It was Bennet Hatch that had come unperceivedbehind him. With a jerk of his thumb, the retainerdismissed his wife.

“Friend Dick,” he said, as soon as they werealone, “are ye a moon-struck natural? An ye leave notcertain things in peace, ye were better in the salt sea than herein Tunstall Moat House. Y’ have questioned me;y’ have baited Carter; y’ have frighted theJack-priest with hints. Bear ye more wisely, fool; and evennow, when Sir Daniel calleth you, show me a smooth face for thelove of wisdom. Y’ are to be sharplyquestioned. Look to your answers.”

“Hatch,” returned Dick, “in all this I smella guilty conscience.”

“An ye go not the wiser, ye will soon smellblood,” replied Bennet. “I do but warnyou. And here cometh one to call you.”

And indeed, at that very moment, a messenger came across thecourt to summon Dick into the presence of Sir Daniel.

CHAPTER II—THE TWO OATHS

Sir Daniel was in the hall; there he paced angrily before thefire, awaiting Dick’s arrival. None was by except SirOliver, and he sat discreetly backward, thumbing and mutteringover his breviary.

“Y’ have sent for me, Sir Daniel?” saidyoung Shelton.

“I have sent for you, indeed,” replied theknight. “For what cometh to mine ears? Have Ibeen to you so heavy a guardian that ye make haste to credit illof me? Or sith that ye see me, for the nonce, some worsted,do ye think to quit my party? By the mass, your father wasnot so! Those he was near, those he stood by, come wind orweather. But you, Dick, y’ are a fair-day friend, itseemeth, and now seek to clear yourself of yourallegiance.”

“An’t please you, Sir Daniel, not so,”returned Dick, firmly. “I am grateful and faithful,where gratitude and faith are due. And before more is said,I thank you, and I thank Sir Oliver; y’ have great claimsupon me both—none can have more; I were a hound if I forgotthem.”

“It is well,” said Sir Daniel; and then, risinginto anger: “Gratitude and faith are words, DickShelton,” he continued; “but I look to deeds.In this hour of my peril, when my name is attainted, when mylands are forfeit, when this wood is full of men that hunger andthirst for my destruction, what doth gratitude? what dothfaith? I have but a little company remaining; is itgrateful or faithful to poison me their hearts with yourinsidious whisperings? Save me from such gratitude!But, come, now, what is it ye wish? Speak; we are here toanswer. If ye have aught against me, stand forth and sayit.”

“Sir,” replied Dick, “my father fell when Iwas yet a child. It hath come to mine ears that he wasfoully done by. It hath come to mine ears—for I willnot dissemble—that ye had a hand in his undoing. Andin all verity, I shall not be at peace in mine own mind, nor veryclear to help you, till I have certain resolution of thesedoubts.”

Sir Daniel sat down in a deep settle. He took his chinin his hand and looked at Dick fixedly.

“And ye think I would be guardian to the man’s sonthat I had murdered?” he asked.

“Nay,” said Dick, “pardon me if I answerchurlishly; but indeed ye know right well a wardship is mostprofitable. All these years have ye not enjoyed myrevenues, and led my men? Have ye not still my marriage? Iwot not what it may be worth—it is worth something.Pardon me again; but if ye were base enough to slay a man undertrust, here were, perhaps, reasons enough to move you to thelesser baseness.”

“When I was lad of your years,” returned SirDaniel, sternly, “my mind had not so turned uponsuspicions. And Sir Oliver here,” he added,“why should he, a priest, be guilty of this act?”

“Nay, Sir Daniel,” said Dick, “but where themaster biddeth there will the dog go. It is well known thispriest is but your instrument. I speak very freely; thetime is not for courtesies. Even as I speak, so would I beanswered. And answer get I none! Ye but put morequestions. I rede ye be ware, Sir Daniel; for in this wayye will but nourish and not satisfy my doubts.”

“I will answer you fairly, Master Richard,” saidthe knight. “Were I to pretend ye have not stirred mywrath, I were no honest man. But I will be just even inanger. Come to me with these words when y’ are grownand come to man’s estate, and I am no longer your guardian,and so helpless to resent them. Come to me then, and I willanswer you as ye merit, with a buffet in the mouth. Tillthen ye have two courses: either swallow me down these insults,keep a silent tongue, and fight in the meanwhile for the man thatfed and fought for your infancy; or else—the door standethopen, the woods are full of mine enemies—go.”

The spirit with which these words were uttered, the looks withwhich they were accompanied, staggered Dick; and yet he could notbut observe that he had got no answer.

“I desire nothing more earnestly, Sir Daniel, than tobelieve you,” he replied. “Assure me ye arefree from this.”

“Will ye take my word of honour, Dick?” inquiredthe knight.

“That would I,” answered the lad.

“I give it you,” returned Sir Daniel.“Upon my word of honour, upon the eternal welfare of myspirit, and as I shall answer for my deeds hereafter, I had nohand nor portion in your father’s death.”

He extended his hand, and Dick took it eagerly. Neitherof them observed the priest, who, at the pronunciation of thatsolemn and false oath, had half arisen from his seat in an agonyof horror and remorse.

“Ah,” cried Dick, “ye must find it in yourgreat-heartedness to pardon me! I was a churl, indeed, todoubt of you. But ye have my hand upon it; I will doubt nomore.”

“Nay, Dick,” replied Sir Daniel, “y’are forgiven. Ye know not the world and its calumniousnature.”

“I was the more to blame,” added Dick, “inthat the rogues pointed, not directly at yourself, but at SirOliver.”

As he spoke, he turned towards the priest, and paused in themiddle of the last word. This tall, ruddy, corpulent,high-stepping man had fallen, you might say, to pieces; hiscolour was gone, his limbs were relaxed, his lips stammeredprayers; and now, when Dick’s eyes were fixed upon himsuddenly, he cried out aloud, like some wild animal, and buriedhis face in his hands.

Sir Daniel was by him in two strides, and shook him fiercelyby the shoulder. At the same moment Dick’s suspicionsreawakened.

“Nay,” he said, “Sir Oliver may swearalso. ’Twas him they accused.”

“He shall swear,” said the knight.

Sir Oliver speechlessly waved his arms.

“Ay, by the mass! but ye shall swear,” cried SirDaniel, beside himself with fury. “Here, upon thisbook, ye shall swear,” he continued, picking up thebreviary, which had fallen to the ground.“What! Ye make me doubt you! Swear, I say;swear!”

But the priest was still incapable of speech. His terrorof Sir Daniel, his terror of perjury, risen to about an equalheight, strangled him.

And just then, through the high, stained-glass window of thehall, a black arrow crashed, and struck, and stuck quivering, inthe midst of the long table.

Sir Oliver, with a loud scream, fell fainting on the rushes;while the knight, followed by Dick, dashed into the court and upthe nearest corkscrew stair to the battlements. Thesentries were all on the alert. The sun shone quietly ongreen lawns dotted with trees, and on the wooded hills of theforest which enclosed the view. There was no sign of abesieger.

“Whence came that shot?” asked the knight.

“From yonder clump, Sir Daniel,” returned asentinel.

The knight stood a little, musing. Then he turned toDick. “Dick,” he said, “keep me an eyeupon these men; I leave you in charge here. As for thepriest, he shall clear himself, or I will know the reasonwhy. I do almost begin to share in your suspicions.He shall swear, trust me, or we shall prove himguilty.”

Dick answered somewhat coldly, and the knight, giving him apiercing glance, hurriedly returned to the hall. His firstglance was for the arrow. It was the first of thesemissiles he had seen, and as he turned it to and fro, the darkhue of it touched him with some fear. Again there was somewriting: one word—“Earthed.”

“Ay,” he broke out, “they know I am home,then. Earthed! Ay, but there is not a dog among themfit to dig me out.”

Sir Oliver had come to himself, and now scrambled to hisfeet.

“Alack, Sir Daniel!” he moaned, “y’’ave sworn a dread oath; y’ are doomed to the end oftime.”

“Ay,” returned the knight, “I have sworn anoath, indeed, thou chucklehead; but thyself shalt swear agreater. It shall be on the blessed cross ofHolywood. Look to it; get the words ready. It shallbe sworn to-night.”

“Now, may Heaven lighten you!” replied the priest;“may Heaven incline your heart from thisiniquity!”

“Look you, my good father,” said Sir Daniel,“if y’ are for piety, I say no more; ye begin late,that is all. But if y’ are in any sense bent uponwisdom, hear me. This lad beginneth to irk me like awasp. I have a need for him, for I would sell hismarriage. But I tell you, in all plainness, if that hecontinue to weary me, he shall go join his father. I giveorders now to change him to the chamber above the chapel.If that ye can swear your innocency with a good, solid oath andan assured countenance, it is well; the lad will be at peace alittle, and I will spare him. If that ye stammer or blench,or anyways boggle at the swearing, he will not believe you; andby the mass, he shall die. There is for your thinkingon.”

“The chamber above the chapel!” gasped thepriest.

“That same,” replied the knight. “Soif ye desire to save him, save him; and if ye desire not,prithee, go to, and let me be at peace! For an I had been ahasty man, I would already have put my sword through you, foryour intolerable cowardice and folly. Have ye chosen?Say!”

“I have chosen,” said the priest.“Heaven pardon me, I will do evil for good. I willswear for the lad’s sake.”

“So is it best!” said Sir Daniel.“Send for him, then, speedily. Ye shall see himalone. Yet I shall have an eye on you. I shall behere in the panel room.”

The knight raised the arras and let it fall again behindhim. There was the sound of a spring opening; then followedthe creaking of trod stairs.

Sir Oliver, left alone, cast a timorous glance upward at thearras-covered wall, and crossed himself with every appearance ofterror and contrition.

“Nay, if he is in the chapel room,” the priestmurmured, “were it at my soul’s cost, I must savehim.”

Three minutes later, Dick, who had been summoned by anothermessenger, found Sir Oliver standing by the hall table, resoluteand pale.

“Richard Shelton,” he said, “ye haverequired an oath from me. I might complain, I might denyyou; but my heart is moved toward you for the past, and I willeven content you as ye choose. By the true cross ofHolywood, I did not slay your father.”

“Sir Oliver,” returned Dick, “when first weread John Amend-All’s paper, I was convinced of somuch. But suffer me to put two questions. Ye did notslay him; granted. But had ye no hand in it?”

“None,” said Sir Oliver. And at the sametime he began to contort his face, and signal with his mouth andeyebrows, like one who desired to convey a warning, yet dared notutter a sound.

Dick regarded him in wonder; then he turned and looked allabout him at the empty hall.

“What make ye?” he inquired.

“Why, naught,” returned the priest, hastilysmoothing his countenance. “I make naught; I do butsuffer; I am sick. I—I—prithee, Dick, I mustbegone. On the true cross of Holywood, I am clean innocentalike of violence or treachery. Content ye, good lad.Farewell!”

And he made his escape from the apartment with unusualalacrity.

Dick remained rooted to the spot, his eyes wandering about theroom, his face a changing picture of various emotions, wonder,doubt, suspicion, and amusement. Gradually, as his mindgrew clearer, suspicion took the upper hand, and was succeeded bycertainty of the worst. He raised his head, and, as he didso, violently started. High upon the wall there was thefigure of a savage hunter woven in the tapestry. With onehand he held a horn to his mouth; in the other he brandished astout spear. His face was dark, for he was meant torepresent an African.

Now, here was what had startled Richard Shelton. The sunhad moved away from the hall windows, and at the same time thefire had blazed up high on the wide hearth, and shed a changefulglow upon the roof and hangings. In this light the figureof the black hunter had winked at him with a white eyelid.

He continued staring at the eye. The light shone upon itlike a gem; it was liquid, it was alive. Again the whiteeyelid closed upon it for a fraction of a second, and the nextmoment it was gone.

There could be no mistake. The live eye that had beenwatching him through a hole in the tapestry was gone. Thefirelight no longer shone on a reflecting surface.

And instantly Dick awoke to the terrors of his position.Hatch’s warning, the mute signals of the priest, this eyethat had observed him from the wall, ran together in hismind. He saw he had been put upon his trial, that he hadonce more betrayed his suspicions, and that, short of somemiracle, he was lost.

“If I cannot get me forth out of this house,” hethought, “I am a dead man! And this poor Matcham,too—to what a cockatrice’s nest have I not ledhim!”

He was still so thinking, when there came one in haste, to bidhim help in changing his arms, his clothing, and his two or threebooks, to a new chamber.

“A new chamber?” he repeated.“Wherefore so? What chamber?”

“’Tis one above the chapel,” answered themessenger.

“It hath stood long empty,” said Dick,musing. “What manner of room is it?”

“Nay, a brave room,” returned the man.“But yet”—lowering his voice—“theycall it haunted.”

“Haunted?” repeated Dick, with a chill.“I have not heard of it. Nay, then, and bywhom?”

The messenger looked about him; and then, in a low whisper,“By the sacrist of St. John’s,” he said.“They had him there to sleep one night, and in themorning—whew!—he was gone. The devil had takenhim, they said; the more betoken, he had drunk late the nightbefore.”

Dick followed the man with black forebodings.

CHAPTER III—THE ROOM OVER THE CHAPEL

From the battlements nothing further was observed. Thesun journeyed westward, and at last went down; but, to the eyesof all these eager sentinels, no living thing appeared in theneighbourhood of Tunstall House.

When the night was at length fairly come, Throgmorton was ledto a room overlooking an angle of the moat. Thence he waslowered with every precaution; the ripple of his swimming wasaudible for a brief period; then a black figure was observed toland by the branches of a willow and crawl away among thegrass. For some half hour Sir Daniel and Hatch stoodeagerly giving ear; but all remained quiet. The messengerhad got away in safety.

Sir Daniel’s brow grew clearer. He turned toHatch.

“Bennet,” he said, “this John Amend-All isno more than a man, ye see. He sleepeth. We will makea good end of him, go to!”

All the afternoon and evening, Dick had been ordered hitherand thither, one command following another, till he wasbewildered with the number and the hurry of commissions.All that time he had seen no more of Sir Oliver, and nothing ofMatcham; and yet both the priest and the young lad rancontinually in his mind. It was now his chief purpose toescape from Tunstall Moat House as speedily as might be; and yet,before he went, he desired a word with both of these.

At length, with a lamp in one hand, he mounted to his newapartment. It was large, low, and somewhat dark. Thewindow looked upon the moat, and although it was so high up, itwas heavily barred. The bed was luxurious, with one pillowof down and one of lavender, and a red coverlet worked in apattern of roses. All about the walls were cupboards,locked and padlocked, and concealed from view by hangings ofdark-coloured arras. Dick made the round, lifting thearras, sounding the panels, seeking vainly to open thecupboards. He assured himself that the door was strong andthe bolt solid; then he set down his lamp upon a bracket, andonce more looked all around.

For what reason had he been given this chamber? It waslarger and finer than his own. Could it conceal asnare? Was there a secret entrance? Was it, indeed,haunted? His blood ran a little chilly in his veins.

Immediately over him the heavy foot of a sentry trod theleads. Below him, he knew, was the arched roof of thechapel; and next to the chapel was the hall. Certainlythere was a secret passage in the hall; the eye that had watchedhim from the arras gave him proof of that. Was it not morethan probable that the passage extended to the chapel, and, ifso, that it had an opening in his room?

To sleep in such a place, he felt, would be foolhardy.He made his weapons ready, and took his position in a corner ofthe room behind the door. If ill was intended, he wouldsell his life dear.

The sound of many feet, the challenge, and the password,sounded overhead along the battlements; the watch was beingchanged.

And just then there came a scratching at the door of thechamber; it grew a little louder; then a whisper:

“Dick, Dick, it is I!”

Dick ran to the door, drew the bolt, and admittedMatcham. He was very pale, and carried a lamp in one handand a drawn dagger in the other.

“Shut me the door,” he whispered.“Swift, Dick! This house is full of spies; I heartheir feet follow me in the corridors; I hear them breathe behindthe arras.”

“Well, content you,” returned Dick, “it isclosed. We are safe for this while, if there be safetyanywhere within these walls. But my heart is glad to seeyou. By the mass, lad, I thought ye were sped! Wherehid ye?”

“It matters not,” returned Matcham.“Since we be met, it matters not. But, Dick, are youreyes open? Have they told you of to-morrow’sdoings?”

“Not they,” replied Dick. “What makethey to-morrow?”

“To-morrow, or to-night, I know not,” said theother, “but one time or other, Dick, they do intend uponyour life. I had the proof of it; I have heard themwhisper; nay, they as good as told me.”

“Ay,” returned Dick, “is it so? I hadthought as much.”

And he told him the day’s occurrences at length.

When it was done, Matcham arose and began, in turn, to examinethe apartment.

“No,” he said, “there is no entrancevisible. Yet ’tis a pure certainty there isone. Dick, I will stay by you. An y’ are todie, I will die with you. And I can help—look!I have stolen a dagger—I will do my best! Andmeanwhile, an ye know of any issue, any sally-port we could getopened, or any window that we might descend by, I will mostjoyfully face any jeopardy to flee with you.”

“Jack,” said Dick, “by the mass, Jack,y’ are the best soul, and the truest, and the bravest inall England! Give me your hand, Jack.”

And he grasped the other’s hand in silence.

“I will tell you,” he resumed. “Thereis a window, out of which the messenger descended; the ropeshould still be in the chamber. ’Tis ahope.”

“Hist!” said Matcham.

Both gave ear. There was a sound below the floor; thenit paused, and then began again.

“Some one walketh in the room below,” whisperedMatcham.

“Nay,” returned Dick, “there is no roombelow; we are above the chapel. It is my murderer in thesecret passage. Well, let him come; it shall go hard withhim;” and he ground his teeth.

“Blow me the lights out,” said the other.“Perchance he will betray himself.”

They blew out both the lamps and lay still as death. Thefootfalls underneath were very soft, but they were clearlyaudible. Several times they came and went; and then therewas a loud jar of a key turning in a lock, followed by aconsiderable silence.

Presently the steps began again, and then, all of a sudden, achink of light appeared in the planking of the room in a farcorner. It widened; a trap-door was being opened, lettingin a gush of light. They could see the strong hand pushingit up; and Dick raised his cross-bow, waiting for the head tofollow.

But now there came an interruption. From a distantcorner of the Moat House shouts began to be heard, and first onevoice, and then several, crying aloud upon a name. Thisnoise had plainly disconcerted the murderer, for the trap-doorwas silently lowered to its place, and the steps hurriedlyreturned, passed once more close below the lads, and died away inthe distance.

Here was a moment’s respite. Dick breathed deep,and then, and not till then, he gave ear to the disturbance whichhad interrupted the attack, and which was now rather increasingthan diminishing. All about the Moat House feet wererunning, doors were opening and slamming, and still the voice ofSir Daniel towered above all this bustle, shouting for“Joanna.”

“Joanna!” repeated Dick. “Why, who themurrain should this be? Here is no Joanna, nor ever hathbeen. What meaneth it?”

Matcham was silent. He seemed to have drawn furtheraway. But only a little faint starlight entered by thewindow, and at the far end of the apartment, where the pair were,the darkness was complete.

“Jack,” said Dick, “I wot not where ye wereall day. Saw ye this Joanna?”

“Nay,” returned Matcham, “I saw hernot.”

“Nor heard tell of her?” he pursued.

The steps drew nearer. Sir Daniel was still roaring thename of Joanna from the courtyard.

“Did ye hear of her?” repeated Dick.

“I heard of her,” said Matcham.

“How your voice twitters! What aileth you?”said Dick. “’Tis a most excellent good fortune,this Joanna; it will take their minds from us.”

“Dick,” cried Matcham, “I am lost; we areboth lost. Let us flee if there be yet time. Theywill not rest till they have found me. Or, see! let me goforth; when they have found me, ye may flee. Let me forth,Dick—good Dick, let me away!”

She was groping for the bolt, when Dick at lastcomprehended.

“By the mass!” he cried, “y’ are noJack; y’ are Joanna Sedley; y’ are the maid thatwould not marry me!”

The girl paused, and stood silent and motionless. Dick,too, was silent for a little; then he spoke again.

“Joanna,” he said, “y’ ’avesaved my life, and I have saved yours; and we have seen bloodflow, and been friends and enemies—ay, and I took my beltto thrash you; and all that time I thought ye were a boy.But now death has me, and my time’s out, and before I die Imust say this: Y’ are the best maid and the bravest underheaven, and, if only I could live, I would marry you blithely;and, live or die, I love you.”

She answered nothing.

“Come,” he said, “speak up, Jack.Come, be a good maid, and say ye love me!”

“Why, Dick,” she cried, “would I behere?”

“Well, see ye here,” continued Dick, “an webut escape whole we’ll marry; and an we’re to die, wedie, and there’s an end on’t. But now that Ithink, how found ye my chamber?”

“I asked it of Dame Hatch,” she answered.

“Well, the dame’s staunch,” he answered;“she’ll not tell upon you. We have time beforeus.”

And just then, as if to contradict his words, feet came downthe corridor, and a fist beat roughly on the door.

“Here!” cried a voice. “Open, MasterDick; open!” Dick neither moved nor answered.

“It is all over,” said the girl; and she put herarms about Dick’s neck.

One after another, men came trooping to the door. ThenSir Daniel arrived himself, and there was a sudden cessation ofthe noise.

“Dick,” cried the knight, “be not anass. The Seven Sleepers had been awake ere now. Weknow she is within there. Open, then, the door,man.”

Dick was again silent.

“Down with it,” said Sir Daniel. Andimmediately his followers fell savagely upon the door with footand fist. Solid as it was, and strongly bolted, it wouldsoon have given way; but once more fortune interfered. Overthe thunderstorm of blows the cry of a sentinel was heard; it wasfollowed by another; shouts ran along the battlements, shoutsanswered out of the wood. In the first moment of alarm itsounded as if the foresters were carrying the Moat House byassault. And Sir Daniel and his men, desisting instantlyfrom their attack upon Dick’s chamber, hurried to defendthe walls.

“Now,” cried Dick, “we are saved.”

He seized the great old bedstead with both hands, and benthimself in vain to move it.

“Help me, Jack. For your life’s sake, helpme stoutly!” he cried.

Between them, with a huge effort, they dragged the big frameof oak across the room, and thrust it endwise to the chamberdoor.

“Ye do but make things worse,” said Joanna,sadly. “He will then enter by the trap.”

“Not so,” replied Dick. “He durst nottell his secret to so many. It is by the trap that we shallflee. Hark! The attack is over. Nay, it wasnone!”

It had, indeed, been no attack; it was the arrival of anotherparty of stragglers from the defeat of Risingham that haddisturbed Sir Daniel. They had run the gauntlet under coverof the darkness; they had been admitted by the great gate; andnow, with a great stamping of hoofs and jingle of accoutrementsand arms, they were dismounting in the court.

“He will return anon,” said Dick. “Tothe trap!”

He lighted a lamp, and they went together into the corner ofthe room. The open chink through which some light stillglittered was easily discovered, and, taking a stout sword fromhis small armoury, Dick thrust it deep into the seam, and weighedstrenuously on the hilt. The trap moved, gaped a little,and at length came widely open. Seizing it with theirhands, the two young folk threw it back. It disclosed a fewsteps descending, and at the foot of them, where the would-bemurderer had left it, a burning lamp.

“Now,” said Dick, “go first and take thelamp. I will follow to close the trap.”

So they descended one after the other, and as Dick lowered thetrap, the blows began once again to thunder on the panels of thedoor.

CHAPTER IV—THE PASSAGE

The passage in which Dick and Joanna now found themselves wasnarrow, dirty, and short. At the other end of it, a doorstood partly open; the same door, without doubt, that they hadheard the man unlocking. Heavy cobwebs hung from the roof;and the paved flooring echoed hollow under the lightesttread.

Beyond the door there were two branches, at rightangles. Dick chose one of them at random, and the pairhurried, with echoing footsteps, along the hollow of the chapelroof. The top of the arched ceiling rose like awhale’s back in the dim glimmer of the lamp. Here andthere were spyholes, concealed, on the other side, by the carvingof the cornice; and looking down through one of these, Dick sawthe paved floor of the chapel—the altar, with its burningtapers—and stretched before it on the steps, the figure ofSir Oliver praying with uplifted hands.

At the other end, they descended a few steps. Thepassage grew narrower; the wall upon one hand was now of wood;the noise of people talking, and a faint flickering of lights,came through the interstices; and presently they came to a roundhole about the size of a man’s eye, and Dick, looking downthrough it, beheld the interior of the hall, and some half adozen men sitting, in their jacks, about the table, drinking deepand demolishing a venison pie. These were certainly some ofthe late arrivals.

“Here is no help,” said Dick. “Let ustry back.”

“Nay,” said Joanna; “maybe the passage goethfarther.”

And she pushed on. But a few yards farther the passageended at the top of a short flight of steps; and it became plainthat, as long as the soldiers occupied the hall, escape wasimpossible upon that side.

They retraced their steps with all imaginable speed, and setforward to explore the other branch. It was exceedinglynarrow, scarce wide enough for a large man; and it led themcontinually up and down by little break-neck stairs, until evenDick had lost all notion of his whereabouts.

At length it grew both narrower and lower; the stairscontinued to descend; the walls on either hand became damp andslimy to the touch; and far in front of them they heard thesqueaking and scuttling of the rats.

“We must be in the dungeons,” Dick remarked.

“And still there is no outlet,” added Joanna.

“Nay, but an outlet there must be!” Dickanswered. Presently, sure enough, they came to a sharpangle, and then the passage ended in a flight of steps. Onthe top of that there was a solid flag of stone by way of trap,and to this they both set their backs. It wasimmovable. “Some one holdeth it,” suggestedJoanna.

“Not so,” said Dick; “for were a man strongas ten, he must still yield a little. But this resistethlike dead rock. There is a weight upon the trap. Hereis no issue; and, by my sooth, good Jack, we are here as fairlyprisoners as though the gyves were on our ankle bones. Sitye then down, and let us talk. After a while we shallreturn, when perchance they shall be less carefully upon theirguard; and, who knoweth? we may break out and stand achance. But, in my poor opinion, we are as good asshent.”

“Dick!” she cried, “alas the day that everye should have seen me! For like a most unhappy andunthankful maid, it is I have led you hither.”

“What cheer!” returned Dick. “It wasall written, and that which is written, willy nilly, cometh stillto pass. But tell me a little what manner of a maid ye are,and how ye came into Sir Daniel’s hands; that will dobetter than to bemoan yourself, whether for your sake ormine.”

“I am an orphan, like yourself, of father andmother,” said Joanna; “and for my great misfortune,Dick, and hitherto for yours, I am a rich marriage. My LordFoxham had me to ward; yet it appears Sir Daniel bought themarriage of me from the king, and a right dear price he paid forit. So here was I, poor babe, with two great and rich menfighting which should marry me, and I still at nurse! Well,then the world changed, and there was a new chancellor, and SirDaniel bought the warding of me over the Lord Foxham’shead. And then the world changed again, and Lord Foxhambought my marriage over Sir Daniel’s; and from then to nowit went on ill betwixt the two of them. But still LordFoxham kept me in his hands, and was a good lord to me. Andat last I was to be married—or sold, if ye like itbetter. Five hundred pounds Lord Foxham was to get forme. Hamley was the groom’s name, and to-morrow, Dick,of all days in the year, was I to be betrothed. Had it notcome to Sir Daniel, I had been wedded, sure—and never seenthee, Dick—dear Dick!”

And here she took his hand, and kissed it, with the prettiestgrace; and Dick drew her hand to him and did the like.

“Well,” she went on, “Sir Daniel took meunawares in the garden, and made me dress in these men’sclothes, which is a deadly sin for a woman; and, besides, theyfit me not. He rode with me to Kettley, as ye saw, tellingme I was to marry you; but I, in my heart, made sure I wouldmarry Hamley in his teeth.”

“Ay!” cried Dick, “and so ye loved thisHamley!”

“Nay,” replied Joanna, “not I. I didbut hate Sir Daniel. And then, Dick, ye helped me, and yewere right kind, and very bold, and my heart turned towards youin mine own despite; and now, if we can in any way compass it, Iwould marry you with right goodwill. And if, by crueldestiny, it may not be, still ye’ll be dear to me.While my heart beats, it’ll be true to you.”

“And I,” said Dick, “that never cared astraw for any manner of woman until now, I took to you when Ithought ye were a boy. I had a pity to you, and knew notwhy. When I would have belted you, the hand failedme. But when ye owned ye were a maid, Jack—for stillI will call you Jack—I made sure ye were the maid forme. Hark!” he said, breaking off—“onecometh.”

And indeed a heavy tread was now audible in the echoingpassage, and the rats again fled in armies.

Dick reconnoitred his position. The sudden turn gave hima post of vantage. He could thus shoot in safety from thecover of the wall. But it was plain the light was too nearhim, and, running some way forward, he set down the lamp in themiddle of the passage, and then returned to watch.

Presently, at the far end of the passage, Bennet hove insight. He seemed to be alone, and he carried in his hand aburning torch, which made him the better mark.

“Stand, Bennet!” cried Dick. “Anotherstep, and y’ are dead.”

“So here ye are,” returned Hatch, peering forwardinto the darkness. “I see you not. Aha!y’ ’ave done wisely, Dick; y’ ’ave putyour lamp before you. By my sooth, but, though it was doneto shoot my own knave body, I do rejoice to see ye profit of mylessons! And now, what make ye? what seek ye here?Why would ye shoot upon an old, kind friend? And have yethe young gentlewoman there?”

“Nay, Bennet, it is I should question and youanswer,” replied Dick. “Why am I in thisjeopardy of my life? Why do men come privily to slay me inmy bed? Why am I now fleeing in mine own guardian’sstrong house, and from the friends that I have lived among andnever injured?”

“Master Dick, Master Dick,” said Bennet,“what told I you? Y’ are brave, but the mostuncrafty lad that I can think upon!”

“Well,” returned Dick, “I see ye know all,and that I am doomed indeed. It is well. Here, whereI am, I stay. Let Sir Daniel get me out if he beable!”

Hatch was silent for a space.

“Hark ye,” he began, “return to Sir Daniel,to tell him where ye are, and how posted; for, in truth, it wasto that end he sent me. But you, if ye are no fool, hadbest be gone ere I return.”

“Begone!” repeated Dick. “I would begone already, an’ I wist how. I cannot move thetrap.”

“Put me your hand into the corner, and see what ye findthere,” replied Bennet. “Throgmorton’srope is still in the brown chamber. Fare yewell.”

And Hatch, turning upon his heel, disappeared again into thewindings of the passage.

Dick instantly returned for his lamp, and proceeded to actupon the hint. At one corner of the trap there was a deepcavity in the wall. Pushing his arm into the aperture, Dickfound an iron bar, which he thrust vigorously upwards.There followed a snapping noise, and the slab of stone instantlystarted in its bed.

They were free of the passage. A little exercise ofstrength easily raised the trap; and they came forth into avaulted chamber, opening on one hand upon the court, where one ortwo fellows, with bare arms, were rubbing down the horses of thelast arrivals. A torch or two, each stuck in an iron ringagainst the wall, changefully lit up the scene.

CHAPTER V—HOW DICK CHANGED SIDES

Dick, blowing out his lamp lest it should attract attention,led the way up-stairs and along the corridor. In the brownchamber the rope had been made fast to the frame of an exceedingheavy and ancient bed. It had not been detached, and Dick,taking the coil to the window, began to lower it slowly andcautiously into the darkness of the night. Joan stood by;but as the rope lengthened, and still Dick continued to pay itout, extreme fear began to conquer her resolution.

“Dick,” she said, “is it so deep? Imay not essay it. I should infallibly fall, good Dick.”

It was just at the delicate moment of the operations that shespoke. Dick started; the remainder of the coil slipped fromhis grasp, and the end fell with a splash into the moat.Instantly, from the battlement above, the voice of a sentinelcried, “Who goes?”

“A murrain!” cried Dick. “We are paidnow! Down with you—take the rope.”

“I cannot,” she cried, recoiling.

“An ye cannot, no more can I,” said Shelton.“How can I swim the moat without you? Do you desertme, then?”

“Dick,” she gasped, “I cannot. Thestrength is gone from me.”

“By the mass, then, we are all shent!” he shouted,stamping with his foot; and then, hearing steps, he ran to theroom door and sought to close it.

Before he could shoot the bolt, strong arms were thrusting itback upon him from the other side. He struggled for asecond; then, feeling himself overpowered, ran back to thewindow. The girl had fallen against the wall in theembrasure of the window; she was more than half insensible; andwhen he tried to raise her in his arms, her body was limp andunresponsive.

At the same moment the men who had forced the door against himlaid hold upon him. The first he poinarded at a blow, andthe others falling back for a second in some disorder, heprofited by the chance, bestrode the window-sill, seized the cordin both hands, and let his body slip.

The cord was knotted, which made it the easier to descend; butso furious was Dick’s hurry, and so small his experience ofsuch gymnastics, that he span round and round in mid-air like acriminal upon a gibbet, and now beat his head, and now bruisedhis hands, against the rugged stonework of the wall. Theair roared in his ears; he saw the stars overhead, and thereflected stars below him in the moat, whirling like dead leavesbefore the tempest. And then he lost hold, and fell, andsoused head over ears into the icy water.

When he came to the surface his hand encountered the rope,which, newly lightened of his weight, was swinging wildly to andfro. There was a red glow overhead, and looking up, he saw,by the light of several torches and a cresset full of burningcoals, the battlements lined with faces. He saw themen’s eyes turning hither and thither in quest of him; buthe was too far below, the light reached him not, and they lookedin vain.

And now he perceived that the rope was considerably too long,and he began to struggle as well as he could towards the otherside of the moat, still keeping his head above water. Inthis way he got much more than halfway over; indeed the bank wasalmost within reach, before the rope began to draw him back byits own weight. Taking his courage in both hands, he leftgo and made a leap for the trailing sprays of willow that hadalready, that same evening, helped Sir Daniel’s messengerto land. He went down, rose again, sank a second time, andthen his hand caught a branch, and with the speed of thought hehad dragged himself into the thick of the tree and clung there,dripping and panting, and still half uncertain of his escape.

But all this had not been done without a considerablesplashing, which had so far indicated his position to the menalong the battlements. Arrows and quarrels fell thickaround him in the darkness, thick like driving hail; and suddenlya torch was thrown down—flared through the air in its swiftpassage—stuck for a moment on the edge of the bank, whereit burned high and lit up its whole surroundings like abonfire—and then, in a good hour for Dick, slipped off,plumped into the moat, and was instantly extinguished.

It had served its purpose. The marksmen had had time tosee the willow, and Dick ensconced among its boughs; and thoughthe lad instantly sprang higher up the bank, and ran for hislife, he was yet not quick enough to escape a shot. Anarrow struck him in the shoulder, another grazed his head.

The pain of his wounds lent him wings; and he had no soonergot upon the level than he took to his heels and ran straightbefore him in the dark, without a thought for the direction ofhis flight.

For a few steps missiles followed him, but these soon ceased;and when at length he came to a halt and looked behind, he wasalready a good way from the Moat House, though he could still seethe torches moving to and fro along its battlements.

He leaned against a tree, streaming with blood and water,bruised, wounded, alone, and unarmed. For all that, he hadsaved his life for that bout; and though Joanna remained behindin the power of Sir Daniel, he neither blamed himself for anaccident that it had been beyond his power to prevent, nor did heaugur any fatal consequences to the girl herself. SirDaniel was cruel, but he was not likely to be cruel to a younggentlewoman who had other protectors, willing and able to bringhim to account. It was more probable he would make haste tomarry her to some friend of his own.

“Well,” thought Dick, “between then and nowI will find me the means to bring that traitor under; for Ithink, by the mass, that I be now absolved from any gratitude orobligation; and when war is open, there is a fair chance forall.”

In the meanwhile, here he was in a sore plight.

For some little way farther he struggled forward through theforest; but what with the pain of his wounds, the darkness of thenight, and the extreme uneasiness and confusion of his mind, hesoon became equally unable to guide himself or to continue topush through the close undergrowth, and he was fain at length tosit down and lean his back against a tree.

When he awoke from something betwixt sleep and swooning, thegrey of the morning had begun to take the place of night. Alittle chilly breeze was bustling among the trees, and as hestill sat staring before him, only half awake, he became aware ofsomething dark that swung to and fro among the branches, somehundred yards in front of him. The progressive brighteningof the day and the return of his own senses at last enabled himto recognise the object. It was a man hanging from thebough of a tall oak. His head had fallen forward on hisbreast; but at every stronger puff of wind his body span roundand round, and his legs and arms tossed, like some ridiculousplaything.

Dick clambered to his feet, and, staggering and leaning on thetree-trunks as he went, drew near to this grim object.

The bough was perhaps twenty feet above the ground, and thepoor fellow had been drawn up so high by his executioners thathis boots swung clear above Dick’s reach; and as his hoodhad been drawn over his face, it was impossible to recognise theman.

Dick looked about him right and left; and at last he perceivedthat the other end of the cord had been made fast to the trunk ofa little hawthorn which grew, thick with blossom, under the loftyarcade of the oak. With his dagger, which alone remained tohim of all his arms, young Shelton severed the rope, andinstantly, with a dead thump, the corpse fell in a heap upon theground.

Dick raised the hood; it was Throgmorton, Sir Daniel’smessenger. He had not gone far upon his errand. Apaper, which had apparently escaped the notice of the men of theBlack Arrow, stuck from the bosom of his doublet, and Dick,pulling it forth, found it was Sir Daniel’s letter to LordWensleydale.

“Come,” thought he, “if the world changesyet again, I may have here the wherewithal to shame SirDaniel—nay, and perchance to bring him to theblock.”

And he put the paper in his own bosom, said a prayer over thedead man, and set forth again through the woods.

His fatigue and weakness increased; his ears sang, his stepsfaltered, his mind at intervals failed him, so low had he beenbrought by loss of blood. Doubtless he made many deviationsfrom his true path, but at last he came out upon the high-road,not very far from Tunstall hamlet.

A rough voice bid him stand.

“Stand?” repeated Dick. “By the mass,but I am nearer falling.”

And he suited the action to the word, and fell all his lengthupon the road.

Two men came forth out of the thicket, each in green forestjerkin, each with long-bow and quiver and short sword.

“Why, Lawless,” said the younger of the two,“it is young Shelton.”

“Ay, this will be as good as bread to JohnAmend-All,” returned the other. “Though, faith,he hath been to the wars. Here is a tear in his scalp thatmust ’a’ cost him many a good ounce ofblood.”

“And here,” added Greensheve, “is a hole inhis shoulder that must have pricked him well. Who hath donethis, think ye? If it be one of ours, he may all to prayer;Ellis will give him a short shrift and a long rope.”

“Up with the cub,” said Lawless. “Claphim on my back.”

And then, when Dick had been hoisted to his shoulders, and hehad taken the lad’s arms about his neck, and got a firmhold of him, the ex-Grey Friar added:

“Keep ye the post, brother Greensheve. I will onwith him by myself.”

So Greensheve returned to his ambush on the wayside, andLawless trudged down the hill, whistling as he went, with Dick,still in a dead faint, comfortably settled on his shoulders.

The sun rose as he came out of the skirts of the wood and sawTunstall hamlet straggling up the opposite hill. All seemedquiet, but a strong post of some half a score of archers layclose by the bridge on either side of the road, and, as soon asthey perceived Lawless with his burthen, began to bestirthemselves and set arrow to string like vigilant sentries.

“Who goes?” cried the man in command.

“Will Lawless, by the rood—ye know me as well asyour own hand,” returned the outlaw, contemptuously.

“Give the word, Lawless,” returned the other.

“Now, Heaven lighten thee, thou great fool,”replied Lawless. “Did I not tell it theemyself? But ye are all mad for this playing atsoldiers. When I am in the greenwood, give me greenwoodways; and my word for this tide is: ‘A fig for all mocksoldiery!’”

“Lawless, ye but show an ill example; give us the word,fool jester,” said the commander of the post.

“And if I had forgotten it?” asked the other.

“An ye had forgotten it—as I know y’’ave not—by the mass, I would clap an arrow into yourbig body,” returned the first.

“Nay, an y’ are so ill a jester,” saidLawless, “ye shall have your word for me.‘Duckworth and Shelton’ is the word; and here, to theillustration, is Shelton on my shoulders, and to Duckworth do Icarry him.”

“Pass, Lawless,” said the sentry.

“And where is John?” asked the Grey Friar.

“He holdeth a court, by the mass, and taketh rents as tothe manner born!” cried another of the company.

So it proved. When Lawless got as far up the village asthe little inn, he found Ellis Duckworth surrounded by SirDaniel’s tenants, and, by the right of his good company ofarchers, coolly taking rents, and giving written receipts inreturn for them. By the faces of the tenants, it was plainhow little this proceeding pleased them; for they argued veryrightly that they would simply have to pay them twice.

As soon as he knew what had brought Lawless, Ellis dismissedthe remainder of the tenants, and, with every mark of interestand apprehension, conducted Dick into an inner chamber of theinn. There the lad’s hurts were looked to; and he wasrecalled, by simple remedies, to consciousness.

“Dear lad,” said Ellis, pressing his hand,“y’ are in a friend’s hands that loved yourfather, and loves you for his sake. Rest ye a littlequietly, for ye are somewhat out of case. Then shall yetell me your story, and betwixt the two of us we shall find aremedy for all.”

A little later in the day, and after Dick had awakened from acomfortable slumber to find himself still very weak, but clearerin mind and easier in body, Ellis returned, and sitting down bythe bedside, begged him, in the name of his father, to relate thecircumstance of his escape from Tunstall Moat House. Therewas something in the strength of Duckworth’s frame, in thehonesty of his brown face, in the clearness and shrewdness of hiseyes, that moved Dick to obey him; and from first to last the ladtold him the story of his two days’ adventures.

“Well,” said Ellis, when he had done, “seewhat the kind saints have done for you, Dick Shelton, not aloneto save your body in so numerous and deadly perils, but to bringyou into my hands that have no dearer wish than to assist yourfather’s son. Be but true to me—and I seey’ are true—and betwixt you and me, we shall bringthat false-heart traitor to the death.”

“Will ye assault the house?” asked Dick.

“I were mad, indeed, to think of it,” returnedEllis. “He hath too much power; his men gather tohim; those that gave me the slip last night, and by the mass camein so handily for you—those have made him safe. Nay,Dick, to the contrary, thou and I and my brave bowmen, we mustall slip from this forest speedily, and leave Sir Danielfree.”

“My mind misgiveth me for Jack,” said the lad.

“For Jack!” repeated Duckworth. “O, Isee, for the wench! Nay, Dick, I promise you, if there cometalk of any marriage we shall act at once; till then, or till thetime is ripe, we shall all disappear, even like shadows atmorning; Sir Daniel shall look east and west, and see noneenemies; he shall think, by the mass, that he hath dreamedawhile, and hath now awakened in his bed. But our foureyes, Dick, shall follow him right close, and our fourhands—so help us all the army of the saints!—shallbring that traitor low!”

Two days later Sir Daniel’s garrison had grown to such astrength that he ventured on a sally, and at the head of some twoscore horsemen, pushed without opposition as far as Tunstallhamlet. Not an arrow flew, not a man stirred in thethicket; the bridge was no longer guarded, but stood open to allcorners; and as Sir Daniel crossed it, he saw the villagerslooking timidly from their doors.

Presently one of them, taking heart of grace, came forward,and with the lowliest salutations, presented a letter to theknight.

His face darkened as he read the contents. It ranthus:

To the most untrue and cruel gentylman,Sir Daniel Brackley, Knyght, These:

I fynde ye were untrue and unkynd fro the first. Ye havemy father’s blood upon your hands; let be, it will notwasshe. Some day ye shall perish by my procurement, so muchI let you to wytte; and I let you to wytte farther, that if yeseek to wed to any other the gentylwoman, Mistresse Joan Sedley,whom that I am bound upon a great oath to wed myself, the blowwill be very swift. The first step therinne will be thyfirst step to the grave.

Ric.Shelton.

BOOK III—MY LORD FOXHAM

CHAPTER I—THE HOUSE BY THE SHORE

Months had passed away since Richard Shelton made his escapefrom the hands of his guardian. These months had beeneventful for England. The party of Lancaster, which wasthen in the very article of death, had once more raised itshead. The Yorkists defeated and dispersed, their leaderbutchered on the field, it seemed,—for a very brief seasonin the winter following upon the events already recorded, as ifthe House of Lancaster had finally triumphed over its foes.

The small town of Shoreby-on-the-Till was full of theLancastrian nobles of the neighbourhood. Earl Risingham wasthere, with three hundred men-at-arms; Lord Shoreby, with twohundred; Sir Daniel himself, high in favour and once more growingrich on confiscations, lay in a house of his own, on the mainstreet, with three-score men. The world had changedindeed.

It was a black, bitter cold evening in the first week ofJanuary, with a hard frost, a high wind, and every likelihood ofsnow before the morning.

In an obscure alehouse in a by-street near the harbour, threeor four men sat drinking ale and eating a hasty mess ofeggs. They were all likely, lusty, weather-beaten fellows,hard of hand, bold of eye; and though they wore plain tabards,like country ploughmen, even a drunken soldier might have lookedtwice before he sought a quarrel in such company.

A little apart before the huge fire sat a younger man, almosta boy, dressed in much the same fashion, though it was easy tosee by his looks that he was better born, and might have worn asword, had the time suited.

“Nay,” said one of the men at the table, “Ilike it not. Ill will come of it. This is no placefor jolly fellows. A jolly fellow loveth open country, goodcover, and scarce foes; but here we are shut in a town, girtabout with enemies; and, for the bull’s-eye of misfortune,see if it snow not ere the morning.”

“’Tis for Master Shelton there,” saidanother, nodding his head towards the lad before the fire.

“I will do much for Master Shelton,” returned thefirst; “but to come to the gallows for any man—nay,brothers, not that!”

The door of the inn opened, and another man entered hastilyand approached the youth before the fire.

“Master Shelton,” he said, “Sir Daniel goethforth with a pair of links and four archers.”

Dick (for this was our young friend) rose instantly to hisfeet.

“Lawless,” he said, “ye will take JohnCapper’s watch. Greensheve, follow with me.Capper, lead forward. We will follow him this time, an hego to York.”

The next moment they were outside in the dark street, andCapper, the man who had just come, pointed to where two torchesflared in the wind at a little distance.

The town was already sound asleep; no one moved upon thestreets, and there was nothing easier than to follow the partywithout observation. The two link-bearers went first; nextfollowed a single man, whose long cloak blew about him in thewind; and the rear was brought up by the four archers, each withhis bow upon his arm. They moved at a brisk walk, threadingthe intricate lanes and drawing nearer to the shore.

“He hath gone each night in this direction?” askedDick, in a whisper.

“This is the third night running, Master Shelton,”returned Capper, “and still at the same hour and with thesame small following, as though his end were secret.”

Sir Daniel and his six men were now come to the outskirts ofthe country. Shoreby was an open town, and though theLancastrian lords who lay there kept a strong guard on the mainroads, it was still possible to enter or depart unseen by any ofthe lesser streets or across the open country.

The lane which Sir Daniel had been following came to an abruptend. Before him there was a stretch of rough down, and thenoise of the sea-surf was audible upon one hand. There wereno guards in the neighbourhood, nor any light in that quarter ofthe town.

Dick and his two outlaws drew a little closer to the object oftheir chase, and presently, as they came forth from between thehouses and could see a little farther upon either hand, they wereaware of another torch drawing near from another direction.

“Hey,” said Dick, “I smelltreason.”

Meanwhile, Sir Daniel had come to a full halt. Thetorches were stuck into the sand, and the men lay down, as if toawait the arrival of the other party.

This drew near at a good rate. It consisted of four menonly—a pair of archers, a varlet with a link, and a cloakedgentleman walking in their midst.

“Is it you, my lord?” cried Sir Daniel.

“It is I, indeed; and if ever true knight gave proof Iam that man,” replied the leader of the second troop;“for who would not rather face giants, sorcerers, orpagans, than this pinching cold?”

“My lord,” returned Sir Daniel, “beauty willbe the more beholden, misdoubt it not. But shall we forth?for the sooner ye have seen my merchandise, the sooner shall weboth get home.”

“But why keep ye her here, good knight?” inquiredthe other. “An she be so young, and so fair, and sowealthy, why do ye not bring her forth among her mates? Yewould soon make her a good marriage, and no need to freeze yourfingers and risk arrow-shots by going abroad at such untimelyseasons in the dark.”

“I have told you, my lord,” replied Sir Daniel,“the reason thereof concerneth me only. Neither do Ipurpose to explain it farther. Suffice it, that if ye beweary of your old gossip, Daniel Brackley, publish it abroad thaty’ are to wed Joanna Sedley, and I give you my word ye willbe quit of him right soon. Ye will find him with an arrowin his back.”

Meantime the two gentlemen were walking briskly forward overthe down; the three torches going before them, stooping againstthe wind and scattering clouds of smoke and tufts of flame, andthe rear brought up by the six archers.

Close upon the heels of these, Dick followed. He had, ofcourse, heard no word of this conversation; but he had recognisedin the second of the speakers old Lord Shoreby himself, a man ofan infamous reputation, whom even Sir Daniel affected, in public,to condemn.

Presently they came close down upon the beach. The airsmelt salt; the noise of the surf increased; and here, in a largewalled garden, there stood a small house of two storeys, withstables and other offices.

The foremost torch-bearer unlocked a door in the wall, andafter the whole party had passed into the garden, again closedand locked it on the other side.

Dick and his men were thus excluded from any fartherfollowing, unless they should scale the wall and thus put theirnecks in a trap.

They sat down in a tuft of furze and waited. The redglow of the torches moved up and down and to and fro within theenclosure, as if the link bearers steadily patrolled thegarden.

Twenty minutes passed, and then the whole party issued forthagain upon the down; and Sir Daniel and the baron, after anelaborate salutation, separated and turned severally homeward,each with his own following of men and lights.

As soon as the sound of their steps had been swallowed by thewind, Dick got to his feet as briskly as he was able, for he wasstiff and aching with the cold.

“Capper, ye will give me a back up,” he said.

They advanced, all three, to the wall; Capper stooped, andDick, getting upon his shoulders, clambered on to thecope-stone.

“Now, Greensheve,” whispered Dick, “followme up here; lie flat upon your face, that ye may be the lessseen; and be ever ready to give me a hand if I fall foully on theother side.”

And so saying he dropped into the garden.

It was all pitch dark; there was no light in the house.The wind whistled shrill among the poor shrubs, and the surf beatupon the beach; there was no other sound. Cautiously Dickfooted it forth, stumbling among bushes, and groping with hishands; and presently the crisp noise of gravel underfoot told himthat he had struck upon an alley.

Here he paused, and taking his crossbow from where he kept itconcealed under his long tabard, he prepared it for instantaction, and went forward once more with greater resolution andassurance. The path led him straight to the group ofbuildings.

All seemed to be sorely dilapidated: the windows of the housewere secured by crazy shutters; the stables were open and empty;there was no hay in the hay-loft, no corn in the corn-box.Any one would have supposed the place to be deserted. ButDick had good reason to think otherwise. He continued hisinspection, visiting the offices, trying all the windows.At length he came round to the sea-side of the house, and there,sure enough, there burned a pale light in one of the upperwindows.

He stepped back a little way, till he thought he could see themovement of a shadow on the wall of the apartment. Then heremembered that, in the stable, his groping hand had rested for amoment on a ladder, and he returned with all despatch to bringit. The ladder was very short, but yet, by standing on thetopmost round, he could bring his hands as high as the iron barsof the window; and seizing these, he raised his body by mainforce until his eyes commanded the interior of the room.

Two persons were within; the first he readily knew to be DameHatch; the second, a tall and beautiful and grave young lady, ina long, embroidered dress—could that be Joanna Sedley? hisold wood-companion, Jack, whom he had thought to punish with abelt?

He dropped back again to the top round of the ladder in a kindof amazement. He had never thought of his sweetheart as ofso superior a being, and he was instantly taken with a feeling ofdiffidence. But he had little opportunity forthought. A low “Hist!” sounded from close by,and he hastened to descend the ladder.

“Who goes?” he whispered.

“Greensheve,” came the reply, in tones similarlyguarded.

“What want ye?” asked Dick.

“The house is watched, Master Shelton,” returnedthe outlaw. “We are not alone to watch it; for evenas I lay on my belly on the wall I saw men prowling in the dark,and heard them whistle softly one to the other.”

“By my sooth,” said Dick, “but this ispassing strange! Were they not men of SirDaniel’s?”

“Nay, sir, that they were not,” returnedGreensheve; “for if I have eyes in my head, every man-Jackof them weareth me a white badge in his bonnet, somethingchequered with dark.”

“White, chequered with dark,” repeated Dick.“Faith, ’tis a badge I know not. It is none ofthis country’s badges. Well, an that be so, let usslip as quietly forth from this garden as we may; for here we arein an evil posture for defence. Beyond all question thereare men of Sir Daniel’s in that house, and to be takenbetween two shots is a beggarman’s position. Take methis ladder; I must leave it where I found it.”

They returned the ladder to the stable, and groped their wayto the place where they had entered.

Capper had taken Greensheve’s position on the cope, andnow he leaned down his hand, and, first one and then the other,pulled them up.

Cautiously and silently, they dropped again upon the otherside; nor did they dare to speak until they had returned to theirold ambush in the gorse.

“Now, John Capper,” said Dick, “back withyou to Shoreby, even as for your life. Bring me instantlywhat men ye can collect. Here shall be the rendezvous; orif the men be scattered and the day be near at hand before theymuster, let the place be something farther back, and by theentering in of the town. Greensheve and I lie here towatch. Speed ye, John Capper, and the saints aid you todespatch. And now, Greensheve,” he continued, as soonas Capper had departed, “let thou and I go round about thegarden in a wide circuit. I would fain see whether thineeyes betrayed thee.”

Keeping well outwards from the wall, and profiting by everyheight and hollow, they passed about two sides, beholdingnothing. On the third side the garden wall was built closeupon the beach, and to preserve the distance necessary to theirpurpose, they had to go some way down upon the sands.Although the tide was still pretty far out, the surf was so high,and the sands so flat, that at each breaker a great sheet offroth and water came careering over the expanse, and Dick andGreensheve made this part of their inspection wading, now to theankles, and now as deep as to the knees, in the salt and icywaters of the German Ocean.

Suddenly, against the comparative whiteness of the gardenwall, the figure of a man was seen, like a faint Chinese shadow,violently signalling with both arms. As he dropped again tothe earth, another arose a little farther on and repeated thesame performance. And so, like a silent watch word, thesegesticulations made the round of the beleaguered garden.

“They keep good watch,” Dick whispered.

“Let us back to land, good master,” answeredGreensheve. “We stand here too open; for, look ye,when the seas break heavy and white out there behind us, theyshall see us plainly against the foam.”

“Ye speak sooth,” returned Dick.“Ashore with us, right speedily.”

CHAPTER II—A SKIRMISH IN THE DARK

Thoroughly drenched and chilled, the two adventurers returnedto their position in the gorse.

“I pray Heaven that Capper make good speed!” saidDick. “I vow a candle to St. Mary of Shoreby if hecome before the hour!”

“Y’ are in a hurry, Master Dick?” askedGreensheve.

“Ay, good fellow,” answered Dick; “for inthat house lieth my lady, whom I love, and who should these bethat lie about her secretly by night? Unfriends, forsure!”

“Well,” returned Greensheve, “an John comespeedily, we shall give a good account of them. They arenot two score at the outside—I judge so by the spacing oftheir sentries—and, taken where they are, lying so widely,one score would scatter them like sparrows. And yet, MasterDick, an she be in Sir Daniel’s power already, it willlittle hurt that she should change into another’s.Who should these be?”

“I do suspect the Lord of Shoreby,” Dickreplied. “When came they?”

“They began to come, Master Dick,” saidGreensheve, “about the time ye crossed the wall. Ihad not lain there the space of a minute ere I marked the firstof the knaves crawling round the corner.”

The last light had been already extinguished in the littlehouse when they were wading in the wash of the breakers, and itwas impossible to predict at what moment the lurking men aboutthe garden wall might make their onslaught. Of two evils,Dick preferred the least. He preferred that Joanna shouldremain under the guardianship of Sir Daniel rather than pass intothe clutches of Lord Shoreby; and his mind was made up, if thehouse should be assaulted, to come at once to the relief of thebesieged.

But the time passed, and still there was no movement.From quarter of an hour to quarter of an hour the same signalpassed about the garden wall, as if the leader desired to assurehimself of the vigilance of his scattered followers; but in everyother particular the neighbourhood of the little house layundisturbed.

Presently Dick’s reinforcements began to arrive.The night was not yet old before nearly a score of men crouchedbeside him in the gorse.

Separating these into two bodies, he took the command of thesmaller himself, and entrusted the larger to the leadership ofGreensheve.

“Now, Kit,” said he to this last, “take meyour men to the near angle of the garden wall upon thebeach. Post them strongly, and wait till that ye hear mefalling on upon the other side. It is those upon the seafront that I would fain make certain of, for there will be theleader. The rest will run; even let them. And now,lads, let no man draw an arrow; ye will but hurt friends.Take to the steel, and keep to the steel; and if we have theuppermost, I promise every man of you a gold noble when I come tomine estate.”

Out of the odd collection of broken men, thieves, murderers,and ruined peasantry, whom Duckworth had gathered together toserve the purposes of his revenge, some of the boldest and themost experienced in war had volunteered to follow RichardShelton. The service of watching Sir Daniel’smovements in the town of Shoreby had from the first been irksometo their temper, and they had of late begun to grumble loudly andthreaten to disperse. The prospect of a sharp encounter andpossible spoils restored them to good humour, and they joyfullyprepared for battle.

Their long tabards thrown aside, they appeared, some in plaingreen jerkins, and some in stout leathern jacks; under theirhoods many wore bonnets strengthened by iron plates; and, foroffensive armour, swords, daggers, a few stout boar-spears, and adozen of bright bills, put them in a posture to engage evenregular feudal troops. The bows, quivers, and tabards wereconcealed among the gorse, and the two bands set resolutelyforward.

Dick, when he had reached the other side of the house, postedhis six men in a line, about twenty yards from the garden wall,and took position himself a few paces in front. Then theyall shouted with one voice, and closed upon the enemy.

These, lying widely scattered, stiff with cold, and taken atunawares, sprang stupidly to their feet, and stoodundecided. Before they had time to get their courage aboutthem, or even to form an idea of the number and mettle of theirassailants, a similar shout of onslaught sounded in their earsfrom the far side of the enclosure. Thereupon they gavethemselves up for lost and ran.

In this way the two small troops of the men of the Black Arrowclosed upon the sea front of the garden wall, and took a part ofthe strangers, as it were, between two fires; while the whole ofthe remainder ran for their lives in different directions, andwere soon scattered in the darkness.

For all that, the fight was but beginning. Dick’soutlaws, although they had the advantage of the surprise, werestill considerably outnumbered by the men they hadsurrounded. The tide had flowed, in the meanwhile; thebeach was narrowed to a strip; and on this wet field, between thesurf and the garden wall, there began, in the darkness, adoubtful, furious, and deadly contest.

The strangers were well armed; they fell in silence upon theirassailants; and the affray became a series of singlecombats. Dick, who had come first into the mellay, wasengaged by three; the first he cut down at the first blow, butthe other two coming upon him, hotly, he was fain to give groundbefore their onset. One of these two was a huge fellow,almost a giant for stature, and armed with a two-handed sword,which he brandished like a switch. Against this opponent,with his reach of arm and the length and weight of his weapon,Dick and his bill were quite defenceless; and had the othercontinued to join vigorously in the attack, the lad must haveindubitably fallen. This second man, however, less instature and slower in his movements, paused for a moment to peerabout him in the darkness, and to give ear to the sounds of thebattle.

The giant still pursued his advantage, and still Dick fledbefore him, spying for his chance. Then the huge bladeflashed and descended, and the lad, leaping on one side andrunning in, slashed sideways and upwards with his bill. Aroar of agony responded, and, before the wounded man could raisehis formidable weapon, Dick, twice repeating his blow, hadbrought him to the ground.

The next moment he was engaged, upon more equal terms, withhis second pursuer. Here there was no great difference insize, and though the man, fighting with sword and dagger againsta bill, and being wary and quick of fence, had a certainsuperiority of arms, Dick more than made it up by his greateragility on foot. Neither at first gained any obviousadvantage; but the older man was still insensibly profiting bythe ardour of the younger to lead him where he would; andpresently Dick found that they had crossed the whole width of thebeach, and were now fighting above the knees in the spume andbubble of the breakers. Here his own superior activity wasrendered useless; he found himself more or less at the discretionof his foe; yet a little, and he had his back turned upon his ownmen, and saw that this adroit and skilful adversary was bent upondrawing him farther and farther away.

Dick ground his teeth. He determined to decide thecombat instantly; and when the wash of the next wave had ebbedand left them dry, he rushed in, caught a blow upon his bill, andleaped right at the throat of his opponent. The man wentdown backwards, with Dick still upon the top of him; and the nextwave, speedily succeeding to the last, buried him below a rush ofwater.

While he was still submerged, Dick forced his dagger from hisgrasp, and rose to his feet, victorious.

“Yield ye!” he said. “I give youlife.”

“I yield me,” said the other, getting to hisknees. “Ye fight, like a young man, ignorantly andfoolhardily; but, by the array of the saints, ye fightbravely!”

Dick turned to the beach. The combat was still ragingdoubtfully in the night; over the hoarse roar of the breakerssteel clanged upon steel, and cries of pain and the shout ofbattle resounded.

“Lead me to your captain, youth,” said theconquered knight. “It is fit this butchery shouldcease.”

“Sir,” replied Dick, “so far as these bravefellows have a captain, the poor gentleman who here addresses youis he.”

“Call off your dogs, then, and I will bid my villainshold,” returned the other.

There was something noble both in the voice and manner of hislate opponent, and Dick instantly dismissed all fears oftreachery.

“Lay down your arms, men!” cried the strangerknight. “I have yielded me, upon promise oflife.”

The tone of the stranger was one of absolute command, andalmost instantly the din and confusion of the mellay ceased.

“Lawless,” cried Dick, “are yesafe?”

“Ay,” cried Lawless, “safe andhearty.”

“Light me the lantern,” said Dick.

“Is not Sir Daniel here?” inquired the knight.

“Sir Daniel?” echoed Dick. “Now, bythe rood, I pray not. It would go ill with me if hewere.”

“Ill with you, fair sir?” inquired theother. “Nay, then, if ye be not of Sir Daniel’sparty, I profess I comprehend no longer. Wherefore, then,fell ye upon mine ambush? in what quarrel, my young and veryfiery friend? to what earthly purpose? and, to make a clear endof questioning, to what good gentleman have Isurrendered?”

But before Dick could answer, a voice spoke in the darknessfrom close by. Dick could see the speaker’s black andwhite badge, and the respectful salute which he addressed to hissuperior.

“My lord,” said he, “if these gentlemen beunfriends to Sir Daniel, it is pity, indeed, we should have beenat blows with them; but it were tenfold greater that either theyor we should linger here. The watchers in thehouse—unless they be all dead or deaf—have heard ourhammering this quarter-hour agone; instantly they will havesignalled to the town; and unless we be the livelier in ourdeparture, we are like to be taken, both of us, by a freshfoe.”

“Hawksley is in the right,” added the lord.“How please ye, sir? Whither shall wemarch?”

“Nay, my lord,” said Dick, “go where ye willfor me. I do begin to suspect we have some ground offriendship, and if, indeed, I began our acquaintance somewhatruggedly, I would not churlishly continue. Let us, then,separate, my lord, you laying your right hand in mine; and at thehour and place that ye shall name, let us encounter andagree.”

“Y’ are too trustful, boy,” said the other;“but this time your trust is not misplaced. I willmeet you at the point of day at St. Bride’s Cross.Come, lads, follow!”

The strangers disappeared from the scene with a rapidity thatseemed suspicious; and, while the outlaws fell to the congenialtask of rifling the dead bodies, Dick made once more the circuitof the garden wall to examine the front of the house. In alittle upper loophole of the roof he beheld a light set; and asit would certainly be visible in town from the back windows ofSir Daniel’s mansion, he doubted not that this was thesignal feared by Hawksley, and that ere long the lances of theKnight of Tunstall would arrive upon the scene.

He put his ear to the ground, and it seemed to him as if heheard a jarring and hollow noise from townward. Back to thebeach he went hurrying. But the work was already done; thelast body was disarmed and stripped to the skin, and four fellowswere already wading seaward to commit it to the mercies of thedeep.

A few minutes later, when there debauched out of the nearestlanes of Shoreby some two score horsemen, hastily arrayed andmoving at the gallop of their steeds, the neighbourhood of thehouse beside the sea was entirely silent and deserted.

Meanwhile, Dick and his men had returned to the ale-house ofthe Goat and Bagpipes to snatch some hours of sleep before themorning tryst.

CHAPTER III—ST. BRIDE’S CROSS

St. Bride’s cross stood a little way back from Shoreby,on the skirts of Tunstall Forest. Two roads met: one, fromHolywood across the forest; one, that road from Risingham downwhich we saw the wrecks of a Lancastrian army fleeing indisorder. Here the two joined issue, and went on togetherdown the hill to Shoreby; and a little back from the point ofjunction, the summit of a little knoll was crowned by the ancientand weather-beaten cross.

Here, then, about seven in the morning, Dick arrived. Itwas as cold as ever; the earth was all grey and silver with thehoarfrost, and the day began to break in the east with manycolours of purple and orange.

Dick set him down upon the lowest step of the cross, wrappedhimself well in his tabard, and looked vigilantly upon allsides. He had not long to wait. Down the road fromHolywood a gentleman in very rich and bright armour, and wearingover that a surcoat of the rarest furs, came pacing on a splendidcharger. Twenty yards behind him followed a clump oflances; but these halted as soon as they came in view of thetrysting-place, while the gentleman in the fur surcoat continuedto advance alone.

His visor was raised, and showed a countenance of greatcommand and dignity, answerable to the richness of his attire andarms. And it was with some confusion of manner that Dickarose from the cross and stepped down the bank to meet hisprisoner.

“I thank you, my lord, for your exactitude,” hesaid, louting very low. “Will it please your lordshipto set foot to earth?”

“Are ye here alone, young man?” inquired theother.

“I was not so simple,” answered Dick; “and,to be plain with your lordship, the woods upon either hand ofthis cross lie full of mine honest fellows lying on theirweapons.”

“Y’ ’ave done wisely,” said thelord. “It pleaseth me the rather, since last night yefought foolhardily, and more like a salvage Saracen lunatic thanany Christian warrior. But it becomes not me to complainthat had the undermost.”

“Ye had the undermost indeed, my lord, since ye sofell,” returned Dick; “but had the waves not holpenme, it was I that should have had the worst. Ye werepleased to make me yours with several dagger marks, which I stillcarry. And in fine, my lord, methinks I had all the danger,as well as all the profit, of that little blind-man’smellay on the beach.”

“Y’ are shrewd enough to make light of it, Isee,” returned the stranger.

“Nay, my lord, not shrewd,” replied Dick,“in that I shoot at no advantage to myself. But when,by the light of this new day, I see how stout a knight hathyielded, not to my arms alone, but to fortune, and the darkness,and the surf—and how easily the battle had gone otherwise,with a soldier so untried and rustic as myself—think it notstrange, my lord, if I feel confounded with myvictory.”

“Ye speak well,” said the stranger.“Your name?”

“My name, an’t like you, is Shelton,”answered Dick.

“Men call me the Lord Foxham,” added theother.

“Then, my lord, and under your good favour, ye areguardian to the sweetest maid in England,” replied Dick;“and for your ransom, and the ransom of such as were takenwith you on the beach, there will be no uncertainty ofterms. I pray you, my lord, of your goodwill and charity,yield me the hand of my mistress, Joan Sedley; and take ye, uponthe other part, your liberty, the liberty of these yourfollowers, and (if ye will have it) my gratitude and service tillI die.”

“But are ye not ward to Sir Daniel? Methought, ify’ are Harry Shelton’s son, that I had heard it soreported,” said Lord Foxham.

“Will it please you, my lord, to alight? I wouldfain tell you fully who I am, how situate, and why so bold in mydemands. Beseech you, my lord, take place upon these steps,hear me to a full end, and judge me with allowance.”

And so saying, Dick lent a hand to Lord Foxham to dismount;led him up the knoll to the cross; installed him in the placewhere he had himself been sitting; and standing respectfullybefore his noble prisoner, related the story of his fortunes upto the events of the evening before.

Lord Foxham listened gravely, and when Dick had done,“Master Shelton,” he said, “ye are a mostfortunate-unfortunate young gentleman; but what fortune y’’ave had, that ye have amply merited; and what unfortune,ye have noways deserved. Be of a good cheer; for ye havemade a friend who is devoid neither of power nor favour.For yourself, although it fits not for a person of your birth toherd with outlaws, I must own ye are both brave and honourable;very dangerous in battle, right courteous in peace; a youth ofexcellent disposition and brave bearing. For your estates,ye will never see them till the world shall change again; so longas Lancaster hath the strong hand, so long shall Sir Daniel enjoythem for his own. For my ward, it is another matter; I hadpromised her before to a gentleman, a kinsman of my house, oneHamley; the promise is old—”

“Ay, my lord, and now Sir Daniel hath promised her to myLord Shoreby,” interrupted Dick. “And hispromise, for all it is but young, is still the likelier to bemade good.”

“’Tis the plain truth,” returned hislordship. “And considering, moreover, that I am yourprisoner, upon no better composition than my bare life, and overand above that, that the maiden is unhappily in other hands, Iwill so far consent. Aid me with your goodfellows”—

“My lord,” cried Dick, “they are these sameoutlaws that ye blame me for consorting with.”

“Let them be what they will, they can fight,”returned Lord Foxham. “Help me, then; and if betweenus we regain the maid, upon my knightly honour, she shall marryyou!”

Dick bent his knee before his prisoner; but he, leaping uplightly from the cross, caught the lad up and embraced him like ason.

“Come,” he said, “an y’ are to marryJoan, we must be early friends.”

CHAPTER IV—THE GOOD HOPE

An hour thereafter, Dick was back at the Goat and Bagpipes,breaking his fast, and receiving the report of his messengers andsentries. Duckworth was still absent from Shoreby; and thiswas frequently the case, for he played many parts in the world,shared many different interests, and conducted many variousaffairs. He had founded that fellowship of the Black Arrow,as a ruined man longing for vengeance and money; and yet amongthose who knew him best, he was thought to be the agent andemissary of the great King-maker of England, Richard, Earl ofWarwick.

In his absence, at any rate, it fell upon Richard Shelton tocommand affairs in Shoreby; and, as he sat at meat, his mind wasfull of care, and his face heavy with consideration. It hadbeen determined, between him and the Lord Foxham, to make onebold stroke that evening, and, by brute force, to set Joannafree. The obstacles, however, were many; and as one afteranother of his scouts arrived, each brought him morediscomfortable news.

Sir Daniel was alarmed by the skirmish of the nightbefore. He had increased the garrison of the house in thegarden; but not content with that, he had stationed horsemen inall the neighbouring lanes, so that he might have instant word ofany movement. Meanwhile, in the court of his mansion,steeds stood saddled, and the riders, armed at every point,awaited but the signal to ride.

The adventure of the night appeared more and more difficult ofexecution, till suddenly Dick’s countenance lightened.

“Lawless!” he cried, “you that were ashipman, can ye steal me a ship?”

“Master Dick,” replied Lawless, “if ye wouldback me, I would agree to steal York Minster.”

Presently after, these two set forth and descended to theharbour. It was a considerable basin, lying among sandhills, and surrounded with patches of down, ancient ruinouslumber, and tumble-down slums of the town. Many deckedships and many open boats either lay there at anchor, or had beendrawn up on the beach. A long duration of bad weather haddriven them from the high seas into the shelter of the port; andthe great trooping of black clouds, and the cold squalls thatfollowed one another, now with a sprinkling of dry snow, now in amere swoop of wind, promised no improvement but rather threateneda more serious storm in the immediate future.

The seamen, in view of the cold and the wind, had for the mostpart slunk ashore, and were now roaring and singing in theshoreside taverns. Many of the ships already rode unguardedat their anchors; and as the day wore on, and the weather offeredno appearance of improvement, the number was continually beingaugmented. It was to these deserted ships, and, above all,to those of them that lay far out, that Lawless directed hisattention; while Dick, seated upon an anchor that was halfembedded in the sand, and giving ear, now to the rude, potent,and boding voices of the gale, and now to the hoarse singing ofthe shipmen in a neighbouring tavern, soon forgot his immediatesurroundings and concerns in the agreeable recollection of LordFoxham’s promise.

He was disturbed by a touch upon his shoulder. It wasLawless, pointing to a small ship that lay somewhat by itself,and within but a little of the harbour mouth, where it heavedregularly and smoothly on the entering swell. A pale gleamof winter sunshine fell, at that moment, on the vessel’sdeck, relieving her against a bank of scowling cloud; and in thismomentary glitter Dick could see a couple of men hauling theskiff alongside.

“There, sir,” said Lawless, “mark ye itwell! There is the ship for to-night.”

Presently the skiff put out from the vessel’s side, andthe two men, keeping her head well to the wind, pulled lustilyfor shore. Lawless turned to a loiterer.

“How call ye her?” he asked, pointing to thelittle vessel.

“They call her the Good Hope, of Dartmouth,”replied the loiterer. “Her captain, Arblaster byname. He pulleth the bow oar in yon skiff.”

This was all that Lawless wanted. Hurriedly thanking theman, he moved round the shore to a certain sandy creek, for whichthe skiff was heading. There he took up his position, andas soon as they were within earshot, opened fire on the sailorsof the Good Hope.

“What! Gossip Arblaster!” he cried.“Why, ye be well met; nay, gossip, ye be right well met,upon the rood! And is that the Good Hope? Ay, I wouldknow her among ten thousand!—a sweet shear, a sweetboat! But marry come up, my gossip, will ye drink? Ihave come into mine estate which doubtless ye remember to haveheard on. I am now rich; I have left to sail upon the sea;I do sail now, for the most part, upon spiced ale. Come,fellow; thy hand upon ’t! Come, drink with an oldshipfellow!”

Skipper Arblaster, a long-faced, elderly, weather-beaten man,with a knife hanging about his neck by a plaited cord, and forall the world like any modern seaman in his gait and bearing, hadhung back in obvious amazement and distrust. But the nameof an estate, and a certain air of tipsified simplicity andgood-fellowship which Lawless very well affected, combined toconquer his suspicious jealousy; his countenance relaxed, and heat once extended his open hand and squeezed that of the outlaw ina formidable grasp.

“Nay,” he said, “I cannot mind you.But what o’ that? I would drink with any man, gossip,and so would my man Tom. Man Tom,” he added,addressing his follower, “here is my gossip, whose name Icannot mind, but no doubt a very good seaman. Let’sgo drink with him and his shore friend.”

Lawless led the way, and they were soon seated in an alehouse,which, as it was very new, and stood in an exposed and solitarystation, was less crowded than those nearer to the centre of theport. It was but a shed of timber, much like a blockhousein the backwoods of to-day, and was coarsely furnished with apress or two, a number of naked benches, and boards set uponbarrels to play the part of tables. In the middle, andbesieged by half a hundred violent draughts, a fire of wreck-woodblazed and vomited thick smoke.

“Ay, now,” said Lawless, “here is ashipman’s joy—a good fire and a good stiff cupashore, with foul weather without and an off-sea gale a-snoringin the roof! Here’s to the Good Hope! May sheride easy!”

“Ay,” said Skipper Arblaster, “’tisgood weather to be ashore in, that is sooth. Man Tom, howsay ye to that? Gossip, ye speak well, though I can neverthink upon your name; but ye speak very well. May the GoodHope ride easy! Amen!”

“Friend Dickon,” resumed Lawless, addressing hiscommander, “ye have certain matters on hand, unless Ierr? Well, prithee be about them incontinently. Forhere I be with the choice of all good company, two tough oldshipmen; and till that ye return I will go warrant these bravefellows will bide here and drink me cup for cup. We are notlike shore-men, we old, tough tarry-Johns!”

“It is well meant,” returned the skipper.“Ye can go, boy; for I will keep your good friend and mygood gossip company till curfew—ay, and by St. Mary, tillthe sun get up again! For, look ye, when a man hath beenlong enough at sea, the salt getteth me into the clay upon hisbones; and let him drink a draw-well, he will never bequenched.”

Thus encouraged upon all hands, Dick rose, saluted hiscompany, and going forth again into the gusty afternoon, got himas speedily as he might to the Goat and Bagpipes. Thence hesent word to my Lord Foxham that, so soon as ever the eveningclosed, they would have a stout boat to keep the sea in.And then leading along with him a couple of outlaws who had someexperience of the sea, he returned himself to the harbour and thelittle sandy creek.

The skiff of the Good Hope lay among many others, from whichit was easily distinguished by its extreme smallness andfragility. Indeed, when Dick and his two men had takentheir places, and begun to put forth out of the creek into theopen harbour, the little cockle dipped into the swell andstaggered under every gust of wind, like a thing upon the pointof sinking.

The Good Hope, as we have said, was anchored far out, wherethe swell was heaviest. No other vessel lay nearer thanseveral cables’ length; those that were the nearest werethemselves entirely deserted; and as the skiff approached, athick flurry of snow and a sudden darkening of the weatherfurther concealed the movements of the outlaws from all possibleespial. In a trice they had leaped upon the heaving deck,and the skiff was dancing at the stern. The Good Hope wascaptured.

She was a good stout boat, decked in the bows and amidships,but open in the stern. She carried one mast, and was riggedbetween a felucca and a lugger. It would seem that SkipperArblaster had made an excellent venture, for the hold was full ofpieces of French wine; and in the little cabin, besides theVirgin Mary in the bulkhead which proved the captain’spiety, there were many lockfast chests and cupboards, whichshowed him to be rich and careful.

A dog, who was the sole occupant of the vessel, furiouslybarked and bit the heels of the boarders; but he was soon kickedinto the cabin, and the door shut upon his just resentment.A lamp was lit and fixed in the shrouds to mark the vesselclearly from the shore; one of the wine pieces in the hold wasbroached, and a cup of excellent Gascony emptied to the adventureof the evening; and then, while one of the outlaws began to getready his bow and arrows and prepare to hold the ship against allcomers, the other hauled in the skiff and got overboard, where heheld on, waiting for Dick.

“Well, Jack, keep me a good watch,” said the youngcommander, preparing to follow his subordinate. “Yewill do right well.”

“Why,” returned Jack, “I shall do excellentwell indeed, so long as we lie here; but once we put the nose ofthis poor ship outside the harbour—See, there shetrembles! Nay, the poor shrew heard the words, and theheart misgave her in her oak-tree ribs. But look, MasterDick! how black the weather gathers!”

The darkness ahead was, indeed, astonishing. Greatbillows heaved up out of the blackness, one after another; andone after another the Good Hope buoyantly climbed, and giddilyplunged upon the further side. A thin sprinkle of snow andthin flakes of foam came flying, and powdered the deck; and thewind harped dismally among the rigging.

“In sooth, it looketh evilly,” said Dick.“But what cheer! ’Tis but a squall, andpresently it will blow over.” But, in spite of hiswords, he was depressingly affected by the bleak disorder of thesky and the wailing and fluting of the wind; and as he got overthe side of the Good Hope and made once more for thelanding-creek with the best speed of oars, he crossed himselfdevoutly, and recommended to Heaven the lives of all who shouldadventure on the sea.

At the landing-creek there had already gathered about a dozenof the outlaws. To these the skiff was left, and they werebidden embark without delay.

A little further up the beach Dick found Lord Foxham hurryingin quest of him, his face concealed with a dark hood, and hisbright armour covered by a long russet mantle of a poorappearance.

“Young Shelton,” he said, “are ye for sea,then, truly?”

“My lord,” replied Richard, “they lie aboutthe house with horsemen; it may not be reached from the land sidewithout alarum; and Sir Daniel once advertised of our adventure,we can no more carry it to a good end than, saving your presence,we could ride upon the wind. Now, in going round by sea, wedo run some peril by the elements; but, what much outweightethall, we have a chance to make good our purpose and bear off themaid.”

“Well,” returned Lord Foxham, “leadon. I will, in some sort, follow you for shame’ssake; but I own I would I were in bed.”

“Here, then,” said Dick. “Hither we goto fetch our pilot.”

And he led the way to the rude alehouse where he had givenrendezvous to a portion of his men. Some of these he foundlingering round the door outside; others had pushed more boldlyin, and, choosing places as near as possible to where they sawtheir comrade, gathered close about Lawless and the twoshipmen. These, to judge by the distempered countenance andcloudy eye, had long since gone beyond the boundaries ofmoderation; and as Richard entered, closely followed by LordFoxham, they were all three tuning up an old, pitiful sea-ditty,to the chorus of the wailing of the gale.

The young leader cast a rapid glance about the shed. Thefire had just been replenished, and gave forth volumes of blacksmoke, so that it was difficult to see clearly in the furthercorners. It was plain, however, that the outlaws verylargely outnumbered the remainder of the guests. Satisfiedupon this point, in case of any failure in the operation of hisplan, Dick strode up to the table and resumed his place upon thebench.

“Hey?” cried the skipper, tipsily, “who areye, hey?”

“I want a word with you without, MasterArblaster,” returned Dick; “and here is what we shalltalk of.” And he showed him a gold noble in theglimmer of the firelight.

The shipman’s eyes burned, although he still failed torecognise our hero.

“Ay, boy,” he said, “I am with you.Gossip, I will be back anon. Drink fair, gossip;”and, taking Dick’s arm to steady his uneven steps, hewalked to the door of the alehouse.

As soon as he was over the threshold, ten strong arms hadseized and bound him; and in two minutes more, with his limbstrussed one to another, and a good gag in his mouth, he had beentumbled neck and crop into a neighbouring hay-barn.Presently, his man Tom, similarly secured, was tossed beside him,and the pair were left to their uncouth reflections for thenight.

And now, as the time for concealment had gone by, LordFoxham’s followers were summoned by a preconcerted signal,and the party, boldly taking possession of as many boats as theirnumbers required, pulled in a flotilla for the light in therigging of the ship. Long before the last man had climbedto the deck of the Good Hope, the sound of furious shouting fromthe shore showed that a part, at least, of the seamen haddiscovered the loss of their skiffs.

But it was now too late, whether for recovery orrevenge. Out of some forty fighting men now mustered in thestolen ship, eight had been to sea, and could play the part ofmariners. With the aid of these, a slice of sail was gotupon her. The cable was cut. Lawless, vacillating onhis feet, and still shouting the chorus of sea-ballads, took thelong tiller in his hands: and the Good Hope began to flit forwardinto the darkness of the night, and to face the great wavesbeyond the harbour bar.

Richard took his place beside the weather rigging.Except for the ship’s own lantern, and for some lights inShoreby town, that were already fading to leeward, the wholeworld of air was as black as in a pit. Only from time totime, as the Good Hope swooped dizzily down into the valley ofthe rollers, a crest would break—a great cataract of snowyfoam would leap in one instant into being—and, in aninstant more, would stream into the wake and vanish.

Many of the men lay holding on and praying aloud; many morewere sick, and had crept into the bottom, where they sprawledamong the cargo. And what with the extreme violence of themotion, and the continued drunken bravado of Lawless, stillshouting and singing at the helm, the stoutest heart on board mayhave nourished a shrewd misgiving as to the result.

But Lawless, as if guided by an instinct, steered the shipacross the breakers, struck the lee of a great sandbank, wherethey sailed for awhile in smooth water, and presently after laidher alongside a rude, stone pier, where she was hastily madefast, and lay ducking and grinding in the dark.

CHAPTER V—THE GOOD HOPE (continued)

The pier was not far distant from the house in which Joannalay; it now only remained to get the men on shore, to surroundthe house with a strong party, burst in the door and carry offthe captive. They might then regard themselves as done withthe Good Hope; it had placed them on the rear of their enemies;and the retreat, whether they should succeed or fail in the mainenterprise, would be directed with a greater measure of hope inthe direction of the forest and my Lord Foxham’sreserve.

To get the men on shore, however, was no easy task; many hadbeen sick, all were pierced with cold; the promiscuity anddisorder on board had shaken their discipline; the movement ofthe ship and the darkness of the night had cowed theirspirits. They made a rush upon the pier; my lord, with hissword drawn on his own retainers, must throw himself in front;and this impulse of rabblement was not restrained without acertain clamour of voices, highly to be regretted in thecase.

When some degree of order had been restored, Dick, with a fewchosen men, set forth in advance. The darkness on shore, bycontrast with the flashing of the surf, appeared before him likea solid body; and the howling and whistling of the gale drownedany lesser noise.

He had scarce reached the end of the pier, however, when therefell a lull of the wind; and in this he seemed to hear on shorethe hollow footing of horses and the clash of arms.Checking his immediate followers, he passed forward a step or twoalone, even setting foot upon the down; and here he made sure hecould detect the shape of men and horses moving. A strongdiscouragement assailed him. If their enemies were reallyon the watch, if they had beleaguered the shoreward end of thepier, he and Lord Foxham were taken in a posture of very poordefence, the sea behind, the men jostled in the dark upon anarrow causeway. He gave a cautious whistle, the signalpreviously agreed upon.

It proved to be a signal far more than he desired.Instantly there fell, through the black night, a shower of arrowssent at a venture; and so close were the men huddled on the pierthat more than one was hit, and the arrows were answered withcries of both fear and pain. In this first discharge, LordFoxham was struck down; Hawksley had him carried on board againat once; and his men, during the brief remainder of the skirmish,fought (when they fought at all) without guidance. That wasperhaps the chief cause of the disaster which made haste tofollow.

At the shore end of the pier, for perhaps a minute, Dick heldhis own with a handful; one or two were wounded upon either side;steel crossed steel; nor had there been the least signal ofadvantage, when in the twinkling of an eye the tide turnedagainst the party from the ship. Someone cried out that allwas lost; the men were in the very humour to lend an ear to adiscomfortable counsel; the cry was taken up. “Onboard, lads, for your lives!” cried another. A third,with the true instinct of the coward, raised that inevitablereport on all retreats: “We are betrayed!” Andin a moment the whole mass of men went surging and jostlingbackward down the pier, turning their defenceless backs on theirpursuers and piercing the night with craven outcry.

One coward thrust off the ship’s stern, while anotherstill held her by the bows. The fugitives leaped,screaming, and were hauled on board, or fell back and perished inthe sea. Some were cut down upon the pier by thepursuers. Many were injured on the ship’s deck in theblind haste and terror of the moment, one man leaping uponanother, and a third on both. At last, and whether bydesign or accident, the bows of the Good Hope were liberated; andthe ever-ready Lawless, who had maintained his place at the helmthrough all the hurly-burly by sheer strength of body and aliberal use of the cold steel, instantly clapped her on theproper tack. The ship began to move once more forward onthe stormy sea, its scuppers running blood, its deck heaped withfallen men, sprawling and struggling in the dark.

Thereupon, Lawless sheathed his dagger, and turning to hisnext neighbour, “I have left my mark on them,gossip,” said he, “the yelping, cowardhounds.”

Now, while they were all leaping and struggling for theirlives, the men had not appeared to observe the rough shoves andcutting stabs with which Lawless had held his post in theconfusion. But perhaps they had already begun to understandsomewhat more clearly, or perhaps another ear had overheard, thehelmsman’s speech.

Panic-stricken troops recover slowly, and men who have justdisgraced themselves by cowardice, as if to wipe out the memoryof their fault, will sometimes run straight into the oppositeextreme of insubordination. So it was now; and the same menwho had thrown away their weapons and been hauled, feet foremost,into the Good Hope, began to cry out upon their leaders, anddemand that someone should be punished.

This growing ill-feeling turned upon Lawless.

In order to get a proper offing, the old outlaw had put thehead of the Good Hope to seaward.

“What!” bawled one of the grumblers, “hecarrieth us to seaward!”

“’Tis sooth,” cried another.“Nay, we are betrayed for sure.”

And they all began to cry out in chorus that they werebetrayed, and in shrill tones and with abominable oaths badeLawless go about-ship and bring them speedily ashore.Lawless, grinding his teeth, continued in silence to steer thetrue course, guiding the Good Hope among the formidablebillows. To their empty terrors, as to their dishonourablethreats, between drink and dignity he scorned to makereply. The malcontents drew together a little abaft themast, and it was plain they were like barnyard cocks,“crowing for courage.” Presently they would befit for any extremity of injustice or ingratitude. Dickbegan to mount by the ladder, eager to interpose; but one of theoutlaws, who was also something of a seaman, got beforehand.

“Lads,” he began, “y’ are right woodenheads, I think. For to get back, by the mass, we must havean offing, must we not? And this oldLawless—”

Someone struck the speaker on the mouth, and the next moment,as a fire springs among dry straw, he was felled upon the deck,trampled under the feet, and despatched by the daggers of hiscowardly companions. At this the wrath of Lawless rose andbroke.

“Steer yourselves,” he bellowed, with a curse;and, careless of the result, he left the helm.

The Good Hope was, at that moment, trembling on the summit ofa swell. She subsided, with sickening velocity, upon thefarther side. A wave, like a great black bulwark, hoveimmediately in front of her; and, with a staggering blow, sheplunged headforemost through that liquid hill. The greenwater passed right over her from stem to stern, as high as aman’s knees; the sprays ran higher than the mast; and sherose again upon the other side, with an appalling, tremulousindecision, like a beast that has been deadly wounded.

Six or seven of the malcontents had been carried bodilyoverboard; and as for the remainder, when they found theirtongues again, it was to bellow to the saints and wail uponLawless to come back and take the tiller.

Nor did Lawless wait to be twice bidden. The terribleresult of his fling of just resentment sobered himcompletely. He knew, better than any one on board, hownearly the Good Hope had gone bodily down below their feet; andhe could tell, by the laziness with which she met the sea, thatthe peril was by no means over.

Dick, who had been thrown down by the concussion and halfdrowned, rose wading to his knees in the swamped well of thestern, and crept to the old helmsman’s side.

“Lawless,” he said, “we do all depend onyou; y’ are a brave, steady man, indeed, and crafty in themanagement of ships; I shall put three sure men to watch uponyour safety.”

“Bootless, my master, bootless,” said thesteersman, peering forward through the dark. “We comeevery moment somewhat clearer of these sandbanks; with everymoment, then, the sea packeth upon us heavier, and for all thesewhimperers, they will presently be on their backs. For, mymaster, ’tis a right mystery, but true, there never yet wasa bad man that was a good shipman. None but the honest andthe bold can endure me this tossing of a ship.”

“Nay, Lawless,” said Dick, laughing, “thatis a right shipman’s byword, and hath no more of sense thanthe whistle of the wind. But, prithee, how go we? Dowe lie well? Are we in good case?”

“Master Shelton,” replied Lawless, “I havebeen a Grey Friar—I praise fortune—an archer, athief, and a shipman. Of all these coats, I had the bestfancy to die in the Grey Friar’s, as ye may readilyconceive, and the least fancy to die in John Shipman’starry jacket; and that for two excellent good reasons: first,that the death might take a man suddenly; and second, for thehorror of that great, salt smother and welter under my foothere”—and Lawless stamped with his foot.“Howbeit,” he went on, “an I die not asailor’s death, and that this night, I shall owe a tallcandle to our Lady.”

“Is it so?” asked Dick.

“It is right so,” replied the outlaw.“Do ye not feel how heavy and dull she moves upon thewaves? Do ye not hear the water washing in her hold?She will scarce mind the rudder even now. Bide till she hassettled a bit lower; and she will either go down below your bootslike a stone image, or drive ashore here, under our lee, and comeall to pieces like a twist of string.”

“Ye speak with a good courage,” returnedDick. “Ye are not then appalled?”

“Why, master,” answered Lawless, “if ever aman had an ill crew to come to port with, it is I—arenegade friar, a thief, and all the rest on’t. Well,ye may wonder, but I keep a good hope in my wallet; and if that Ibe to drown, I will drown with a bright eye, Master Shelton, anda steady hand.”

Dick returned no answer; but he was surprised to find the oldvagabond of so resolute a temper, and fearing some fresh violenceor treachery, set forth upon his quest for three sure men.The great bulk of the men had now deserted the deck, which wascontinually wetted with the flying sprays, and where they layexposed to the shrewdness of the winter wind. They hadgathered, instead, into the hold of the merchandise, among thebutts of wine, and lighted by two swinging lanterns.

Here a few kept up the form of revelry, and toasted each otherdeep in Arblaster’s Gascony wine. But as the GoodHope continued to tear through the smoking waves, and toss herstem and stern alternately high in air and deep into white foam,the number of these jolly companions diminished with every momentand with every lurch. Many sat apart, tending their hurts,but the majority were already prostrated with sickness, and laymoaning in the bilge.

Greensheve, Cuckow, and a young fellow of Lord Foxham’swhom Dick had already remarked for his intelligence and spirit,were still, however, both fit to understand and willing toobey. These Dick set, as a body-guard, about the person ofthe steersman, and then, with a last look at the black sky andsea, he turned and went below into the cabin, whither Lord Foxhamhad been carried by his servants.

CHAPTER VI—THE GOOD HOPE (concluded)

The moans of the wounded baron blended with the wailing of theship’s dog. The poor animal, whether he was merelysick at heart to be separated from his friends, or whether heindeed recognised some peril in the labouring of the ship, raisedhis cries, like minute-guns, above the roar of wave and weather;and the more superstitious of the men heard, in these sounds, theknell of the Good Hope.

Lord Foxham had been laid in a berth upon a fur cloak. Alittle lamp burned dim before the Virgin in the bulkhead, and byits glimmer Dick could see the pale countenance and hollow eyesof the hurt man.

“I am sore hurt,” said he. “Come nearto my side, young Shelton; let there be one by me who, at least,is gentle born; for after having lived nobly and richly all thedays of my life, this is a sad pass that I should get my hurt ina little ferreting skirmish, and die here, in a foul, cold shipupon the sea, among broken men and churls.”

“Nay, my lord,” said Dick, “I pray rather tothe saints that ye will recover you of your hurt, and come soonand sound ashore.”

“How!” demanded his lordship. “Comesound ashore? There is, then, a question of it?”

“The ship laboureth—the sea is grievous andcontrary,” replied the lad; “and by what I can learnof my fellow that steereth us, we shall do well, indeed, if wecome dryshod to land.”

“Ha!” said the baron, gloomily, “thus shallevery terror attend upon the passage of my soul! Sir, pray ratherto live hard, that ye may die easy, than to be fooled and flutedall through life, as to the pipe and tabor, and, in the lasthour, be plunged among misfortunes! Howbeit, I have thatupon my mind that must not be delayed. We have no priestaboard?”

“None,” replied Dick.

“Here, then, to my secular interests,” resumedLord Foxham: “ye must be as good a friend to me dead, as Ifound you a gallant enemy when I was living. I fall in anevil hour for me, for England, and for them that trustedme. My men are being brought by Hamley—he that wasyour rival; they will rendezvous in the long holm at Holywood;this ring from off my finger will accredit you to represent mineorders; and I shall write, besides, two words upon this paper,bidding Hamley yield to you the damsel. Will he obey?I know not.”

“But, my lord, what orders?” inquired Dick.

“Ay,” quoth the baron, “ay—theorders;” and he looked upon Dick with hesitation.“Are ye Lancaster or York?” he asked, at length.

“I shame to say it,” answered Dick, “I canscarce clearly answer. But so much I think is certain:since I serve with Ellis Duckworth, I serve the house ofYork. Well, if that be so, I declare for York.”

“It is well,” returned the other; “it isexceeding well. For, truly, had ye said Lancaster, I wotnot for the world what I had done. But sith ye are forYork, follow me. I came hither but to watch these lords atShoreby, while mine excellent young lord, Richard of Gloucester,[1] prepareth a sufficient force to fallupon and scatter them. I have made me notes of theirstrength, what watch they keep, and how they lie; and these I wasto deliver to my young lord on Sunday, an hour before noon, atSt. Bride’s Cross beside the forest. This tryst I amnot like to keep, but I pray you, of courtesy, to keep it in mystead; and see that not pleasure, nor pain, tempest, wound, norpestilence withhold you from the hour and place, for the welfareof England lieth upon this cast.”

“I do soberly take this up on me,” saidDick. “In so far as in me lieth, your purpose shallbe done.”

“It is good,” said the wounded man. “My lordduke shall order you farther, and if ye obey him with spirit andgood will, then is your fortune made. Give me the lamp alittle nearer to mine eyes, till that I write these words foryou.”

He wrote a note “to his worshipful kinsman, Sir JohnHamley;” and then a second, which he left without externalsuperscripture.

“This is for the duke,” he said. “Theword is ‘England and Edward,’ and the counter,‘England and York.’”

“And Joanna, my lord?” asked Dick.

“Nay, ye must get Joanna how ye can,” replied thebaron. “I have named you for my choice in both theseletters; but ye must get her for yourself, boy. I havetried, as ye see here before you, and have lost my life.More could no man do.”

By this time the wounded man began to be very weary; and Dick,putting the precious papers in his bosom, bade him be of goodcheer, and left him to repose.

The day was beginning to break, cold and blue, with flyingsqualls of snow. Close under the lee of the Good Hope, thecoast lay in alternate rocky headlands and sandy bays; andfurther inland the wooded hill-tops of Tunstall showed along thesky. Both the wind and the sea had gone down; but thevessel wallowed deep, and scarce rose upon the waves.

Lawless was still fixed at the rudder; and by this time nearlyall the men had crawled on deck, and were now gazing, with blankfaces, upon the inhospitable coast.

“Are we going ashore?” asked Dick.

“Ay,” said Lawless, “unless we get first tothe bottom.”

And just then the ship rose so languidly to meet a sea, andthe water weltered so loudly in her hold, that Dick involuntarilyseized the steersman by the arm.

“By the mass!” cried Dick, as the bows of the GoodHope reappeared above the foam, “I thought we hadfoundered, indeed; my heart was at my throat.”

In the waist, Greensheve, Hawksley, and the better men of bothcompanies were busy breaking up the deck to build a raft; and tothese Dick joined himself, working the harder to drown the memoryof his predicament. But, even as he worked, every sea thatstruck the poor ship, and every one of her dull lurches, as shetumbled wallowing among the waves, recalled him with a horridpang to the immediate proximity of death.

Presently, looking up from his work, he saw that they wereclose in below a promontory; a piece of ruinous cliff, againstthe base of which the sea broke white and heavy, almostoverplumbed the deck; and, above that, again, a house appeared,crowning a down.

Inside the bay the seas ran gayly, raised the Good Hope upontheir foam-flecked shoulders, carried her beyond the control ofthe steersman, and in a moment dropped her, with a greatconcussion, on the sand, and began to break over her half-masthigh, and roll her to and fro. Another great wave followed,raised her again, and carried her yet farther in; and then athird succeeded, and left her far inshore of the more dangerousbreakers, wedged upon a bank.

“Now, boys,” cried Lawless, “the saints havehad a care of us, indeed. The tide ebbs; let us but sitdown and drink a cup of wine, and before half an hour ye may allmarch me ashore as safe as on a bridge.”

A barrel was broached, and, sitting in what shelter they couldfind from the flying snow and spray, the shipwrecked companyhanded the cup around, and sought to warm their bodies andrestore their spirits.

Dick, meanwhile, returned to Lord Foxham, who lay in greatperplexity and fear, the floor of his cabin washing knee-deep inwater, and the lamp, which had been his only light, broken andextinguished by the violence of the blow.

“My lord,” said young Shelton, “fear not atall; the saints are plainly for us; the seas have cast us highupon a shoal, and as soon as the tide hath somewhat ebbed, we maywalk ashore upon our feet.”

It was nearly an hour before the vessel was sufficientlydeserted by the ebbing sea; and they could set forth for theland, which appeared dimly before them through a veil of drivingsnow.

Upon a hillock on one side of their way a party of men layhuddled together, suspiciously observing the movements of the newarrivals.

“They might draw near and offer us some comfort,”Dick remarked.

“Well, an’ they come not to us, let us even turnaside to them,” said Hawksley. “The sooner wecome to a good fire and a dry bed the better for my poorlord.”

But they had not moved far in the direction of the hillock,before the men, with one consent, rose suddenly to their feet,and poured a flight of well-directed arrows on the shipwreckedcompany.

“Back! back!” cried his lordship.“Beware, in Heaven’s name, that ye replynot.”

“Nay,” cried Greensheve, pulling an arrow from hisleather jack. “We are in no posture to fight, it iscertain, being drenching wet, dog-weary, and three-parts frozen;but, for the love of old England, what aileth them to shoot thuscruelly on their poor country people in distress?”

“They take us to be French pirates,” answered LordFoxham. “In these most troublesome and degeneratedays we cannot keep our own shores of England; but our oldenemies, whom we once chased on sea and land, do now range atpleasure, robbing and slaughtering and burning. It is thepity and reproach of this poor land.”

The men upon the hillock lay, closely observing them, whilethey trailed upward from the beach and wound inland amongdesolate sand-hills; for a mile or so they even hung upon therear of the march, ready, at a sign, to pour another volley onthe weary and dispirited fugitives; and it was only when,striking at length upon a firm high-road, Dick began to call hismen to some more martial order, that these jealous guardians ofthe coast of England silently disappeared among the snow.They had done what they desired; they had protected their ownhomes and farms, their own families and cattle; and their privateinterest being thus secured, it mattered not the weight of astraw to any one of them, although the Frenchmen should carryblood and fire to every other parish in the realm of England.

BOOK IV—THE DISGUISE

CHAPTER I—THE DEN

The place where Dick had struck the line of a high-road wasnot far from Holywood, and within nine or ten miles ofShoreby-on-the-Till; and here, after making sure that they werepursued no longer, the two bodies separated. LordFoxham’s followers departed, carrying their wounded mastertowards the comfort and security of the great abbey; and Dick, ashe saw them wind away and disappear in the thick curtain of thefalling snow, was left alone with near upon a dozen outlaws, thelast remainder of his troop of volunteers.

Some were wounded; one and all were furious at theirill-success and long exposure; and though they were now too coldand hungry to do more, they grumbled and cast sullen looks upontheir leaders. Dick emptied his purse among them, leavinghimself nothing; thanked them for the courage they had displayed,though he could have found it more readily in his heart to ratethem for poltroonery; and having thus somewhat softened theeffect of his prolonged misfortune, despatched them to find theirway, either severally or in pairs, to Shoreby and the Goat andBagpipes.

For his own part, influenced by what he had seen on board ofthe Good Hope, he chose Lawless to be his companion on thewalk. The snow was falling, without pause or variation, inone even, blinding cloud; the wind had been strangled, and nowblew no longer; and the whole world was blotted out and sheeteddown below that silent inundation. There was great dangerof wandering by the way and perishing in drifts; and Lawless,keeping half a step in front of his companion, and holding hishead forward like a hunting dog upon the scent, inquired his wayof every tree, and studied out their path as though he wereconning a ship among dangers.

About a mile into the forest they came to a place whereseveral ways met, under a grove of lofty and contortedoaks. Even in the narrow horizon of the falling snow, itwas a spot that could not fail to be recognised; and Lawlessevidently recognised it with particular delight.

“Now, Master Richard,” said he, “an y’are not too proud to be the guest of a man who is neither agentleman by birth nor so much as a good Christian, I can offeryou a cup of wine and a good fire to melt the marrow in yourfrozen bones.”

“Lead on, Will,” answered Dick. “A cupof wine and a good fire! Nay, I would go a far way round tosee them.”

Lawless turned aside under the bare branches of the grove,and, walking resolutely forward for some time, came to a steepishhollow or den, that had now drifted a quarter full of snow.On the verge, a great beech-tree hung, precariously rooted; andhere the old outlaw, pulling aside some bushy underwood, bodilydisappeared into the earth.

The beech had, in some violent gale, been half-uprooted, andhad torn up a considerable stretch of turf and it was under thisthat old Lawless had dug out his forest hiding-place. Theroots served him for rafters, the turf was his thatch; for wallsand floor he had his mother the earth. Rude as it was, thehearth in one corner, blackened by fire, and the presence inanother of a large oaken chest well fortified with iron, showedit at one glance to be the den of a man, and not the burrow of adigging beast.

Though the snow had drifted at the mouth and sifted in uponthe floor of this earth cavern, yet was the air much warmer thanwithout; and when Lawless had struck a spark, and the dry furzebushes had begun to blaze and crackle on the hearth, the placeassumed, even to the eye, an air of comfort and of home.

With a sigh of great contentment, Lawless spread his broadhands before the fire, and seemed to breathe the smoke.

“Here, then,” he said, “is this oldLawless’s rabbit-hole; pray Heaven there come noterrier! Far I have rolled hither and thither, and here andabout, since that I was fourteen years of mine age and first ranaway from mine abbey, with the sacrist’s gold chain and amass-book that I sold for four marks. I have been inEngland and France and Burgundy, and in Spain, too, on apilgrimage for my poor soul; and upon the sea, which is noman’s country. But here is my place, MasterShelton. This is my native land, this burrow in theearth! Come rain or wind—and whether it’sApril, and the birds all sing, and the blossoms fall about mybed—or whether it’s winter, and I sit alone with mygood gossip the fire, and robin red breast twitters in thewoods—here, is my church and market, and my wife andchild. It’s here I come back to, and it’s here,so please the saints, that I would like to die.”

“’Tis a warm corner, to be sure,” repliedDick, “and a pleasant, and a well hid.”

“It had need to be,” returned Lawless, “foran they found it, Master Shelton, it would break my heart.But here,” he added, burrowing with his stout fingers inthe sandy floor, “here is my wine cellar; and ye shall havea flask of excellent strong stingo.”

Sure enough, after but a little digging, he produced a bigleathern bottle of about a gallon, nearly three-parts full of avery heady and sweet wine; and when they had drunk to each othercomradely, and the fire had been replenished and blazed up again,the pair lay at full length, thawing and steaming, and divinelywarm.

“Master Shelton,” observed the outlaw,“y’ ’ave had two mischances this last while,and y’ are like to lose the maid—do I take itaright?”

“Aright!” returned Dick, nodding his head.

“Well, now,” continued Lawless, “hear an oldfool that hath been nigh-hand everything, and seen nigh-handall! Ye go too much on other people’s errands, MasterDick. Ye go on Ellis’s; but he desireth rather thedeath of Sir Daniel. Ye go on Lord Foxham’s;well—the saints preserve him!—doubtless he meanethwell. But go ye upon your own, good Dick. Come rightto the maid’s side. Court her, lest that she forgetyou. Be ready; and when the chance shall come, off with herat the saddle-bow.”

“Ay, but, Lawless, beyond doubt she is now in SirDaniel’s own mansion.” answered Dick.

“Thither, then, go we,” replied the outlaw.

Dick stared at him.

“Nay, I mean it,” nodded Lawless. “Andif y’ are of so little faith, and stumble at a word, seehere!”

And the outlaw, taking a key from about his neck, opened theoak chest, and dipping and groping deep among its contents,produced first a friar’s robe, and next a girdle of rope;and then a huge rosary of wood, heavy enough to be counted as aweapon.

“Here,” he said, “is for you. On withthem!”

And then, when Dick had clothed himself in this clericaldisguise, Lawless produced some colours and a pencil, andproceeded, with the greatest cunning, to disguise his face.The eyebrows he thickened and produced; to the moustache, whichwas yet hardly visible, he rendered a like service; while, by afew lines around the eye, he changed the expression and increasedthe apparent age of this young monk.

“Now,” he resumed, “when I have done thelike, we shall make as bonny a pair of friars as the eye couldwish. Boldly to Sir Daniel’s we shall go, and therebe hospitably welcome for the love of Mother Church.”

“And how, dear Lawless,” cried the lad,“shall I repay you?”

“Tut, brother,” replied the outlaw, “I donaught but for my pleasure. Mind not for me. I amone, by the mass, that mindeth for himself. When that Ilack, I have a long tongue and a voice like the monasterybell—I do ask, my son; and where asking faileth, I do mostusually take.”

The old rogue made a humorous grimace; and although Dick wasdispleased to lie under so great favours to so equivocal apersonage, he was yet unable to restrain his mirth.

With that, Lawless returned to the big chest, and was soonsimilarly disguised; but, below his gown, Dick wondered toobserve him conceal a sheaf of black arrows.

“Wherefore do ye that?” asked the lad.“Wherefore arrows, when ye take no bow?”

“Nay,” replied Lawless, lightly, “’tislike there will be heads broke—not to say backs—ereyou and I win sound from where we’re going to; and if anyfall, I would our fellowship should come by the crediton’t. A black arrow, Master Dick, is the seal of ourabbey; it showeth you who writ the bill.”

“An ye prepare so carefully,” said Dick, “Ihave here some papers that, for mine own sake, and the interestof those that trusted me, were better left behind than found uponmy body. Where shall I conceal them, Will?”

“Nay,” replied Lawless, “I will go forthinto the wood and whistle me three verses of a song; meanwhile,do you bury them where ye please, and smooth the sand upon theplace.”

“Never!” cried Richard. “I trust you,man. I were base indeed if I not trusted you.”

“Brother, y’ are but a child,” replied theold outlaw, pausing and turning his face upon Dick from thethreshold of the den. “I am a kind old Christian, andno traitor to men’s blood, and no sparer of mine own in afriend’s jeopardy. But, fool, child, I am a thief bytrade and birth and habit. If my bottle were empty and mymouth dry, I would rob you, dear child, as sure as I love,honour, and admire your parts and person! Can it be clearerspoken? No.”

And he stumped forth through the bushes with a snap of his bigfingers.

Dick, thus left alone, after a wondering thought upon theinconsistencies of his companion’s character, hastilyproduced, reviewed, and buried his papers. One only hereserved to carry along with him, since it in nowise compromisedhis friends, and yet might serve him, in a pinch, against SirDaniel. That was the knight’s own letter to LordWensleydale, sent by Throgmorton, on the morrow of the defeat atRisingham, and found next day by Dick upon the body of themessenger.

Then, treading down the embers of the fire, Dick left the den,and rejoined the old outlaw, who stood awaiting him under theleafless oaks, and was already beginning to be powdered by thefalling snow. Each looked upon the other, and each laughed,so thorough and so droll was the disguise.

“Yet I would it were but summer and a clear day,”grumbled the outlaw, “that I might see myself in the mirrorof a pool. There be many of Sir Daniel’s men thatknow me; and if we fell to be recognised, there might be twowords for you, brother, but as for me, in a paternoster while, Ishould be kicking in a rope’s-end.”

Thus they set forth together along the road to Shoreby, which,in this part of its course, kept near along the margin or theforest, coming forth, from time to time, in the open country, andpassing beside poor folks’ houses and small farms.

Presently at sight of one of these, Lawless pulled up.

“Brother Martin,” he said, in a voice capitallydisguised, and suited to his monkish robe, “let us enterand seek alms from these poor sinners. Paxvobiscum! Ay,” he added, in his own voice,“’tis as I feared; I have somewhat lost the whine ofit; and by your leave, good Master Shelton, ye must suffer me topractise in these country places, before that I risk my fat neckby entering Sir Daniel’s. But look ye a little, whatan excellent thing it is to be a Jack-of-all-trades! An Ihad not been a shipman, ye had infallibly gone down in the GoodHope; an I had not been a thief, I could not have painted me yourface; and but that I had been a Grey Friar, and sung loud in thechoir, and ate hearty at the board, I could not have carried thisdisguise, but the very dogs would have spied us out and barked atus for shams.”

He was by this time close to the window of the farm, and herose on his tip-toes and peeped in.

“Nay,” he cried, “better and better.We shall here try our false faces with a vengeance, and have amerry jest on Brother Capper to boot.”

And so saying, he opened the door and led the way into thehouse.

Three of their own company sat at the table, greedilyeating. Their daggers, stuck beside them in the board, andthe black and menacing looks which they continued to shower uponthe people of the house, proved that they owed theirentertainment rather to force than favour. On the twomonks, who now, with a sort of humble dignity, entered thekitchen of the farm, they seemed to turn with a particularresentment; and one—it was John Capper in person—whoseemed to play the leading part, instantly and rudely orderedthem away.

“We want no beggars here!” he cried.

But another—although he was as far from recognising Dickand Lawless—inclined to more moderate counsels.

“Not so,” he cried. “We be strong men,and take; these be weak, and crave; but in the latter end theseshall be uppermost and we below. Mind him not, my father;but come, drink of my cup, and give me a benediction.”

“Y’ are men of a light mind, carnal, andaccursed,” said the monk. “Now, may the saintsforbid that ever I should drink with such companions! Buthere, for the pity I bear to sinners, here I do leave you ablessed relic, the which, for your soul’s interest, I bidyou kiss and cherish.”

So far Lawless thundered upon them like a preaching friar; butwith these words he drew from under his robe a black arrow,tossed it on the board in front of the three startled outlaws,turned in the same instant, and, taking Dick along with him, wasout of the room and out of sight among the falling snow beforethey had time to utter a word or move a finger.

“So,” he said, “we have proved our falsefaces, Master Shelton. I will now adventure my poor carcasewhere ye please.”

“Good!” returned Richard. “It irks meto be doing. Set we on for Shoreby!”

CHAPTER II—“IN MINE ENEMIES’HOUSE”

Sir Daniel’s residence in Shoreby was a tall,commodious, plastered mansion, framed in carven oak, and coveredby a low-pitched roof of thatch. To the back therestretched a garden, full of fruit-trees, alleys, and thickarbours, and overlooked from the far end by the tower of theabbey church.

The house might contain, upon a pinch, the retinue of agreater person than Sir Daniel; but even now it was filled withhubbub. The court rang with arms and horseshoe-iron; thekitchens roared with cookery like a bees’-hive; minstrels,and the players of instruments, and the cries of tumblers,sounded from the hall. Sir Daniel, in his profusion, in thegaiety and gallantry of his establishment, rivalled with LordShoreby, and eclipsed Lord Risingham.

All guests were made welcome. Minstrels, tumblers,players of chess, the sellers of relics, medicines, perfumes, andenchantments, and along with these every sort of priest, friar,or pilgrim, were made welcome to the lower table, and slepttogether in the ample lofts, or on the bare boards of the longdining-hall.

On the afternoon following the wreck of the Good Hope, thebuttery, the kitchens, the stables, the covered cartshed thatsurrounded two sides of the court, were all crowded by idlepeople, partly belonging to Sir Daniel’s establishment, andattired in his livery of murrey and blue, partly nondescriptstrangers attracted to the town by greed, and received by theknight through policy, and because it was the fashion of thetime.

The snow, which still fell without interruption, the extremechill of the air, and the approach of night, combined to keepthem under shelter. Wine, ale, and money were allplentiful; many sprawled gambling in the straw of the barn, manywere still drunken from the noontide meal. To the eye of amodern it would have looked like the sack of a city; to the eyeof a contemporary it was like any other rich and noble householdat a festive season.

Two monks—a young and an old—had arrived late, andwere now warming themselves at a bonfire in a corner of theshed. A mixed crowd surrounded them—jugglers,mountebanks, and soldiers; and with these the elder of the twohad soon engaged so brisk a conversation, and exchanged so manyloud guffaws and country witticisms, that the group momentarilyincreased in number.

The younger companion, in whom the reader has alreadyrecognised Dick Shelton, sat from the first somewhat backward,and gradually drew himself away. He listened, indeed,closely, but he opened not his mouth; and by the grave expressionof his countenance, he made but little account of hiscompanion’s pleasantries.

At last his eye, which travelled continually to and fro, andkept a guard upon all the entrances of the house, lit upon alittle procession entering by the main gate and crossing thecourt in an oblique direction. Two ladies, muffled in thickfurs, led the way, and were followed by a pair of waiting-womenand four stout men-at-arms. The next moment they haddisappeared within the house; and Dick, slipping through thecrowd of loiterers in the shed, was already giving hotpursuit.

“The taller of these twain was Lady Brackley,” hethought; “and where Lady Brackley is, Joan will not befar.”

At the door of the house the four men-at-arms had ceased tofollow, and the ladies were now mounting the stairway of polishedoak, under no better escort than that of the twowaiting-women. Dick followed close behind. It wasalready the dusk of the day; and in the house the darkness of thenight had almost come. On the stair-landings, torchesflared in iron holders; down the long, tapestried corridors, alamp burned by every door. And where the door stood open,Dick could look in upon arras-covered walls and rush-bescatteredfloors, glowing in the light of the wood fires.

Two floors were passed, and at every landing the younger andshorter of the two ladies had looked back keenly at themonk. He, keeping his eyes lowered, and affecting thedemure manners that suited his disguise, had but seen her once,and was unaware that he had attracted her attention. Andnow, on the third floor, the party separated, the younger ladycontinuing to ascend alone, the other, followed by thewaiting-maids, descending the corridor to the right.

Dick mounted with a swift foot, and holding to the corner,thrust forth his head and followed the three women with hiseyes. Without turning or looking behind them, theycontinued to descend the corridor.

“It is right well,” thought Dick. “Letme but know my Lady Brackley’s chamber, and it will go hardan I find not Dame Hatch upon an errand.”

And just then a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and, with abound and a choked cry, he turned to grapple his assailant.

He was somewhat abashed to find, in the person whom he had soroughly seized, the short young lady in the furs. She, onher part, was shocked and terrified beyond expression, and hungtrembling in his grasp.

“Madam,” said Dick, releasing her, “I cryyou a thousand pardons; but I have no eyes behind, and, by themass, I could not tell ye were a maid.”

The girl continued to look at him, but, by this time, terrorbegan to be succeeded by surprise, and surprise bysuspicion. Dick, who could read these changes on her face,became alarmed for his own safety in that hostile house.

“Fair maid,” he said, affecting easiness,“suffer me to kiss your hand, in token ye forgive myroughness, and I will even go.”

“Y’ are a strange monk, young sir,” returnedthe young lady, looking him both boldly and shrewdly in the face;“and now that my first astonishment hath somewhat passedaway, I can spy the layman in each word you utter. What doye here? Why are ye thus sacrilegiously tricked out?Come ye in peace or war? And why spy ye after Lady Brackleylike a thief?”

“Madam,” quoth Dick, “of one thing I prayyou to be very sure: I am no thief. And even if I come herein war, as in some degree I do, I make no war upon fair maids,and I hereby entreat them to copy me so far, and to leave mebe. For, indeed, fair mistress, cry out—if such beyour pleasure—cry but once, and say what ye have seen, andthe poor gentleman before you is merely a dead man. Icannot think ye would be cruel,” added Dick; and taking thegirl’s hand gently in both of his, he looked at her withcourteous admiration.

“Are ye, then, a spy—a Yorkist?” asked themaid.

“Madam,” he replied, “I am indeed a Yorkist,and, in some sort, a spy. But that which bringeth me intothis house, the same which will win for me the pity and interestof your kind heart, is neither of York nor Lancaster. Iwill wholly put my life in your discretion. I am a lover,and my name—”

But here the young lady clapped her hand suddenly uponDick’s mouth, looked hastily up and down and east and west,and, seeing the coast clear, began to drag the young man, withgreat strength and vehemence, up-stairs.

“Hush!” she said, “and come! Shalttalk hereafter.”

Somewhat bewildered, Dick suffered himself to be pulledup-stairs, bustled along a corridor, and thrust suddenly into achamber, lit, like so many of the others, by a blazing log uponthe hearth.

“Now,” said the young lady, forcing him down upona stool, “sit ye there and attend my sovereign goodpleasure. I have life and death over you, and I will notscruple to abuse my power. Look to yourself; y’’ave cruelly mauled my arm. He knew not I was a maid,quoth he! Had he known I was a maid, he had ta’en hisbelt to me, forsooth!”

And with these words, she whipped out of the room and leftDick gaping with wonder, and not very sure if he were dreaming orawake.

“Ta’en my belt to her!” he repeated.“Ta’en my belt to her!” And therecollection of that evening in the forest flowed back upon hismind, and he once more saw Matcham’s wincing body andbeseeching eyes.

And then he was recalled to the dangers of the present.In the next room he heard a stir, as of a person moving; thenfollowed a sigh, which sounded strangely near; and then therustle of skirts and tap of feet once more began. As hestood hearkening, he saw the arras wave along the wall; there wasthe sound of a door being opened, the hangings divided, and, lampin hand, Joanna Sedley entered the apartment.

She was attired in costly stuffs of deep and warm colours,such as befit the winter and the snow. Upon her head, herhair had been gathered together and became her as a crown.And she, who had seemed so little and so awkward in the attire ofMatcham, was now tall like a young willow, and swam across thefloor as though she scorned the drudgery of walking.

Without a start, without a tremor, she raised her lamp andlooked at the young monk.

“What make ye here, good brother?” sheinquired. “Ye are doubtless ill-directed. Whomdo ye require? And she set her lamp upon the bracket.

“Joanna,” said Dick; and then his voice failedhim. “Joanna,” he began again, “ye saidye loved me; and the more fool I, but I believed it!”

“Dick!” she cried. “Dick!”

And then, to the wonder of the lad, this beautiful and tallyoung lady made but one step of it, and threw her arms about hisneck and gave him a hundred kisses all in one.

“Oh, the fool fellow!” she cried. “Oh,dear Dick! Oh, if ye could see yourself!Alack!” she added, pausing. “I have spoilt you,Dick! I have knocked some of the paint off. But thatcan be mended. What cannot be mended, Dick—or I muchfear it cannot!—is my marriage with LordShoreby.”

“Is it decided, then?” asked the lad.

“To-morrow, before noon, Dick, in the abbeychurch,” she answered, “John Matcham and JoannaSedley both shall come to a right miserable end. There isno help in tears, or I could weep mine eyes out. I have notspared myself to pray, but Heaven frowns on my petition.And, dear Dick—good Dick—but that ye can get me forthof this house before the morning, we must even kiss and saygood-bye.”

“Nay,” said Dick, “not I; I will never saythat word. ’Tis like despair; but while there’slife, Joanna, there is hope. Yet will I hope. Ay, bythe mass, and triumph! Look ye, now, when ye were but aname to me, did I not follow—did I not rouse goodmen—did I not stake my life upon the quarrel? And nowthat I have seen you for what ye are—the fairest maid andstateliest of England—think ye I would turn?—if thedeep sea were there, I would straight through it; if the way werefull of lions, I would scatter them like mice.”

“Ay,” she said, dryly, “ye make a great adoabout a sky-blue robe!”

“Nay, Joan,” protested Dick, “’tis notalone the robe. But, lass, ye were disguised. Here amI disguised; and, to the proof, do I not cut a figure offun—a right fool’s figure?”

“Ay, Dick, an’ that ye do!” she answered,smiling.

“Well, then!” he returned, triumphant.“So was it with you, poor Matcham, in the forest. Insooth, ye were a wench to laugh at. But now!”

So they ran on, holding each other by both hands, exchangingsmiles and lovely looks, and melting minutes into seconds; and sothey might have continued all night long. But presentlythere was a noise behind them; and they were aware of the shortyoung lady, with her finger on her lips.

“Saints!” she cried, “but what a noise yekeep! Can ye not speak in compass? And now, Joanna,my fair maid of the woods, what will ye give your gossip forbringing you your sweetheart?”

Joanna ran to her, by way of answer, and embraced herfierily.

“And you, sir,” added the young lady, “whatdo ye give me?”

“Madam,” said Dick, “I would fain offer topay you in the same money.”

“Come, then,” said the lady, “it ispermitted you.”

But Dick, blushing like a peony, only kissed her hand.

“What ails ye at my face, fair sir?” she inquired,curtseying to the very ground; and then, when Dick had at lengthand most tepidly embraced her, “Joanna,” she added,“your sweetheart is very backward under your eyes; but Iwarrant you, when first we met he was more ready. I am allblack and blue, wench; trust me never, if I be not black andblue! And now,” she continued, “have ye saidyour sayings? for I must speedily dismiss the paladin.”

But at this they both cried out that they had said nothing,that the night was still very young, and that they would not beseparated so early.

“And supper?” asked the young lady.“Must we not go down to supper?”

“Nay, to be sure!” cried Joan. “I hadforgotten.”

“Hide me, then,” said Dick, “put me behindthe arras, shut me in a chest, or what ye will, so that I may behere on your return. Indeed, fair lady,” he added,“bear this in mind, that we are sore bested, and may neverlook upon each other’s face from this night forward till wedie.”

At this the young lady melted; and when, a little after, thebell summoned Sir Daniel’s household to the board, Dick wasplanted very stiffly against the wall, at a place where adivision in the tapestry permitted him to breathe the morefreely, and even to see into the room.

He had not been long in this position, when he was somewhatstrangely disturbed. The silence, in that upper storey ofthe house, was only broken by the flickering of the flames andthe hissing of a green log in the chimney; but presently, toDick’s strained hearing, there came the sound of some onewalking with extreme precaution; and soon after the door opened,and a little black-faced, dwarfish fellow, in LordShoreby’s colours, pushed first his head, and then hiscrooked body, into the chamber. His mouth was open, asthough to hear the better; and his eyes, which were very bright,flitted restlessly and swiftly to and fro. He went roundand round the room, striking here and there upon the hangings;but Dick, by a miracle, escaped his notice. Then he lookedbelow the furniture, and examined the lamp; and, at last, with anair of cruel disappointment, was preparing to go away as silentlyas he had come, when down he dropped upon his knees, picked upsomething from among the rushes on the floor, examined it, and,with every signal of delight, concealed it in the wallet at hisbelt.

Dick’s heart sank, for the object in question was atassel from his own girdle; and it was plain to him that thisdwarfish spy, who took a malign delight in his employment, wouldlose no time in bearing it to his master, the baron. He washalf-tempted to throw aside the arras, fall upon the scoundrel,and, at the risk of his life, remove the telltale token.And while he was still hesitating, a new cause of concern wasadded. A voice, hoarse and broken by drink, began to beaudible from the stair; and presently after, uneven, wandering,and heavy footsteps sounded without along the passage.

“What make ye here, my merry men, among the greenwoodshaws?” sang the voice. “What make yehere? Hey! sots, what make ye here?” it added, with arattle of drunken laughter; and then, once more breaking intosong:

“If ye should drink the clary wine,
Fat Friar John, ye friend o’ mine—
If I should eat, and ye should drink,
Who shall sing the mass, d’ye think?”

Lawless, alas! rolling drunk, was wandering the house, seekingfor a corner wherein to slumber off the effect of hispotations. Dick inwardly raged. The spy, at firstterrified, had grown reassured as he found he had to deal with anintoxicated man, and now, with a movement of cat-like rapidity,slipped from the chamber, and was gone from Richard’seyes.

What was to be done? If he lost touch of Lawless for thenight, he was left impotent, whether to plan or carry forthJoanna’s rescue. If, on the other hand, he dared toaddress the drunken outlaw, the spy might still be lingeringwithin sight, and the most fatal consequences ensue.

It was, nevertheless, upon this last hazard that Dickdecided. Slipping from behind the tapestry, he stood readyin the doorway of the chamber, with a warning handupraised. Lawless, flushed crimson, with his eyes injected,vacillating on his feet, drew still unsteadily nearer. Atlast he hazily caught sight of his commander, and, in despite ofDick’s imperious signals, hailed him instantly and loudlyby his name.

Dick leaped upon and shook the drunkard furiously.

“Beast!” he hissed—“beast and noman! It is worse than treachery to be so witless. Wemay all be shent for thy sotting.”

But Lawless only laughed and staggered, and tried to clapyoung Shelton on the back.

And just then Dick’s quick ear caught a rapid brushingin the arras. He leaped towards the sound, and the nextmoment a piece of the wall-hanging had been torn down, and Dickand the spy were sprawling together in its folds. Over andover they rolled, grappling for each other’s throat, andstill baffled by the arras, and still silent in their deadlyfury. But Dick was by much the stronger, and soon the spylay prostrate under his knee, and, with a single stroke of thelong poniard, ceased to breathe.

CHAPTER III—THE DEAD SPY

Throughout this furious and rapid passage, Lawless had lookedon helplessly, and even when all was over, and Dick, alreadyre-arisen to his feet, was listening with the most passionateattention to the distant bustle in the lower storeys of thehouse, the old outlaw was still wavering on his legs like a shrubin a breeze of wind, and still stupidly staring on the face ofthe dead man.

“It is well,” said Dick, at length; “theyhave not heard us, praise the saints! But, now, what shallI do with this poor spy? At least, I will take my tasselfrom his wallet.”

So saying, Dick opened the wallet; within he found a fewpieces of money, the tassel, and a letter addressed to LordWensleydale, and sealed with my Lord Shoreby’s seal.The name awoke Dick’s recollection; and he instantly brokethe wax and read the contents of the letter. It was short,but, to Dick’s delight, it gave evident proof that LordShoreby was treacherously corresponding with the House ofYork.

The young fellow usually carried his ink-horn and implementsabout him, and so now, bending a knee beside the body of the deadspy, he was able to write these words upon a corner of thepaper:

My Lord of Shoreby, ye that writt the letter, wotye why your man is ded? But let me rede you, marry not.

JonAmend-All.

He laid this paper on the breast of the corpse; and thenLawless, who had been looking on upon these last manoeuvres withsome flickering returns of intelligence, suddenly drew a blackarrow from below his robe, and therewith pinned the paper in itsplace. The sight of this disrespect, or, as it almostseemed, cruelty to the dead, drew a cry of horror from youngShelton; but the old outlaw only laughed.

“Nay, I will have the credit for mine order,” hehiccupped. “My jolly boys must have the crediton’t—the credit, brother;” and then, shuttinghis eyes tight and opening his mouth like a precentor, he beganto thunder, in a formidable voice:

“If ye should drink the clarywine”—

“Peace, sot!” cried Dick, and thrust him hardagainst the wall. “In two words—if so be thatsuch a man can understand me who hath more wine than wit inhim—in two words, and, a-Mary’s name, begone out ofthis house, where, if ye continue to abide, ye will not only hangyourself, but me also! Faith, then, up foot! be yare, or,by the mass, I may forget that I am in some sort your captain andin some your debtor! Go!”

The sham monk was now, in some degree, recovering the use ofhis intelligence; and the ring in Dick’s voice, and theglitter in Dick’s eye, stamped home the meaning of hiswords.

“By the mass,” cried Lawless, “an I be notwanted, I can go;” and he turned tipsily along the corridorand proceeded to flounder down-stairs, lurching against thewall.

So soon as he was out of sight, Dick returned to hishiding-place, resolutely fixed to see the matter out.Wisdom, indeed, moved him to be gone; but love and curiosity werestronger.

Time passed slowly for the young man, bolt upright behind thearras. The fire in the room began to die down, and the lampto burn low and to smoke. And still there was no word ofthe return of any one to these upper quarters of the house; stillthe faint hum and clatter of the supper party sounded from farbelow; and still, under the thick fall of the snow, Shoreby townlay silent upon every side.

At length, however, feet and voices began to draw near uponthe stair; and presently after several of Sir Daniel’sguests arrived upon the landing, and, turning down the corridor,beheld the torn arras and the body of the spy.

Some ran forward and some back, and all together began to cryaloud.

At the sound of their cries, guests, men-at-arms, ladies,servants, and, in a word, all the inhabitants of that greathouse, came flying from every direction, and began to join theirvoices to the tumult.

Soon a way was cleared, and Sir Daniel came forth in person,followed by the bridegroom of the morrow, my Lord Shoreby.

“My lord,” said Sir Daniel, “have I not toldyou of this knave Black Arrow? To the proof, beholdit! There it stands, and, by the rood, my gossip, in a manof yours, or one that stole your colours!”

“In good sooth, it was a man of mine,” repliedLord Shoreby, hanging back. “I would I had moresuch. He was keen as a beagle and secret as amole.”

“Ay, gossip, truly?” asked Sir Daniel,keenly. “And what came he smelling up so many stairsin my poor mansion? But he will smell no more.”

“An’t please you, Sir Daniel,” said one,“here is a paper written upon with some matter, pinned uponhis breast.”

“Give it me, arrow and all,” said theknight. And when he had taken into his hand the shaft, hecontinued for some time to gaze upon it in a sullen musing.“Ay,” he said, addressing Lord Shoreby, “hereis a hate that followeth hard and close upon my heels. Thisblack stick, or its just likeness, shall yet bring me down.And, gossip, suffer a plain knight to counsel you; and if thesehounds begin to wind you, flee! ’Tis like asickness—it still hangeth, hangeth upon the limbs.But let us see what they have written. It is as I thought,my lord; y’ are marked, like an old oak, by the woodman;to-morrow or next day, by will come the axe. But what wroteye in a letter?”

Lord Shoreby snatched the paper from the arrow, read it,crumpled it between his hands, and, overcoming the reluctancewhich had hitherto withheld him from approaching, threw himselfon his knees beside the body and eagerly groped in thewallet.

He rose to his feet with a somewhat unsettled countenance.

“Gossip,” he said, “I have indeed lost aletter here that much imported; and could I lay my hand upon theknave that took it, he should incontinently grace a halter.But let us, first of all, secure the issues of the house.Here is enough harm already, by St. George!”

Sentinels were posted close around the house and garden; asentinel on every landing of the stair, a whole troop in the mainentrance-hall; and yet another about the bonfire in theshed. Sir Daniel’s followers were supplemented byLord Shoreby’s; there was thus no lack of men or weapons tomake the house secure, or to entrap a lurking enemy, should onebe there.

Meanwhile, the body of the spy was carried out through thefalling snow and deposited in the abbey church.

It was not until these dispositions had been taken, and allhad returned to a decorous silence, that the two girls drewRichard Shelton from his place of concealment, and made a fullreport to him of what had passed. He, upon his side,recounted the visit of the spy, his dangerous discovery, andspeedy end.

Joanna leaned back very faint against the curtained wall.

“It will avail but little,” she said.“I shall be wed to-morrow, in the morning, afterall!”

“What!” cried her friend. “And here isour paladin that driveth lions like mice! Ye have littlefaith, of a surety. But come, friend lion-driver, give ussome comfort; speak, and let us hear bold counsels.”

Dick was confounded to be thus outfaced with his ownexaggerated words; but though he coloured, he still spokestoutly.

“Truly,” said he, “we are in straits.Yet, could I but win out of this house for half an hour, I dohonestly tell myself that all might still go well; and for themarriage, it should be prevented.”

“And for the lions,” mimicked the girl,“they shall be driven.”

“I crave your excuse,” said Dick. “Ispeak not now in any boasting humour, but rather as one inquiringafter help or counsel; for if I get not forth of this house andthrough these sentinels, I can do less than naught. Takeme, I pray you, rightly.”

“Why said ye he was rustic, Joan?” the girlinquired. “I warrant he hath a tongue in his head;ready, soft, and bold is his speech at pleasure. What wouldye more?”

“Nay,” sighed Joanna, with a smile, “theyhave changed me my friend Dick, ’tis sure enough.When I beheld him, he was rough indeed. But it matterslittle; there is no help for my hard case, and I must still beLady Shoreby!”

“Nay, then,” said Dick, “I will even makethe adventure. A friar is not much regarded; and if I founda good fairy to lead me up, I may find another belike to carry medown. How call they the name of this spy?”

“Rutter,” said the young lady; “and anexcellent good name to call him by. But how mean ye,lion-driver? What is in your mind to do?”

“To offer boldly to go forth,” returned Dick;“and if any stop me, to keep an unchanged countenance, andsay I go to pray for Rutter. They will be praying over hispoor clay even now.”

“The device is somewhat simple,” replied the girl,“yet it may hold.”

“Nay,” said young Shelton, “it is no device,but mere boldness, which serveth often better in greatstraits.”

“Ye say true,” she said. “Well, go,a-Mary’s name, and may Heaven speed you! Ye leavehere a poor maid that loves you entirely, and another that ismost heartily your friend. Be wary, for their sakes, andmake not shipwreck of your safety.”

“Ay,” added Joanna, “go, Dick. Ye runno more peril, whether ye go or stay. Go; ye take my heartwith you; the saints defend you!”

Dick passed the first sentry with so assured a countenancethat the fellow merely figeted and stared; but at the secondlanding the man carried his spear across and bade him name hisbusiness.

“Pax vobiscum,” answered Dick.“I go to pray over the body of this poor Rutter.”

“Like enough,” returned the sentry; “but togo alone is not permitted you.” He leaned over theoaken balusters and whistled shrill. “Onecometh!” he cried; and then motioned Dick to pass.

At the foot of the stair he found the guard afoot and awaitinghis arrival; and when he had once more repeated his story, thecommander of the post ordered four men out to accompany him tothe church.

“Let him not slip, my lads,” he said.“Bring him to Sir Oliver, on your lives!”

The door was then opened; one of the men took Dick by eitherarm, another marched ahead with a link, and the fourth, with bentbow and the arrow on the string, brought up the rear. Inthis order they proceeded through the garden, under the thickdarkness of the night and the scattering snow, and drew near tothe dimly-illuminated windows of the abbey church.

At the western portal a picket of archers stood, taking whatshelter they could find in the hollow of the arched doorways, andall powdered with the snow; and it was not until Dick’sconductors had exchanged a word with these, that they weresuffered to pass forth and enter the nave of the sacrededifice.

The church was doubtfully lighted by the tapers upon the greataltar, and by a lamp or two that swung from the arched roofbefore the private chapels of illustrious families. In themidst of the choir the dead spy lay, his limbs piously composed,upon a bier.

A hurried mutter of prayer sounded along the arches; cowledfigures knelt in the stalls of the choir, and on the steps of thehigh altar a priest in pontifical vestments celebrated mass.

Upon this fresh entrance, one of the cowled figures arose,and, coming down the steps which elevated the level of the choirabove that of the nave, demanded from the leader of the four menwhat business brought him to the church. Out of respect forthe service and the dead, they spoke in guarded tones; but theechoes of that huge, empty building caught up their words, andhollowly repeated and repeated them along the aisles.

“A monk!” returned Sir Oliver (for he it was),when he had heard the report of the archer. “Mybrother, I looked not for your coming,” he added, turningto young Shelton. “In all civility, who are ye? andat whose instance do ye join your supplications toours?”

Dick, keeping his cowl about his face, signed to Sir Oliver tomove a pace or two aside from the archers; and, so soon as thepriest had done so, “I cannot hope to deceive you,sir,” he said. “My life is in yourhands.”

Sir Oliver violently started; his stout cheeks grew pale, andfor a space he was silent.

“Richard,” he said, “what brings you here, Iknow not; but I much misdoubt it to be evil. Nevertheless,for the kindness that was, I would not willingly deliver you toharm. Ye shall sit all night beside me in the stalls: yeshall sit there till my Lord of Shoreby be married, and the partygone safe home; and if all goeth well, and ye have planned noevil, in the end ye shall go whither ye will. But if yourpurpose be bloody, it shall return upon your head.Amen!”

And the priest devoutly crossed himself, and turned and loutedto the altar.

With that, he spoke a few words more to the soldiers, andtaking Dick by the hand, led him up to the choir, and placed himin the stall beside his own, where, for mere decency, the lad hadinstantly to kneel and appear to be busy with his devotions.

His mind and his eyes, however, were continuallywandering. Three of the soldiers, he observed, instead ofreturning to the house, had got them quietly into a point ofvantage in the aisle; and he could not doubt that they had doneso by Sir Oliver’s command. Here, then, he wastrapped. Here he must spend the night in the ghostlyglimmer and shadow of the church, and looking on the pale face ofhim he slew; and here, in the morning, he must see his sweetheartmarried to another man before his eyes.

But, for all that, he obtained a command upon his mind, andbuilt himself up in patience to await the issue.

CHAPTER IV—IN THE ABBEY CHURCH

In Shoreby Abbey Church the prayers were kept up all nightwithout cessation, now with the singing of psalms, now with anote or two upon the bell.

Rutter, the spy, was nobly waked. There he lay,meanwhile, as they had arranged him, his dead hands crossed uponhis bosom, his dead eyes staring on the roof; and hard by, in thestall, the lad who had slain him waited, in sore disquietude, thecoming of the morning.

Once only, in the course of the hours, Sir Oliver leanedacross to his captive.

“Richard,” he whispered, “my son, if ye meanme evil, I will certify, on my soul’s welfare, ye designupon an innocent man. Sinful in the eye of Heaven I dodeclare myself; but sinful as against you I am not, neither havebeen ever.”

“My father,” returned Dick, in the same tone ofvoice, “trust me, I design nothing; but as for yourinnocence, I may not forget that ye cleared yourself butlamely.”

“A man may be innocently guilty,” replied thepriest. “He may be set blindfolded upon a mission,ignorant of its true scope. So it was with me. I diddecoy your father to his death; but as Heaven sees us in thissacred place, I knew not what I did.”

“It may be,” returned Dick. “But seewhat a strange web ye have woven, that I should be, at this hour,at once your prisoner and your judge; that ye should boththreaten my days and deprecate my anger. Methinks, if yehad been all your life a true man and good priest, ye wouldneither thus fear nor thus detest me. And now to yourprayers. I do obey you, since needs must; but I will not beburthened with your company.”

The priest uttered a sigh so heavy that it had almost touchedthe lad into some sentiment of pity, and he bowed his head uponhis hands like a man borne down below a weight of care. Hejoined no longer in the psalms; but Dick could hear the beadsrattle through his fingers and the prayers a-pattering betweenhis teeth.

Yet a little, and the grey of the morning began to strugglethrough the painted casements of the church, and to put to shamethe glimmer of the tapers. The light slowly broadened andbrightened, and presently through the south-eastern clerestoriesa flush of rosy sunlight flickered on the walls. The stormwas over; the great clouds had disburdened their snow and fledfarther on, and the new day was breaking on a merry winterlandscape sheathed in white.

A bustle of church officers followed; the bier was carriedforth to the deadhouse, and the stains of blood were cleansedfrom off the tiles, that no such ill-omened spectacle shoulddisgrace the marriage of Lord Shoreby. At the same time,the very ecclesiastics who had been so dismally engaged all nightbegan to put on morning faces, to do honour to the merrierceremony which was about to follow. And further to announcethe coming of the day, the pious of the town began to assembleand fall to prayer before their favourite shrines, or wait theirturn at the confessionals.

Favoured by this stir, it was of course easily possible forany man to avoid the vigilance of Sir Daniel’s sentries atthe door; and presently Dick, looking about him wearily, caughtthe eye of no less a person than Will Lawless, still in hismonk’s habit.

The outlaw, at the same moment, recognised his leader, andprivily signed to him with hand and eye.

Now, Dick was far from having forgiven the old rogue his mostuntimely drunkenness, but he had no desire to involve him in hisown predicament; and he signalled back to him, as plain as he wasable, to begone.

Lawless, as though he had understood, disappeared at oncebehind a pillar, and Dick breathed again.

What, then, was his dismay to feel himself plucked by thesleeve and to find the old robber installed beside him, upon thenext seat, and, to all appearance, plunged in his devotions!

Instantly Sir Oliver arose from his place, and, gliding behindthe stalls, made for the soldiers in the aisle. If thepriest’s suspicions had been so lightly wakened, the harmwas already done, and Lawless a prisoner in the church.

“Move not,” whispered Dick. “We are inthe plaguiest pass, thanks, before all things, to thy swinishnessof yestereven. When ye saw me here, so strangely seatedwhere I have neither right nor interest, what a murrain! couldye not smell harm and get ye gone from evil?”

“Nay,” returned Lawless, “I thought ye hadheard from Ellis, and were here on duty.”

“Ellis!” echoed Dick. “Is Ellis, then,returned?

“For sure,” replied the outlaw. “Hecame last night, and belted me sore for being in wine—sothere ye are avenged, my master. A furious man is EllisDuckworth! He hath ridden me hot-spur from Craven toprevent this marriage; and, Master Dick, ye know the way ofhim—do so he will!”

“Nay, then,” returned Dick, with composure,“you and I, my poor brother, are dead men; for I sit here aprisoner upon suspicion, and my neck was to answer for this verymarriage that he purposeth to mar. I had a fair choice, bythe rood! to lose my sweetheart or else lose my life! Well,the cast is thrown—it is to be my life.”

“By the mass,” cried Lawless, half arising,“I am gone!”

But Dick had his hand at once upon his shoulder.

“Friend Lawless, sit ye still,” he said.“An ye have eyes, look yonder at the corner by the chancelarch; see ye not that, even upon the motion of your rising, yonarmed men are up and ready to intercept you? Yield ye,friend. Ye were bold aboard ship, when ye thought to die asea-death; be bold again, now that y’ are to die presentlyupon the gallows.”

“Master Dick,” gasped Lawless, “the thinghath come upon me somewhat of the suddenest. But give me amoment till I fetch my breath again; and, by the mass, I will beas stout-hearted as yourself.”

“Here is my bold fellow!” returned Dick.“And yet, Lawless, it goes hard against the grain with meto die; but where whining mendeth nothing, whereforewhine?”

“Nay, that indeed!” chimed Lawless.“And a fig for death, at worst! It has to be done, mymaster, soon or late. And hanging in a good quarrel is aneasy death, they say, though I could never hear of any that cameback to say so.”

And so saying, the stout old rascal leaned back in his stall,folded his arms, and began to look about him with the greatestair of insolence and unconcern.

“And for the matter of that,” Dick added,“it is yet our best chance to keep quiet. We wot notyet what Duckworth purposes; and when all is said, and if theworst befall, we may yet clear our feet of it.”

Now that they ceased talking, they were aware of a verydistant and thin strain of mirthful music which steadily drewnearer, louder, and merrier. The bells in the tower beganto break forth into a doubling peal, and a greater and greaterconcourse of people to crowd into the church, shuffling the snowfrom off their feet, and clapping and blowing in theirhands. The western door was flung wide open, showing aglimpse of sunlit, snowy street, and admitting in a great gustthe shrewd air of the morning; and in short, it became plain byevery sign that Lord Shoreby desired to be married very early inthe day, and that the wedding-train was drawing near.

Some of Lord Shoreby’s men now cleared a passage downthe middle aisle, forcing the people back with lance-stocks; andjust then, outside the portal, the secular musicians could bedescried drawing near over the frozen snow, the fifers andtrumpeters scarlet in the face with lusty blowing, the drummersand the cymbalists beating as for a wager.

These, as they drew near the door of the sacred building,filed off on either side, and, marking time to their own vigorousmusic, stood stamping in the snow. As they thus openedtheir ranks, the leaders of this noble bridal train appearedbehind and between them; and such was the variety and gaiety oftheir attire, such the display of silks and velvet, fur andsatin, embroidery and lace, that the procession showed forth uponthe snow like a flower-bed in a path or a painted window in awall.

First came the bride, a sorry sight, as pale as winter,clinging to Sir Daniel’s arm, and attended, as brides-maid,by the short young lady who had befriended Dick the nightbefore. Close behind, in the most radiant toilet, followedthe bridegroom, halting on a gouty foot; and as he passed thethreshold of the sacred building and doffed his hat, his baldhead was seen to be rosy with emotion.

And now came the hour of Ellis Duckworth.

Dick, who sat stunned among contrary emotions, grasping thedesk in front of him, beheld a movement in the crowd, peoplejostling backward, and eyes and arms uplifted. Followingthese signs, he beheld three or four men with bent bows leaningfrom the clerestory gallery. At the same instant theydelivered their discharge, and before the clamour and cries ofthe astounded populace had time to swell fully upon the ear, theyhad flitted from their perch and disappeared.

The nave was full of swaying heads and voices screaming; theecclesiastics thronged in terror from their places; the musicceased, and though the bells overhead continued for some secondsto clang upon the air, some wind of the disaster seemed to findits way at last even to the chamber where the ringers wereleaping on their ropes, and they also desisted from their merrylabours.

Right in the midst of the nave the bridegroom lay stone-dead,pierced by two black arrows. The bride had fainted.Sir Daniel stood, towering above the crowd in his surprise andanger, a clothyard shaft quivering in his left forearm, and hisface streaming blood from another which had grazed his brow.

Long before any search could be made for them, the authors ofthis tragic interruption had clattered down a turnpike stair anddecamped by a postern door.

But Dick and Lawless still remained in pawn; they had, indeed,arisen on the first alarm, and pushed manfully to gain the door;but what with the narrowness of the stalls and the crowding ofterrified priests and choristers, the attempt had been in vain,and they had stoically resumed their places.

And now, pale with horror, Sir Oliver rose to his feet andcalled upon Sir Daniel, pointing with one hand to Dick.

“Here,” he cried, “is RichardShelton—alas the hour!—blood guilty! Seizehim!—bid him be seized! For all our lives’sakes, take him and bind him surely! He hath sworn ourfall.”

Sir Daniel was blinded by anger—blinded by the hot bloodthat still streamed across his face.

“Where?” he bellowed. “Hale himforth! By the cross of Holywood, but he shall rue thishour!”

The crowd fell back, and a party of archers invaded the choir,laid rough hands on Dick, dragged him head-foremost from thestall, and thrust him by the shoulders down the chancelsteps. Lawless, on his part, sat as still as a mouse.

Sir Daniel, brushing the blood out of his eyes, staredblinkingly upon his captive.

“Ay,” he said, “treacherous and insolent, Ihave thee fast; and by all potent oaths, for every drop of bloodthat now trickles in mine eyes, I will wring a groan out of thycarcase. Away with him!” he added. “Hereis no place! Off with him to my house. I will numberevery joint of thy body with a torture.”

But Dick, putting off his captors, uplifted his voice.

“Sanctuary!” he shouted.“Sanctuary! Ho, there, my fathers! They woulddrag me from the church!”

“From the church thou hast defiled with murder,boy,” added a tall man, magnificently dressed.

“On what probation?” cried Dick. “Theydo accuse me, indeed, of some complicity, but have not proved onetittle. I was, in truth, a suitor for this damsel’shand; and she, I will be bold to say it, repaid my suit withfavour. But what then? To love a maid is no offence,I trow—nay, nor to gain her love. In all else, Istand here free from guiltiness.”

There was a murmur of approval among the bystanders, so boldlyDick declared his innocence; but at the same time a throng ofaccusers arose upon the other side, crying how he had been foundlast night in Sir Daniel’s house, how he wore asacrilegious disguise; and in the midst of the babel, Sir Oliverindicated Lawless, both by voice and gesture, as accomplice tothe fact. He, in his turn, was dragged from his seat andset beside his leader. The feelings of the crowd rose highon either side, and while some dragged the prisoners to and froto favour their escape, others cursed and struck them with theirfists. Dick’s ears rang and his brain swam dizzily,like a man struggling in the eddies of a furious river.

But the tall man who had already answered Dick, by aprodigious exercise of voice restored silence and order in themob.

“Search them,” he said, “for arms. Wemay so judge of their intentions.”

Upon Dick they found no weapon but his poniard, and this toldin his favour, until one man officiously drew it from its sheath,and found it still uncleansed of the blood of Rutter. Atthis there was a great shout among Sir Daniel’s followers,which the tall man suppressed by a gesture and an imperiousglance. But when it came to the turn of Lawless, there wasfound under his gown a sheaf of arrows identical with those thathad been shot.

“How say ye now?” asked the tall man, frowningly,of Dick.

“Sir,” replied Dick, “I am here insanctuary, is it not so? Well, sir, I see by your bearingthat ye are high in station, and I read in your countenance themarks of piety and justice. To you, then, I will yield meprisoner, and that blithely, foregoing the advantage of this holyplace. But rather than to be yielded into the discretion ofthat man—whom I do here accuse with a loud voice to be themurderer of my natural father and the unjust retainer of my landsand revenues—rather than that, I would beseech you, underfavour, with your own gentle hand, to despatch me on thespot. Your own ears have heard him, how before that I wasproven guilty he did threaten me with torments. It standethnot with your own honour to deliver me to my sworn enemy and oldoppressor, but to try me fairly by the way of law, and, if that Ibe guilty indeed, to slay me mercifully.”

“My lord,” cried Sir Daniel, “ye will nothearken to this wolf? His bloody dagger reeks him the lieinto his face.”

“Nay, but suffer me, good knight,” returned thetall stranger; “your own vehemence doth somewhat tellagainst yourself.”

And here the bride, who had come to herself some minutes pastand looked wildly on upon this scene, broke loose from those thatheld her, and fell upon her knees before the last speaker.

“My Lord of Risingham,” she cried, “hear me,in justice. I am here in this man’s custody by mereforce, reft from mine own people. Since that day I hadnever pity, countenance, nor comfort from the face ofman—but from him only—Richard Shelton—whom theynow accuse and labour to undo. My lord, if he wasyesternight in Sir Daniel’s mansion, it was I that broughthim there; he came but at my prayer, and thought to do nohurt. While yet Sir Daniel was a good lord to him, hefought with them of the Black Arrow loyally; but when his foulguardian sought his life by practices, and he fled by night, forhis soul’s sake, out of that bloody house, whither was heto turn—he, helpless and penniless? Or if he befallen among ill company, whom should ye blame—the lad thatwas unjustly handled, or the guardian that did abuse histrust?”

And then the short young lady fell on her knees byJoanna’s side.

“And I, my good lord and natural uncle,” sheadded, “I can bear testimony, on my conscience and beforethe face of all, that what this maiden saith is true. Itwas I, unworthy, that did lead the young man in.”

Earl Risingham had heard in silence, and when the voicesceased, he still stood silent for a space. Then he gaveJoanna his hand to arise, though it was to be observed that hedid not offer the like courtesy to her who had called herself hisniece.

“Sir Daniel,” he said, “here is a rightintricate affair, the which, with your good leave, it shall bemine to examine and adjust. Content ye, then; your businessis in careful hands; justice shall be done you; and in themeanwhile, get ye incontinently home, and have your hurtsattended. The air is shrewd, and I would not ye took coldupon these scratches.”

He made a sign with his hand; it was passed down the nave byobsequious servants, who waited there upon his smallestgesture. Instantly, without the church, a tucket soundedshrill, and through the open portal archers and men-at-arms,uniformly arrayed in the colours and wearing the badge of LordRisingham, began to file into the church, took Dick and Lawlessfrom those who still detained them, and, closing their filesabout the prisoners, marched forth again and disappeared.

As they were passing, Joanna held both her hands to Dick andcried him her farewell; and the bridesmaid, nothing downcast byher uncle’s evident displeasure, blew him a kiss, with a“Keep your heart up, lion-driver!” that for the firsttime since the accident called up a smile to the faces of thecrowd.

CHAPTER V—EARL RISINGHAM

Earl Risingham, although by far the most important person thenin Shoreby, was poorly lodged in the house of a private gentlemanupon the extreme outskirts of the town. Nothing but thearmed men at the doors, and the mounted messengers that keptarriving and departing, announced the temporary residence of agreat lord.

Thus it was that, from lack of space, Dick and Lawless wereclapped into the same apartment.

“Well spoken, Master Richard,” said the outlaw;“it was excellently well spoken, and, for my part, I thankyou cordially. Here we are in good hands; we shall bejustly tried, and, some time this evening, decently hanged on thesame tree.”

“Indeed, my poor friend, I do believe it,”answered Dick.

“Yet have we a string to our bow,” returnedLawless. “Ellis Duckworth is a man out of tenthousand; he holdeth you right near his heart, both for your ownand for your father’s sake; and knowing you guiltless ofthis fact, he will stir earth and heaven to bear youclear.”

“It may not be,” said Dick. “What canhe do? He hath but a handful. Alack, if it were butto-morrow—could I but keep a certain tryst an hour beforenoon to-morrow—all were, I think, otherwise. But nowthere is no help.”

“Well,” concluded Lawless, “an ye will standto it for my innocence, I will stand to it for yours, and thatstoutly. It shall naught avail us; but an I be to hang, itshall not be for lack of swearing.”

And then, while Dick gave himself over to his reflections, theold rogue curled himself down into a corner, pulled his monkishhood about his face, and composed himself to sleep. Soon hewas loudly snoring, so utterly had his long life of hardship andadventure blunted the sense of apprehension.

It was long after noon, and the day was already failing,before the door was opened and Dick taken forth and led up-stairsto where, in a warm cabinet, Earl Risingham sat musing over thefire.

On his captive’s entrance he looked up.

“Sir,” he said, “I knew your father, who wasa man of honour, and this inclineth me to be the more lenient;but I may not hide from you that heavy charges lie against yourcharacter. Ye do consort with murderers and robbers; upon aclear probation ye have carried war against the king’speace; ye are suspected to have piratically seized upon a ship;ye are found skulking with a counterfeit presentment in yourenemy’s house; a man is slain that veryevening—”

“An it like you, my lord,” Dick interposed,“I will at once avow my guilt, such as it is. I slewthis fellow Rutter; and to the proof”—searching inhis bosom—“here is a letter from hiswallet.”

Lord Risingham took the letter, and opened and read ittwice.

“Ye have read this?” he inquired.

“I have read it,” answered Dick.

“Are ye for York or Lancaster?” the earldemanded.

“My lord, it was but a little while back that I wasasked that question, and knew not how to answer it,” saidDick; “but having answered once, I will not vary. Mylord, I am for York.”

The earl nodded approvingly.

“Honestly replied,” he said. “Butwherefore, then, deliver me this letter?”

“Nay, but against traitors, my lord, are not all sidesarrayed?” cried Dick.

“I would they were, young gentleman,” returned theearl; “and I do at least approve your saying. Thereis more youth than guile in you, I do perceive; and were not SirDaniel a mighty man upon our side, I were half-tempted to espouseyour quarrel. For I have inquired, and it appears ye havebeen hardly dealt with, and have much excuse. But look ye,sir, I am, before all else, a leader in the queen’sinterest; and though by nature a just man, as I believe, andleaning even to the excess of mercy, yet must I order my goingsfor my party’s interest, and, to keep Sir Daniel, I wouldgo far about.”

“My lord,” returned Dick, “ye will think mevery bold to counsel you; but do ye count upon Sir Daniel’sfaith? Methought he had changed sides intolerablyoften.”

“Nay, it is the way of England. What would yehave?” the earl demanded. “But ye are unjust tothe knight of Tunstall; and as faith goes, in this unfaithfulgeneration, he hath of late been honourably true to us ofLancaster. Even in our last reverses he stoodfirm.”

“An it pleased you, then,” said Dick, “tocast your eye upon this letter, ye might somewhat change yourthought of him;” and he handed to the earl SirDaniel’s letter to Lord Wensleydale.

The effect upon the earl’s countenance was instant; helowered like an angry lion, and his hand, with a sudden movement,clutched at his dagger.

“Ye have read this also?” he asked.

“Even so,” said Dick. “It is yourlordship’s own estate he offers to LordWensleydale?”

“It is my own estate, even as ye say!” returnedthe earl. “I am your bedesman for this letter.It hath shown me a fox’s hole. Command me, MasterShelton; I will not be backward in gratitude, and to begin with,York or Lancaster, true man or thief, I do now set you atfreedom. Go, a Mary’s name! But judge it rightthat I retain and hang your fellow, Lawless. The crime hathbeen most open, and it were fitting that some open punishmentshould follow.”

“My lord, I make it my first suit to you to spare himalso,” pleaded Dick.

“It is an old, condemned rogue, thief, and vagabond,Master Shelton,” said the earl. “He hath beengallows-ripe this score of years. And, whether for onething or another, whether to-morrow or the day after, where isthe great choice?”

“Yet, my lord, it was through love to me that he camehither,” answered Dick, “and I were churlish andthankless to desert him.”

“Master Shelton, ye are troublesome,” replied theearl, severely. “It is an evil way to prosper in thisworld. Howbeit, and to be quit of your importunity, I willonce more humour you. Go, then, together; but go warily,and get swiftly out of Shoreby town. For this Sir Daniel(whom may the saints confound!) thirsteth most greedily to haveyour blood.”

“My lord, I do now offer you in words my gratitude,trusting at some brief date to pay you some of it inservice,” replied Dick, as he turned from theapartment.

CHAPTER VI—ARBLASTER AGAIN

When Dick and Lawless were suffered to steal, by a back way,out of the house where Lord Risingham held his garrison, theevening had already come.

They paused in shelter of the garden wall to consult on theirbest course. The danger was extreme. If one of SirDaniel’s men caught sight of them and raised theview-hallo, they would be run down and butchered instantly.And not only was the town of Shoreby a mere net of peril fortheir lives, but to make for the open country was to run the riskof the patrols.

A little way off, upon some open ground, they spied a windmillstanding; and hard by that, a very large granary with opendoors.

“How if we lay there until the night fall?” Dickproposed.

And Lawless having no better suggestion to offer, they made astraight push for the granary at a run, and concealed themselvesbehind the door among some straw. The daylight rapidlydeparted; and presently the moon was silvering the frozensnow. Now or never was their opportunity to gain the Goatand Bagpipes unobserved and change their tell-talegarments. Yet even then it was advisable to go round by theoutskirts, and not run the gauntlet of the market-place, where,in the concourse of people, they stood the more imminent peril tobe recognised and slain.

This course was a long one. It took them not far fromthe house by the beach, now lying dark and silent, and broughtthem forth at last by the margin of the harbour. Many ofthe ships, as they could see by the clear moonshine, had weighedanchor, and, profiting by the calm sky, proceeded for moredistant parts; answerably to this, the rude alehouses along thebeach (although in defiance of the curfew law, they still shonewith fire and candle) were no longer thronged with customers, andno longer echoed to the chorus of sea-songs.

Hastily, half-running, with their monkish raiment kilted tothe knee, they plunged through the deep snow and threaded thelabyrinth of marine lumber; and they were already more than halfway round the harbour when, as they were passing close before analehouse, the door suddenly opened and let out a gush of lightupon their fleeting figures.

Instantly they stopped, and made believe to be engaged inearnest conversation.

Three men, one after another, came out of the ale-house, andthe last closed the door behind him. All three wereunsteady upon their feet, as if they had passed the day in deeppotations, and they now stood wavering in the moonlight, like menwho knew not what they would be after. The tallest of thethree was talking in a loud, lamentable voice.

“Seven pieces of as good Gascony as ever a tapsterbroached,” he was saying, “the best ship out o’the port o’ Dartmouth, a Virgin Mary parcel-gilt, thirteenpounds of good gold money—”

“I have bad losses, too,” interrupted one of theothers. “I have had losses of mine own, gossipArblaster. I was robbed at Martinmas of five shillings anda leather wallet well worth ninepence farthing.”

Dick’s heart smote him at what he heard. Untilthat moment he had not perhaps thought twice of the poor skipperwho had been ruined by the loss of the Good Hope; so careless, inthose days, were men who wore arms of the goods and interests oftheir inferiors. But this sudden encounter reminded himsharply of the high-handed manner and ill-ending of hisenterprise; and both he and Lawless turned their heads the otherway, to avoid the chance of recognition.

The ship’s dog had, however, made his escape from thewreck and found his way back again to Shoreby. He was nowat Arblaster’s heels, and suddenly sniffing and prickinghis ears, he darted forward and began to bark furiously at thetwo sham friars.

His master unsteadily followed him.

“Hey, shipmates!” he cried. “Have yeever a penny pie for a poor old shipman, clean destroyed bypirates? I am a man that would have paid for you botho’ Thursday morning; and now here I be, o’ Saturdaynight, begging for a flagon of ale! Ask my man Tom, if yemisdoubt me. Seven pieces of good Gascon wine, a ship thatwas mine own, and was my father’s before me, a Blessed Maryof plane-tree wood and parcel-gilt, and thirteen pounds in goldand silver. Hey! what say ye? A man that fought theFrench, too; for I have fought the French; I have cut more Frenchthroats upon the high seas than ever a man that sails out ofDartmouth. Come, a penny piece.”

Neither Dick nor Lawless durst answer him a word, lest heshould recognise their voices; and they stood there as helplessas a ship ashore, not knowing where to turn nor what to hope.

“Are ye dumb, boy?” inquired the skipper.“Mates,” he added, with a hiccup, “they bedumb. I like not this manner of discourtesy; for an a manbe dumb, so be as he’s courteous, he will still speak whenhe was spoken to, methinks.”

By this time the sailor, Tom, who was a man of great personalstrength, seemed to have conceived some suspicion of these twospeechless figures; and being soberer than his captain, steppedsuddenly before him, took Lawless roughly by the shoulder, andasked him, with an oath, what ailed him that he held histongue. To this the outlaw, thinking all was over, madeanswer by a wrestling feint that stretched the sailor on thesand, and, calling upon Dick to follow him, took to his heelsamong the lumber.

The affair passed in a second. Before Dick could run atall, Arblaster had him in his arms; Tom, crawling on his face,had caught him by one foot, and the third man had a drawn cutlassbrandishing above his head.

It was not so much the danger, it was not so much theannoyance, that now bowed down the spirits of young Shelton; itwas the profound humiliation to have escaped Sir Daniel,convinced Lord Risingham, and now fall helpless in the hands ofthis old, drunken sailor; and not merely helpless, but, as hisconscience loudly told him when it was too late, actuallyguilty—actually the bankrupt debtor of the man whose shiphe had stolen and lost.

“Bring me him back into the alehouse, till I see hisface,” said Arblaster.

“Nay, nay,” returned Tom; “but let us firstunload his wallet, lest the other lads cry share.”

But though he was searched from head to foot, not a penny wasfound upon him; nothing but Lord Foxham’s signet, whichthey plucked savagely from his finger.

“Turn me him to the moon,” said the skipper; andtaking Dick by the chin, he cruelly jerked his head into theair. “Blessed Virgin!” he cried, “it isthe pirate!”

“Hey!” cried Tom.

“By the Virgin of Bordeaux, it is the manhimself!” repeated Arblaster. “What, sea-thief,do I hold you?” he cried. “Where is myship? Where is my wine? Hey! have I you in myhands? Tom, give me one end of a cord here; I will so trussme this sea-thief, hand and foot together, like a bastingturkey—marry, I will so bind him up—and thereafter Iwill so beat—so beat him!”

And so he ran on, winding the cord meanwhile aboutDick’s limbs with the dexterity peculiar to seamen, and atevery turn and cross securing it with a knot, and tightening thewhole fabric with a savage pull.

When he had done, the lad was a mere package in hishands—as helpless as the dead. The skipper held himat arm’s length, and laughed aloud. Then he fetchedhim a stunning buffet on the ear; and then turned him about, andfuriously kicked and kicked him. Anger rose up inDick’s bosom like a storm; anger strangled him, and hethought to have died; but when the sailor, tired of this cruelplay, dropped him all his length upon the sand and turned toconsult with his companions, he instantly regained command of histemper. Here was a momentary respite; ere they began againto torture him, he might have found some method to escape fromthis degrading and fatal misadventure.

Presently, sure enough, and while his captors were stilldiscussing what to do with him, he took heart of grace, and, witha pretty steady voice, addressed them.

“My masters,” he began, “are ye gone cleanfoolish? Here hath Heaven put into your hands as pretty anoccasion to grow rich as ever shipman had—such as ye mightmake thirty over-sea adventures and not find again—and, bythe mass I what do ye? Beat me?—nay; so would anangry child! But for long-headed tarry-Johns, that fear notfire nor water, and that love gold as they love beef, methinks yeare not wise.”

“Ay,” said Tom, “now y’ are trussed yewould cozen us.”

“Cozen you!” repeated Dick. “Nay, ifye be fools, it would be easy. But if ye be shrewd fellows,as I trow ye are, ye can see plainly where your interestlies. When I took your ship from you, we were many, we werewell clad and armed; but now, bethink you a little, who musteredthat array? One incontestably that hath much gold.And if he, being already rich, continueth to hunt after more evenin the face of storms—bethink you once more—shallthere not be a treasure somewhere hidden?”

“What meaneth he?” asked one of the men.

“Why, if ye have lost an old skiff and a few jugs ofvinegary wine,” continued Dick, “forget them, for thetrash they are; and do ye rather buckle to an adventure worth thename, that shall, in twelve hours, make or mar you forever. But take me up from where I lie, and let us gosomewhere near at hand and talk across a flagon, for I am soreand frozen, and my mouth is half among the snow.”

“He seeks but to cozen us,” said Tom,contemptuously.

“Cozen! cozen!” cried the third man.“I would I could see the man that could cozen me! Hewere a cozener indeed! Nay, I was not born yesterday.I can see a church when it hath a steeple on it; and for my part,gossip Arblaster, methinks there is some sense in this youngman. Shall we go hear him, indeed? Say, shall we gohear him?”

“I would look gladly on a pottle of strong ale, goodMaster Pirret,” returned Arblaster. “How sayye, Tom? But then the wallet is empty.”

“I will pay,” said the other—“I willpay. I would fain see this matter out; I do believe, uponmy conscience, there is gold in it.”

“Nay, if ye get again to drinking, all is lost!”cried Tom.

“Gossip Arblaster, ye suffer your fellow to have toomuch liberty,” returned Master Pirret. “Wouldye be led by a hired man? Fy, fy!”

“Peace, fellow!” said Arblaster, addressingTom. “Will ye put your oar in? Truly a finepass, when the crew is to correct the skipper!”

“Well, then, go your way,” said Tom; “I washmy hands of you.”

“Set him, then, upon his feet,” said MasterPirret. “I know a privy place where we may drink anddiscourse.”

“If I am to walk, my friends, ye must set my feet atliberty,” said Dick, when he had been once more plantedupright like a post.

“He saith true,” laughed Pirret.“Truly, he could not walk accoutred as he is. Give ita slit—out with your knife and slit it, gossip.”

Even Arblaster paused at this proposal; but as his companioncontinued to insist, and Dick had the sense to keep the merestwooden indifference of expression, and only shrugged hisshoulders over the delay, the skipper consented at last, and cutthe cords which tied his prisoner’s feet and legs.Not only did this enable Dick to walk; but the whole network ofhis bonds being proportionately loosened, he felt the arm behindhis back begin to move more freely, and could hope, with time andtrouble, to entirely disengage it. So much he owed alreadyto the owlish silliness and greed of Master Pirret.

That worthy now assumed the lead, and conducted them to thevery same rude alehouse where Lawless had taken Arblaster on theday of the gale. It was now quite deserted; the fire was apile of red embers, radiating the most ardent heat; and when theyhad chosen their places, and the landlord had set before them ameasure of mulled ale, both Pirret and Arblaster stretched forththeir legs and squared their elbows like men bent upon a pleasanthour.

The table at which they sat, like all the others in thealehouse, consisted of a heavy, square board, set on a pair ofbarrels; and each of the four curiously-assorted cronies sat atone side of the square, Pirret facing Arblaster, and Dickopposite to the common sailor.

“And now, young man,” said Pirret, “to yourtale. It doth appear, indeed, that ye have somewhat abusedour gossip Arblaster; but what then? Make it up tohim—show him but this chance to become wealthy—and Iwill go pledge he will forgive you.”

So far Dick had spoken pretty much at random; but it was nownecessary, under the supervision of six eyes, to invent and tellsome marvellous story, and, if it were possible, get back intohis hands the all-important signet. To squander time wasthe first necessity. The longer his stay lasted, the morewould his captors drink, and the surer should he be when heattempted his escape.

Well, Dick was not much of an inventor, and what he told waspretty much the tale of Ali Baba, with Shoreby and TunstallForest substituted for the East, and the treasures of the cavernrather exaggerated than diminished. As the reader is aware,it is an excellent story, and has but one drawback—that itis not true; and so, as these three simple shipmen now heard itfor the first time, their eyes stood out of their faces, andtheir mouths gaped like codfish at a fishmonger’s.

Pretty soon a second measure of mulled ale was called for; andwhile Dick was still artfully spinning out the incidents a thirdfollowed the second.

Here was the position of the parties towards the end:Arblaster, three-parts drunk and one-half asleep, hung helplesson his stool. Even Tom had been much delighted with thetale, and his vigilance had abated in proportion.Meanwhile, Dick had gradually wormed his right arm clear of itsbonds, and was ready to risk all.

“And so,” said Pirret, “y’ are one ofthese?”

“I was made so,” replied Dick, “against mywill; but an I could but get a sack or two of gold coin to myshare, I should be a fool indeed to continue dwelling in a filthycave, and standing shot and buffet like a soldier. Here bewe four; good! Let us, then, go forth into the forestto-morrow ere the sun be up. Could we come honestly by adonkey, it were better; but an we cannot, we have our four strongbacks, and I warrant me we shall come home staggering.”

Pirret licked his lips.

“And this magic,” he said—“thispassword, whereby the cave is opened—how call ye it,friend?”

“Nay, none know the word but the three chiefs,”returned Dick; “but here is your great good fortune, that,on this very evening, I should be the bearer of a spell to openit. It is a thing not trusted twice a year beyond thecaptain’s wallet.”

“A spell!” said Arblaster, half awakening, andsquinting upon Dick with one eye. “Aroint thee! nospells! I be a good Christian. Ask my man Tom,else.”

“Nay, but this is white magic,” said Dick.“It doth naught with the devil; only the powers of numbers,herbs, and planets.”

“Ay, ay,” said Pirret; “’tis but whitemagic, gossip. There is no sin therein, I do assureyou. But proceed, good youth. This spell—inwhat should it consist?”

“Nay, that I will incontinently show you,”answered Dick. “Have ye there the ring ye took frommy finger? Good! Now hold it forth before you by theextreme finger-ends, at the arm’s-length, and over againstthe shining of these embers. ’Tis so exactly.Thus, then, is the spell.”

With a haggard glance, Dick saw the coast was clear betweenhim and the door. He put up an internal prayer. Thenwhipping forth his arm, he made but one snatch of the ring, andat the same instant, levering up the table, he sent it bodilyover upon the seaman Tom. He, poor soul, went down bawlingunder the ruins; and before Arblaster understood that anythingwas wrong, or Pirret could collect his dazzled wits, Dick had runto the door and escaped into the moonlit night.

The moon, which now rode in the mid-heavens, and the extremewhiteness of the snow, made the open ground about the harbourbright as day; and young Shelton leaping, with kilted robe, amongthe lumber, was a conspicuous figure from afar.

Tom and Pirret followed him with shouts; from everydrinking-shop they were joined by others whom their criesaroused; and presently a whole fleet of sailors was in fullpursuit. But Jack ashore was a bad runner, even in thefifteenth century, and Dick, besides, had a start, which herapidly improved, until, as he drew near the entrance of a narrowlane, he even paused and looked laughingly behind him.

Upon the white floor of snow, all the shipmen of Shoreby cameclustering in an inky mass, and tailing out rearward in isolatedclumps. Every man was shouting or screaming; every man wasgesticulating with both arms in air; some one was continuallyfalling; and to complete the picture, when one fell, a dozenwould fall upon the top of him.

The confused mass of sound which they rolled up as high as tothe moon was partly comical and partly terrifying to the fugitivewhom they were hunting. In itself, it was impotent, for hemade sure no seaman in the port could run him down. But themere volume of noise, in so far as it must awake all the sleepersin Shoreby and bring all the skulking sentries to the street, didreally threaten him with danger in the front. So, spying adark doorway at a corner, he whipped briskly into it, and let theuncouth hunt go by him, still shouting and gesticulating, and allred with hurry and white with tumbles in the snow.

It was a long while, indeed, before this great invasion of thetown by the harbour came to an end, and it was long beforesilence was restored. For long, lost sailors were still tobe heard pounding and shouting through the streets in alldirections and in every quarter of the town. Quarrelsfollowed, sometimes among themselves, sometimes with the men ofthe patrols; knives were drawn, blows given and received, andmore than one dead body remained behind upon the snow.

When, a full hour later, the last seaman returned grumblinglyto the harbour side and his particular tavern, it may fairly bequestioned if he had ever known what manner of man he waspursuing, but it was absolutely sure that he had nowforgotten. By next morning there were many strange storiesflying; and a little while after, the legend of the devil’snocturnal visit was an article of faith with all the lads ofShoreby.

But the return of the last seaman did not, even yet, set freeyoung Shelton from his cold imprisonment in the doorway.

For some time after, there was a great activity of patrols;and special parties came forth to make the round of the place andreport to one or other of the great lords, whose slumbers hadbeen thus unusually broken.

The night was already well spent before Dick ventured from hishiding-place and came, safe and sound, but aching with cold andbruises, to the door of the Goat and Bagpipes. As the lawrequired, there was neither fire nor candle in the house; but hegroped his way into a corner of the icy guest-room, found an endof a blanket, which he hitched around his shoulders, and creepingclose to the nearest sleeper, was soon lost in slumber.

BOOK V—CROOKBACK

CHAPTER I—THE SHRILL TRUMPET

Very early the next morning, before the first peep of the day,Dick arose, changed his garments, armed himself once more like agentleman, and set forth for Lawless’s den in theforest. There, it will be remembered, he had left LordFoxham’s papers; and to get these and be back in time forthe tryst with the young Duke of Gloucester could only be managedby an early start and the most vigorous walking.

The frost was more rigorous than ever; the air windless anddry, and stinging to the nostril. The moon had gone down,but the stars were still bright and numerous, and the reflectionfrom the snow was clear and cheerful. There was no need fora lamp to walk by; nor, in that still but ringing air, the leasttemptation to delay.

Dick had crossed the greater part of the open ground betweenShoreby and the forest, and had reached the bottom of the littlehill, some hundred yards below the Cross of St. Bride, when,through the stillness of the black morn, there rang forth thenote of a trumpet, so shrill, clear, and piercing, that hethought he had never heard the match of it for audibility.It was blown once, and then hurriedly a second time; and then theclash of steel succeeded.

At this young Shelton pricked his ears, and drawing his sword,ran forward up the hill.

Presently he came in sight of the cross, and was aware of amost fierce encounter raging on the road before it. Therewere seven or eight assailants, and but one to keep head againstthem; but so active and dexterous was this one, so desperatelydid he charge and scatter his opponents, so deftly keep hisfooting on the ice, that already, before Dick could intervene, hehad slain one, wounded another, and kept the whole in check.

Still, it was by a miracle that he continued his defence, andat any moment, any accident, the least slip of foot or error ofhand, his life would be a forfeit.

“Hold ye well, sir! Here is help!” criedRichard; and forgetting that he was alone, and that the cry wassomewhat irregular, “To the Arrow! to the Arrow!” heshouted, as he fell upon the rear of the assailants.

These were stout fellows also, for they gave not an inch atthis surprise, but faced about, and fell with astonishing furyupon Dick. Four against one, the steel flashed about him inthe starlight; the sparks flew fiercely; one of the men opposedto him fell—in the stir of the fight he hardly knew why;then he himself was struck across the head, and though the steelcap below his hood protected him, the blow beat him down upon oneknee, with a brain whirling like a windmill sail.

Meanwhile the man whom he had come to rescue, instead ofjoining in the conflict, had, on the first sign of intervention,leaped aback and blown again, and yet more urgently and loudly,on that same shrill-voiced trumpet that began the alarm.Next moment, indeed, his foes were on him, and he was once morecharging and fleeing, leaping, stabbing, dropping to his knee,and using indifferently sword and dagger, foot and hand, with thesame unshaken courage and feverish energy and speed.

But that ear-piercing summons had been heard at last.There was a muffled rushing in the snow; and in a good hour forDick, who saw the sword-points glitter already at his throat,there poured forth out of the wood upon both sides a disorderlytorrent of mounted men-at-arms, each cased in iron, and withvisor lowered, each bearing his lance in rest, or his sword baredand raised, and each carrying, so to speak, a passenger, in theshape of an archer or page, who leaped one after another fromtheir perches, and had presently doubled the array.

The original assailants; seeing themselves outnumbered andsurrounded, threw down their arms without a word.

“Seize me these fellows!” said the hero of thetrumpet; and when his order had been obeyed, he drew near to Dickand looked him in the face.

Dick, returning this scrutiny, was surprised to find in onewho had displayed such strength, skill and energy, a lad no olderthan himself—slightly deformed, with one shoulder higherthan the other, and of a pale, painful, and distortedcountenance. [2] The eyes, however, were very clearand bold.

“Sir,” said this lad, “ye came in good timefor me, and none too early.”

“My lord,” returned Dick, with a faint sense thathe was in the presence of a great personage, “ye areyourself so marvellous a good swordsman that I believe ye hadmanaged them single-handed. Howbeit, it was certainly wellfor me that your men delayed no longer than they did.”

“How knew ye who I was?” demanded thestranger.

“Even now, my lord,” Dick answered, “I amignorant of whom I speak with.”

“Is it so?” asked the other. “And yetye threw yourself head first into this unequal battle.”

“I saw one man valiantly contending against many,”replied Dick, “and I had thought myself dishonoured not tobear him aid.”

A singular sneer played about the young nobleman’s mouthas he made answer:

“These are very brave words. But to the moreessential—are ye Lancaster or York?”

“My lord, I make no secret; I am clear for York,”Dick answered.

“By the mass!” replied the other, “it iswell for you.”

And so saying, he turned towards one of his followers.

“Let me see,” he continued, in the same sneeringand cruel tones—“let me see a clean end of thesebrave gentlemen. Truss me them up.”

There were but five survivors of the attacking party.Archers seized them by the arms; they were hurried to the bordersof the wood, and each placed below a tree of suitable dimension;the rope was adjusted; an archer, carrying the end of it, hastilyclambered overhead; and before a minute was over, and without aword passing upon either hand, the five men were swinging by theneck.

“And now,” cried the deformed leader, “backto your posts, and when I summon you next, be readier toattend.”

“My lord duke,” said one man, “beseech you,tarry not here alone. Keep but a handful of lances at yourhand.”

“Fellow,” said the duke, “I have forborne tochide you for your slowness. Cross me not, therefore.I trust my hand and arm, for all that I be crooked. Ye werebackward when the trumpet sounded; and ye are now too forwardwith your counsels. But it is ever so; last with the lanceand first with tongue. Let it be reversed.”

And with a gesture that was not without a sort of dangerousnobility, he waved them off.

The footmen climbed again to their seats behind themen-at-arms, and the whole party moved slowly away anddisappeared in twenty different directions, under the cover ofthe forest.

The day was by this time beginning to break, and the stars tofade. The first grey glimmer of dawn shone upon thecountenances of the two young men, who now turned once more toface each other.

“Here,” said the duke, “ye have seen myvengeance, which is, like my blade, both sharp and ready.But I would not have you, for all Christendom, suppose methankless. You that came to my aid with a good sword and abetter courage—unless that ye recoil from mymisshapenness—come to my heart.”

And so saying, the young leader held out his arms for anembrace.

In the bottom of his heart Dick already entertained a greatterror and some hatred for the man whom he had rescued; but theinvitation was so worded that it would not have been merelydiscourteous, but cruel, to refuse or hesitate; and he hastenedto comply.

“And now, my lord duke,” he said, when he hadregained his freedom, “do I suppose aright? Are ye myLord Duke of Gloucester?”

“I am Richard of Gloucester,” returned theother. “And you—how call they you?”

Dick told him his name, and presented Lord Foxham’ssignet, which the duke immediately recognised.

“Ye come too soon,” he said; “but why shouldI complain? Ye are like me, that was here at watch twohours before the day. But this is the first sally of minearms; upon this adventure, Master Shelton, shall I make or marthe quality of my renown. There lie mine enemies, under twoold, skilled captains—Risingham and Brackley—wellposted for strength, I do believe, but yet upon two sides withoutretreat, enclosed betwixt the sea, the harbour, and theriver. Methinks, Shelton, here were a great blow to bestricken, an we could strike it silently and suddenly.”

“I do think so, indeed,” cried Dick, warming.

“Have ye my Lord Foxham’s notes?” inquiredthe duke.

And then, Dick, having explained how he was without them forthe moment, made himself bold to offer information every jot asgood, of his own knowledge. “And for mine own part,my lord duke,” he added, “an ye had men enough, Iwould fall on even at this present. For, look ye, at thepeep of day the watches of the night are over; but by day theykeep neither watch nor ward—only scour the outskirts withhorsemen. Now, then, when the night watch is alreadyunarmed, and the rest are at their morning cup—now were thetime to break them.”

“How many do ye count?” asked Gloucester.

“They number not two thousand,” Dick replied.

“I have seven hundred in the woods behind us,”said the duke; “seven hundred follow from Kettley, and willbe here anon; behind these, and further, are four hundred more;and my Lord Foxham hath five hundred half a day from here, atHolywood. Shall we attend their coming, or fallon?”

“My lord,” said Dick, “when ye hanged thesefive poor rogues ye did decide the question. Churlsalthough they were, in these uneasy times they will be lackedand looked for, and the alarm be given. Therefore, my lord,if ye do count upon the advantage of a surprise, ye have not, inmy poor opinion, one whole hour in front of you.”

“I do think so indeed,” returned Crookback.“Well, before an hour, ye shall be in the thick on’t,winning spurs. A swift man to Holywood, carrying LordFoxham’s signet; another along the road to speed mylaggards! Nay, Shelton, by the rood, it may bedone!”

Therewith he once more set his trumpet to his lips andblew.

This time he was not long kept waiting. In a moment theopen space about the cross was filled with horse and foot.Richard of Gloucester took his place upon the steps, anddespatched messenger after messenger to hasten the concentrationof the seven hundred men that lay hidden in the immediateneighbourhood among the woods; and before a quarter of an hourhad passed, all his dispositions being taken, he put himself attheir head, and began to move down the hill towards Shoreby.

His plan was simple. He was to seize a quarter of thetown of Shoreby lying on the right hand of the high road, andmake his position good there in the narrow lanes until hisreinforcements followed.

If Lord Risingham chose to retreat, Richard would follow uponhis rear, and take him between two fires; or, if he preferred tohold the town, he would be shut in a trap, there to be graduallyoverwhelmed by force of numbers.

There was but one danger, but that was imminent andgreat—Gloucester’s seven hundred might be rolled upand cut to pieces in the first encounter, and, to avoid this, itwas needful to make the surprise of their arrival as complete aspossible.

The footmen, therefore, were all once more taken up behind theriders, and Dick had the signal honour meted out to him ofmounting behind Gloucester himself. For as far as there wasany cover the troops moved slowly, and when they came near theend of the trees that lined the highway, stopped to breathe andreconnoitre.

The sun was now well up, shining with a frosty brightness outof a yellow halo, and right over against the luminary, Shoreby, afield of snowy roofs and ruddy gables, was rolling up its columnsof morning smoke. Gloucester turned round to Dick.

“In that poor place,” he said, “where peopleare cooking breakfast, either you shall gain your spurs and Ibegin a life of mighty honour and glory in the world’s eye,or both of us, as I conceive it, shall fall dead and be unheardof. Two Richards are we. Well, then, Richard Shelton,they shall be heard about, these two! Their swords shallnot ring more loudly on men’s helmets than their namesshall ring in people’s ears.”

Dick was astonished at so great a hunger after fame, expressedwith so great vehemence of voice and language, and he answeredvery sensibly and quietly, that, for his part, he promised hewould do his duty, and doubted not of victory if everyone did thelike.

By this time the horses were well breathed, and the leaderholding up his sword and giving rein, the whole troop of chargersbroke into the gallop and thundered, with their double load offighting men, down the remainder of the hill and across thesnow-covered plain that still divided them from Shoreby.

CHAPTER II—THE BATTLE OF SHOREBY

The whole distance to be crossed was not above a quarter of amile. But they had no sooner debauched beyond the cover ofthe trees than they were aware of people fleeing and screaming inthe snowy meadows upon either hand. Almost at the samemoment a great rumour began to arise, and spread and growcontinually louder in the town; and they were not yet halfway tothe nearest house before the bells began to ring backward fromthe steeple.

The young duke ground his teeth together. By these soearly signals of alarm he feared to find his enemies prepared;and if he failed to gain a footing in the town, he knew that hissmall party would soon be broken and exterminated in theopen.

In the town, however, the Lancastrians were far from being inso good a posture. It was as Dick had said. Thenight-guard had already doffed their harness; the rest were stillhanging—unlatched, unbraced, all unprepared forbattle—about their quarters; and in the whole of Shorebythere were not, perhaps, fifty men full armed, or fifty chargersready to be mounted.

The beating of the bells, the terrifying summons of men whoran about the streets crying and beating upon the doors, arousedin an incredibly short space at least two score out of that halfhundred. These got speedily to horse, and, the alarm stillflying wild and contrary, galloped in different directions.

Thus it befell that, when Richard of Gloucester reached thefirst house of Shoreby, he was met in the mouth of the street bya mere handful of lances, whom he swept before his onset as thestorm chases the bark.

A hundred paces into the town, Dick Shelton touched theduke’s arm; the duke, in answer, gathered his reins, putthe shrill trumpet to his mouth, and blowing a concerted point,turned to the right hand out of the direct advance.Swerving like a single rider, his whole command turned after him,and, still at the full gallop of the chargers, swept up thenarrow bye-street. Only the last score of riders drew reinand faced about in the entrance; the footmen, whom they carriedbehind them, leapt at the same instant to the earth, and began,some to bend their bows, and others to break into and secure thehouses upon either hand.

Surprised at this sudden change of direction, and daunted bythe firm front of the rear-guard, the few Lancastrians, after amomentary consultation, turned and rode farther into town to seekfor reinforcements.

The quarter of the town upon which, by the advice of Dick,Richard of Gloucester had now seized, consisted of five smallstreets of poor and ill-inhabited houses, occupying a very gentleeminence, and lying open towards the back.

The five streets being each secured by a good guard, thereserve would thus occupy the centre, out of shot, and yet readyto carry aid wherever it was needed.

Such was the poorness of the neighbourhood that none of theLancastrian lords, and but few of their retainers, had beenlodged therein; and the inhabitants, with one accord, desertedtheir houses and fled, squalling, along the streets or overgarden walls.

In the centre, where the five ways all met, a somewhatill-favoured alehouse displayed the sign of the Chequers; andhere the Duke of Gloucester chose his headquarters for theday.

To Dick he assigned the guard of one of the five streets.

“Go,” he said, “win your spurs. Winglory for me: one Richard for another. I tell you, if Irise, ye shall rise by the same ladder. Go,” headded, shaking him by the hand.

But, as soon as Dick was gone, he turned to a little shabbyarcher at his elbow.

“Go, Dutton, and that right speedily,” headded. “Follow that lad. If ye find himfaithful, ye answer for his safety, a head for a head. Woeunto you, if ye return without him! But if he befaithless—or, for one instant, ye misdoubt him—stabhim from behind.”

In the meanwhile Dick hastened to secure his post. Thestreet he had to guard was very narrow, and closely lined withhouses, which projected and overhung the roadway; but narrow anddark as it was, since it opened upon the market-place of thetown, the main issue of the battle would probably fall to bedecided on that spot.

The market-place was full of townspeople fleeing in disorder;but there was as yet no sign of any foeman ready to attack, andDick judged he had some time before him to make ready hisdefence.

The two houses at the end stood deserted, with open doors, asthe inhabitants had left them in their flight, and from these hehad the furniture hastily tossed forth and piled into a barrierin the entry of the lane. A hundred men were placed at hisdisposal, and of these he threw the more part into the houses,where they might lie in shelter and deliver their arrows from thewindows. With the rest, under his own immediate eye, helined the barricade.

Meanwhile the utmost uproar and confusion had continued toprevail throughout the town; and what with the hurried clashingof bells, the sounding of trumpets, the swift movement of bodiesof horse, the cries of the commanders, and the shrieks of women,the noise was almost deafening to the ear. Presently,little by little, the tumult began to subside; and soon after,files of men in armour and bodies of archers began to assembleand form in line of battle in the market-place.

A large portion of this body were in murrey and blue, and inthe mounted knight who ordered their array Dick recognised SirDaniel Brackley.

Then there befell a long pause, which was followed by thealmost simultaneous sounding of four trumpets from four differentquarters of the town. A fifth rang in answer from themarket-place, and at the same moment the files began to move, anda shower of arrows rattled about the barricade, and sounded likeblows upon the walls of the two flanking houses.

The attack had begun, by a common signal, on all the fiveissues of the quarter. Gloucester was beleaguered uponevery side; and Dick judged, if he would make good his post, hemust rely entirely on the hundred men of his command.

Seven volleys of arrows followed one upon the other, and inthe very thick of the discharges Dick was touched from behindupon the arm, and found a page holding out to him a leathernjack, strengthened with bright plates of mail.

“It is from my Lord of Gloucester,” said thepage. “He hath observed, Sir Richard, that ye wentunarmed.”

Dick, with a glow at his heart at being so addressed, got tohis feet and, with the assistance of the page, donned thedefensive coat. Even as he did so, two arrows rattledharmlessly upon the plates, and a third struck down the page,mortally wounded, at his feet.

Meantime the whole body of the enemy had been steadily drawingnearer across the market-place; and by this time were so close athand that Dick gave the order to return their shot.Immediately, from behind the barrier and from the windows of thehouses, a counterblast of arrows sped, carrying death. Butthe Lancastrians, as if they had but waited for a signal, shoutedloudly in answer; and began to close at a run upon the barrier,the horsemen still hanging back, with visors lowered.

Then followed an obstinate and deadly struggle, hand tohand. The assailants, wielding their falchions with onehand, strove with the other to drag down the structure of thebarricade. On the other side, the parts were reversed; andthe defenders exposed themselves like madmen to protect theirrampart. So for some minutes the contest raged almost insilence, friend and foe falling one upon another. But it isalways the easier to destroy; and when a single note upon thetucket recalled the attacking party from this desperate service,much of the barricade had been removed piecemeal, and the wholefabric had sunk to half its height, and tottered to a generalfall.

And now the footmen in the market-place fell back, at a run,on every side. The horsemen, who had been standing in aline two deep, wheeled suddenly, and made their flank into theirfront; and as swift as a striking adder, the long, steel-cladcolumn was launched upon the ruinous barricade.

Of the first two horsemen, one fell, rider and steed, and wasridden down by his companions. The second leaped clean uponthe summit of the rampart, transpiercing an archer with hislance. Almost in the same instant he was dragged from thesaddle and his horse despatched.

And then the full weight and impetus of the charge burst uponand scattered the defenders. The men-at-arms, surmountingtheir fallen comrades, and carried onward by the fury of theironslaught, dashed through Dick’s broken line and pouredthundering up the lane beyond, as a stream bestrides and poursacross a broken dam.

Yet was the fight not over. Still, in the narrow jaws ofthe entrance, Dick and a few survivors plied their bills likewoodmen; and already, across the width of the passage, there hadbeen formed a second, a higher, and a more effectual rampart offallen men and disembowelled horses, lashing in the agonies ofdeath.

Baffled by this fresh obstacle, the remainder of the cavalryfell back; and as, at the sight of this movement, the flight ofarrows redoubled from the casements of the houses, their retreathad, for a moment, almost degenerated into flight.

Almost at the same time, those who had crossed the barricadeand charged farther up the street, being met before the door ofthe Chequers by the formidable hunchback and the whole reserve ofthe Yorkists, began to come scattering backward, in the excess ofdisarray and terror.

Dick and his fellows faced about, fresh men poured out of thehouses; a cruel blast of arrows met the fugitives full in theface, while Gloucester was already riding down their rear; in theinside of a minute and a half there was no living Lancastrian inthe street.

Then, and not till then, did Dick hold up his reeking bladeand give the word to cheer.

Meanwhile Gloucester dismounted from his horse and cameforward to inspect the post. His face was as pale as linen;but his eyes shone in his head like some strange jewel, and hisvoice, when he spoke, was hoarse and broken with the exultationof battle and success. He looked at the rampart, whichneither friend nor foe could now approach without precaution, sofiercely did the horses struggle in the throes of death, and atthe sight of that great carnage he smiled upon one side.

“Despatch these horses,” he said; “they keepyou from your vantage. Richard Shelton,” he added,“ye have pleased me. Kneel.”

The Lancastrians had already resumed their archery, and theshafts fell thick in the mouth of the street; but the duke,minding them not at all, deliberately drew his sword and dubbedRichard a knight upon the spot.

“And now, Sir Richard,” he continued, “ifthat ye see Lord Risingham, send me an express upon theinstant. Were it your last man, let me hear of itincontinently. I had rather venture the post than lose mystroke at him. For mark me, all of ye,” he added,raising his voice, “if Earl Risingham fall by another handthan mine, I shall count this victory a defeat.”

“My lord duke,” said one of his attendants,“is your grace not weary of exposing his dear lifeunneedfully? Why tarry we here?”

“Catesby,” returned the duke, “here is thebattle, not elsewhere. The rest are but feignedonslaughts. Here must we vanquish. And for theexposure—if ye were an ugly hunchback, and the childrengecked at you upon the street, ye would count your body cheaper,and an hour of glory worth a life. Howbeit, if ye will, letus ride on and visit the other posts. Sir Richard here, mynamesake, he shall still hold this entry, where he wadeth to theankles in hot blood. Him can we trust. But mark it,Sir Richard, ye are not yet done. The worst is yet toward. Sleep not.”

He came right up to young Shelton, looking him hard in theeyes, and taking his hand in both of his, gave it so extreme asqueeze that the blood had nearly spurted. Dick quailedbefore his eyes. The insane excitement, the courage, andthe cruelty that he read therein filled him with dismay about thefuture. This young duke’s was indeed a gallantspirit, to ride foremost in the ranks of war; but after thebattle, in the days of peace and in the circle of his trustedfriends, that mind, it was to be dreaded, would continue to bringforth the fruits of death.

CHAPTER III—THE BATTLE OF SHOREBY (Concluded)

Dick, once more left to his own counsels, began to look abouthim. The arrow-shot had somewhat slackened. On allsides the enemy were falling back; and the greater part of themarket-place was now left empty, the snow here trampled intoorange mud, there splashed with gore, scattered all over withdead men and horses, and bristling thick with featheredarrows.

On his own side the loss had been cruel. The jaws of thelittle street and the ruins of the barricade were heaped with thedead and dying; and out of the hundred men with whom he had begunthe battle, there were not seventy left who could still stand toarms.

At the same time, the day was passing. The firstreinforcements might be looked for to arrive at any moment; andthe Lancastrians, already shaken by the result of their desperatebut unsuccessful onslaught, were in an ill temper to support afresh invader.

There was a dial in the wall of one of the two flankinghouses; and this, in the frosty winter sunshine, indicated ten ofthe forenoon.

Dick turned to the man who was at his elbow, a littleinsignificant archer, binding a cut in his arm.

“It was well fought,” he said, “and, by mysooth, they will not charge us twice.”

“Sir,” said the little archer, “ye havefought right well for York, and better for yourself. Neverhath man in so brief space prevailed so greatly on theduke’s affections. That he should have entrusted sucha post to one he knew not is a marvel. But look to yourhead, Sir Richard! If ye be vanquished—ay, if ye giveway one foot’s breadth—axe or cord shall punish it;and I am set if ye do aught doubtful, I will tell you honestly,here to stab you from behind.”

Dick looked at the little man in amaze.

“You!” he cried. “And frombehind!”

“It is right so,” returned the archer; “andbecause I like not the affair I tell it you. Ye must makethe post good, Sir Richard, at your peril. O, our Crookbackis a bold blade and a good warrior; but, whether in cold blood orin hot, he will have all things done exact to hiscommandment. If any fail or hinder, they shall die thedeath.”

“Now, by the saints!” cried Richard, “isthis so? And will men follow such a leader?”

“Nay, they follow him gleefully,” replied theother; “for if he be exact to punish, he is mostopen-handed to reward. And if he spare not the blood andsweat of others, he is ever liberal of his own, still in thefirst front of battle, still the last to sleep. He will gofar, will Crookback Dick o’ Gloucester!”

The young knight, if he had before been brave and vigilant,was now all the more inclined to watchfulness and courage.His sudden favour, he began to perceive, had brought perils inits train. And he turned from the archer, and once morescanned anxiously the market-place. It lay empty asbefore.

“I like not this quietude,” he said.“Doubtless they prepare us some surprise.”

And, as if in answer to his remark, the archers began oncemore to advance against the barricade, and the arrows to fallthick. But there was something hesitating in theattack. They came not on roundly, but seemed rather toawait a further signal.

Dick looked uneasily about him, spying for a hiddendanger. And sure enough, about half way up the littlestreet, a door was suddenly opened from within, and the housecontinued, for some seconds, and both by door and window, todisgorge a torrent of Lancastrian archers. These, as theyleaped down, hurriedly stood to their ranks, bent their bows, andproceeded to pour upon Dick’s rear a flight of arrows.

At the same time, the assailants in the market-place redoubledtheir shot, and began to close in stoutly upon the barricade.

Dick called down his whole command out of the houses, andfacing them both ways, and encouraging their valour both by wordand gesture, returned as best he could the double shower ofshafts that fell about his post.

Meanwhile house after house was opened in the street, and theLancastrians continued to pour out of the doors and leap downfrom the windows, shouting victory, until the number of enemiesupon Dick’s rear was almost equal to the number in hisface. It was plain that he could hold the post no longer;what was worse, even if he could have held it, it had now becomeuseless; and the whole Yorkist army lay in a posture ofhelplessness upon the brink of a complete disaster.

The men behind him formed the vital flaw in the generaldefence; and it was upon these that Dick turned, charging at thehead of his men. So vigorous was the attack, that theLancastrian archers gave ground and staggered, and, at last,breaking their ranks, began to crowd back into the houses fromwhich they had so recently and so vaingloriously sallied.

Meanwhile the men from the market-place had swarmed across theundefended barricade, and fell on hotly upon the other side; andDick must once again face about, and proceed to drive themback. Once again the spirit of his men prevailed; theycleared the street in a triumphant style, but even as they did sothe others issued again out of the houses, and took them, a thirdtime, upon the rear.

The Yorkists began to be scattered; several times Dick foundhimself alone among his foes and plying his bright sword forlife; several times he was conscious of a hurt. Andmeanwhile the fight swayed to and fro in the street withoutdeterminate result.

Suddenly Dick was aware of a great trumpeting about theoutskirts of the town. The war-cry of York began to berolled up to heaven, as by many and triumphant voices. Andat the same time the men in front of him began to give groundrapidly, streaming out of the street and back upon themarket-place. Some one gave the word to fly. Trumpetswere blown distractedly, some for a rally, some to charge.It was plain that a great blow had been struck, and theLancastrians were thrown, at least for the moment, into fulldisorder, and some degree of panic.

And then, like a theatre trick, there followed the last act ofShoreby Battle. The men in front of Richard turned tail,like a dog that has been whistled home, and fled like thewind. At the same moment there came through themarket-place a storm of horsemen, fleeing and pursuing, theLancastrians turning back to strike with the sword, the Yorkistsriding them down at the point of the lance.

Conspicuous in the mellay, Dick beheld the Crookback. Hewas already giving a foretaste of that furious valour and skillto cut his way across the ranks of war, which, years afterwardsupon the field of Bosworth, and when he was stained with crimes,almost sufficed to change the fortunes of the day and the destinyof the English throne. Evading, striking, riding down, heso forced and so manoeuvred his strong horse, so aptly defendedhimself, and so liberally scattered death to his opponents, thathe was now far ahead of the foremost of his knights, hewing hisway, with the truncheon of a bloody sword, to where LordRisingham was rallying the bravest. A moment more and theyhad met; the tall, splendid, and famous warrior against thedeformed and sickly boy.

Yet Shelton had never a doubt of the result; and when thefight next opened for a moment, the figure of the earl haddisappeared; but still, in the first of the danger, CrookbackDick was launching his big horse and plying the truncheon of hissword.

Thus, by Shelton’s courage in holding the mouth of thestreet against the first attack, and by the opportune arrival ofhis seven hundred reinforcements, the lad, who was afterwards tobe handed down to the execration of posterity under the name ofRichard III., had won his first considerable fight.

CHAPTER IV—THE SACK OF SHOREBY

There was not a foe left within striking distance; and Dick,as he looked ruefully about him on the remainder of his gallantforce, began to count the cost of victory. He was himself,now that the danger was ended, so stiff and sore, so bruised andcut and broken, and, above all, so utterly exhausted by hisdesperate and unremitting labours in the fight, that he seemedincapable of any fresh exertion.

But this was not yet the hour for repose. Shoreby hadbeen taken by assault; and though an open town, and not in anymanner to be charged with the resistance, it was plain that theserough fighters would be not less rough now that the fight wasover, and that the more horrid part of war would fall to beenacted. Richard of Gloucester was not the captain toprotect the citizens from his infuriated soldiery; and even if hehad the will, it might be questioned if he had the power.

It was, therefore, Dick’s business to find and toprotect Joanna; and with that end he looked about him at thefaces of his men. The three or four who seemed likeliest tobe obedient and to keep sober he drew aside; and promising them arich reward and a special recommendation to the duke, led themacross the market-place, now empty of horsemen, and into thestreets upon the further side.

Every here and there small combats of from two to a dozenstill raged upon the open street; here and there a house wasbeing besieged, the defenders throwing out stools and tables onthe heads of the assailants. The snow was strewn with armsand corpses; but except for these partial combats the streetswere deserted, and the houses, some standing open, and someshuttered and barricaded, had for the most part ceased to giveout smoke.

Dick, threading the skirts of these skirmishers, led hisfollowers briskly in the direction of the abbey church; but whenhe came the length of the main street, a cry of horror broke fromhis lips. Sir Daniel’s great house had been carriedby assault. The gates hung in splinters from the hinges,and a double throng kept pouring in and out through the entrance,seeking and carrying booty. Meanwhile, in the upperstoreys, some resistance was still being offered to thepillagers; for just as Dick came within eyeshot of the building,a casement was burst open from within, and a poor wretch inmurrey and blue, screaming and resisting, was forced through theembrasure and tossed into the street below.

The most sickening apprehension fell upon Dick. He ranforward like one possessed, forced his way into the house amongthe foremost, and mounted without pause to the chamber on thethird floor where he had last parted from Joanna. It was amere wreck; the furniture had been overthrown, the cupboardsbroken open, and in one place a trailing corner of the arras laysmouldering on the embers of the fire.

Dick, almost without thinking, trod out the incipientconflagration, and then stood bewildered. Sir Daniel, SirOliver, Joanna, all were gone; but whether butchered in the routor safe escaped from Shoreby, who should say?

He caught a passing archer by the tabard.

“Fellow,” he asked, “were ye here when thishouse was taken?”

“Let be,” said the archer. “A murrain!let be, or I strike.”

“Hark ye,” returned Richard, “two can playat that. Stand and be plain.”

But the man, flushed with drink and battle, struck Dick uponthe shoulder with one hand, while with the other he twitched awayhis garment. Thereupon the full wrath of the young leaderburst from his control. He seized the fellow in his strongembrace, and crushed him on the plates of his mailed bosom like achild; then, holding him at arm’s length, he bid him speakas he valued life.

“I pray you mercy!” gasped the archer.“An I had thought ye were so angry I would ’a’been charier of crossing you. I was here indeed.”

“Know ye Sir Daniel?” pursued Dick.

“Well do I know him,” returned the man.

“Was he in the mansion?”

“Ay, sir, he was,” answered the archer; “buteven as we entered by the yard gate he rode forth by thegarden.”

“Alone?” cried Dick.

“He may ’a’ had a score of lances withhim,” said the man.

“Lances! No women, then?” asked Shelton.

“Troth, I saw not,” said the archer.“But there were none in the house, if that be yourquest.”

“I thank you,” said Dick. “Here is apiece for your pains.” But groping in his wallet,Dick found nothing. “Inquire for me to-morrow,”he added—“Richard Shelt—Sir RichardShelton,” he corrected, “and I will see youhandsomely rewarded.”

And then an idea struck Dick. He hastily descended tothe courtyard, ran with all his might across the garden, and cameto the great door of the church. It stood wide open;within, every corner of the pavement was crowded with fugitiveburghers, surrounded by their families and laden with the mostprecious of their possessions, while, at the high altar, priestsin full canonicals were imploring the mercy of God. Even asDick entered, the loud chorus began to thunder in the vaultedroofs.

He hurried through the groups of refugees, and came to thedoor of the stair that led into the steeple. And here atall churchman stepped before him and arrested his advance.

“Whither, my son?” he asked, severely.

“My father,” answered Dick, “I am here uponan errand of expedition. Stay me not. I command herefor my Lord of Gloucester.”

“For my Lord of Gloucester?” repeated thepriest. “Hath, then, the battle gone sosore?”

“The battle, father, is at an end, Lancaster clean sped,my Lord of Risingham—Heaven rest him!—left upon thefield. And now, with your good leave, I follow mineaffairs.” And thrusting on one side the priest, whoseemed stupefied at the news, Dick pushed open the door andrattled up the stairs four at a bound, and without pause orstumble, till he stepped upon the open platform at the top.

Shoreby Church tower not only commanded the town, as in a map,but looked far, on both sides, over sea and land. It wasnow near upon noon; the day exceeding bright, the snowdazzling. And as Dick looked around him, he could measurethe consequences of the battle.

A confused, growling uproar reached him from the streets, andnow and then, but very rarely, the clash of steel. Not aship, not so much as a skiff remained in harbour; but the sea wasdotted with sails and row-boats laden with fugitives. Onshore, too, the surface of the snowy meadows was broken up withbands of horsemen, some cutting their way towards the borders ofthe forest, others, who were doubtless of the Yorkist side,stoutly interposing and beating them back upon the town.Over all the open ground there lay a prodigious quantity offallen men and horses, clearly defined upon the snow.

To complete the picture, those of the foot soldiers as had notfound place upon a ship still kept up an archery combat on theborders of the port, and from the cover of the shoresidetaverns. In that quarter, also, one or two houses had beenfired, and the smoke towered high in the frosty sunlight, andblew off to sea in voluminous folds.

Already close upon the margin of the woods, and somewhat inthe line of Holywood, one particular clump of fleeing horsemenriveted the attention of the young watcher on the tower. Itwas fairly numerous; in no other quarter of the field did so manyLancastrians still hold together; thus they had left a wide,discoloured wake upon the snow, and Dick was able to trace themstep by step from where they had left the town.

While Dick stood watching them, they had gained, unopposed,the first fringe of the leafless forest, and, turning a littlefrom their direction, the sun fell for a moment full on theirarray, as it was relieved against the dusky wood.

“Murrey and blue!” cried Dick. “Iswear it—murrey and blue!”

The next moment he was descending the stairway.

It was now his business to seek out the Duke of Gloucester,who alone, in the disorder of the forces, might be able to supplyhim with a sufficiency of men. The fighting in the maintown was now practically at an end; and as Dick ran hither andthither, seeking the commander, the streets were thick withwandering soldiers, some laden with more booty than they couldwell stagger under, others shouting drunk. None of them,when questioned, had the least notion of the duke’swhereabouts; and, at last, it was by sheer good fortune that Dickfound him, where he sat in the saddle directing operations todislodge the archers from the harbour side.

“Sir Richard Shelton, ye are well found,” hesaid. “I owe you one thing that I value little, mylife; and one that I can never pay you for, this victory.Catesby, if I had ten such captains as Sir Richard, I would marchforthright on London. But now, sir, claim yourreward.”

“Freely, my lord,” said Dick, “freely andloudly. One hath escaped to whom I owe some grudges, andtaken with him one whom I owe love and service. Give me,then, fifty lances, that I may pursue; and for any obligationthat your graciousness is pleased to allow, it shall be cleandischarged.”

“How call ye him?” inquired the duke.

“Sir Daniel Brackley,” answered Richard.

“Out upon him, double-face!” criedGloucester. “Here is no reward, Sir Richard; here isfresh service offered, and, if that ye bring his head to me, afresh debt upon my conscience. Catesby, get him theselances; and you, sir, bethink ye, in the meanwhile, whatpleasure, honour, or profit it shall be mine to giveyou.”

Just then the Yorkist skirmishers carried one of the shoresidetaverns, swarming in upon it on three sides, and driving out ortaking its defenders. Crookback Dick was pleased to cheerthe exploit, and pushing his horse a little nearer, called to seethe prisoners.

There were four or five of them—two men of my LordShoreby’s and one of Lord Risingham’s among thenumber, and last, but in Dick’s eyes not least, a tall,shambling, grizzled old shipman, between drunk and sober, andwith a dog whimpering and jumping at his heels.

The young duke passed them for a moment under a severereview.

“Good,” he said. “Hangthem.”

And he turned the other way to watch the progress of thefight.

“My lord,” said Dick, “so please you, I havefound my reward. Grant me the life and liberty of yon oldshipman.”

Gloucester turned and looked the speaker in the face.

“Sir Richard,” he said, “I make not war withpeacock’s feathers, but steel shafts. Those that aremine enemies I slay, and that without excuse or favour.For, bethink ye, in this realm of England, that is so torn inpieces, there is not a man of mine but hath a brother or a friendupon the other party. If, then, I did begin to grant thesepardons, I might sheathe my sword.”

“It may be so, my lord; and yet I will be overbold, andat the risk of your disfavour, recall your lordship’spromise,” replied Dick.

Richard of Gloucester flushed.

“Mark it right well,” he said, harshly.“I love not mercy, nor yet mercymongers. Ye have thisday laid the foundations of high fortune. If ye oppose tome my word, which I have plighted, I will yield. But, bythe glory of heaven, there your favour dies!

“Mine is the loss,” said Dick.

“Give him his sailor,” said the duke; and wheelinghis horse, he turned his back upon young Shelton.

Dick was nor glad nor sorry. He had seen too much of theyoung duke to set great store on his affection; and the originand growth of his own favour had been too flimsy and too rapid toinspire much confidence. One thing alone hefeared—that the vindictive leader might revoke the offer ofthe lances. But here he did justice neither toGloucester’s honour (such as it was) nor, above all, to hisdecision. If he had once judged Dick to be the right man topursue Sir Daniel, he was not one to change; and he soon provedit by shouting after Catesby to be speedy, for the paladin waswaiting.

In the meanwhile, Dick turned to the old shipman, who hadseemed equally indifferent to his condemnation and to hissubsequent release.

“Arblaster,” said Dick, “I have done youill; but now, by the rood, I think I have cleared thescore.”

But the old skipper only looked upon him dully and held hispeace.

“Come,” continued Dick, “a life is a life,old shrew, and it is more than ships or liquor. Say yeforgive me; for if your life be worth nothing to you, it hathcost me the beginnings of my fortune. Come, I have paid forit dearly; be not so churlish.”

“An I had had my ship,” said Arblaster, “Iwould ’a’ been forth and safe on the highseas—I and my man Tom. But ye took my ship, gossip,and I’m a beggar; and for my man Tom, a knave fellow inrusset shot him down. ‘Murrain!’ quoth he, andspake never again. ‘Murrain’ was the last ofhis words, and the poor spirit of him passed. ‘A willnever sail no more, will my Tom.’”

Dick was seized with unavailing penitence and pity; he soughtto take the skipper’s hand, but Arblaster avoided histouch.

“Nay,” said he, “let be. Y’ haveplayed the devil with me, and let that content you.”

The words died in Richard’s throat. He saw,through tears, the poor old man, bemused with liquor and sorrow,go shambling away, with bowed head, across the snow, and theunnoticed dog whimpering at his heels, and for the first timebegan to understand the desperate game that we play in life; andhow a thing once done is not to be changed or remedied, by anypenitence.

But there was no time left to him for vain regret.

Catesby had now collected the horsemen, and riding up to Dickhe dismounted, and offered him his own horse.

“This morning,” he said, “I was somewhatjealous of your favour; it hath not been of a long growth; andnow, Sir Richard, it is with a very good heart that I offer youthis horse—to ride away with.”

“Suffer me yet a moment,” replied Dick.“This favour of mine—whereupon was itfounded?”

“Upon your name,” answered Catesby.“It is my lord’s chief superstition. Were myname Richard, I should be an earl to-morrow.”

“Well, sir, I thank you,” returned Dick;“and since I am little likely to follow these greatfortunes, I will even say farewell. I will not pretend Iwas displeased to think myself upon the road to fortune; but Iwill not pretend, neither, that I am over-sorry to be done withit. Command and riches, they are brave things, to be sure;but a word in your ear—yon duke of yours, he is a fearsomelad.”

Catesby laughed.

“Nay,” said he, “of a verity he that rideswith Crooked Dick will ride deep. Well, God keep us allfrom evil! Speed ye well.”

Thereupon Dick put himself at the head of his men, and givingthe word of command, rode off.

He made straight across the town, following what he supposedto be the route of Sir Daniel, and spying around for any signsthat might decide if he were right.

The streets were strewn with the dead and the wounded, whosefate, in the bitter frost, was far the more pitiable. Gangsof the victors went from house to house, pillaging and stabbing,and sometimes singing together as they went.

From different quarters, as he rode on, the sounds of violenceand outrage came to young Shelton’s ears; now the blows ofthe sledge-hammer on some barricaded door, and now the miserableshrieks of women.

Dick’s heart had just been awakened. He had justseen the cruel consequences of his own behaviour; and the thoughtof the sum of misery that was now acting in the whole of Shorebyfilled him with despair.

At length he reached the outskirts, and there, sure enough, hesaw straight before him the same broad, beaten track across thesnow that he had marked from the summit of the church.Here, then, he went the faster on; but still, as he rode, he kepta bright eye upon the fallen men and horses that lay beside thetrack. Many of these, he was relieved to see, wore SirDaniel’s colours, and the faces of some, who lay upon theirback, he even recognised.

About half-way between the town and the forest, those whom hewas following had plainly been assailed by archers; for thecorpses lay pretty closely scattered, each pierced by anarrow. And here Dick spied among the rest the body of avery young lad, whose face was somehow hauntingly familiar tohim.

He halted his troop, dismounted, and raised the lad’shead. As he did so, the hood fell back, and a profusion oflong brown hair unrolled itself. At the same time the eyesopened.

“Ah! lion driver!” said a feeble voice.“She is farther on. Ride—ride fast!”

And then the poor young lady fainted once again.

One of Dick’s men carried a flask of some strongcordial, and with this Dick succeeded in revivingconsciousness. Then he took Joanna’s friend upon hissaddlebow, and once more pushed toward the forest.

“Why do ye take me?” said the girl.“Ye but delay your speed.”

“Nay, Mistress Risingham,” replied Dick.“Shoreby is full of blood and drunkenness and riot.Here ye are safe; content ye.”

“I will not be beholden to any of your faction,”she cried; “set me down.”

“Madam, ye know not what ye say,” returnedDick. “Y’ are hurt”—

“I am not,” she said. “It was my horsewas slain.”

“It matters not one jot,” replied Richard.“Ye are here in the midst of open snow, and compassed aboutwith enemies. Whether ye will or not, I carry you withme. Glad am I to have the occasion; for thus shall I repaysome portion of our debt.”

For a little while she was silent. Then, very suddenly,she asked:

“My uncle?”

“My Lord Risingham?” returned Dick. “Iwould I had good news to give you, madam; but I have none.I saw him once in the battle, and once only. Let us hopethe best.”

CHAPTER V—NIGHT IN THE WOODS: ALICIA RISINGHAM

It was almost certain that Sir Daniel had made for the MoatHouse; but, considering the heavy snow, the lateness of the hour,and the necessity under which he would lie of avoiding the fewroads and striking across the wood, it was equally certain thathe could not hope to reach it ere the morrow.

There were two courses open to Dick; either to continue tofollow in the knight’s trail, and, if he were able, to fallupon him that very night in camp, or to strike out a path of hisown, and seek to place himself between Sir Daniel and hisdestination.

Either scheme was open to serious objection, and Dick, whofeared to expose Joanna to the hazards of a fight, had not yetdecided between them when he reached the borders of the wood.

At this point Sir Daniel had turned a little to his left, andthen plunged straight under a grove of very lofty timber.His party had then formed to a narrower front, in order to passbetween the trees, and the track was trod proportionally deeperin the snow. The eye followed it under the leafless traceryof the oaks, running direct and narrow; the trees stood over it,with knotty joints and the great, uplifted forest of theirboughs; there was no sound, whether of man or beast—not somuch as the stirring of a robin; and over the field of snow thewinter sun lay golden among netted shadows.

“How say ye,” asked Dick of one of the men,“to follow straight on, or strike across forTunstall?”

“Sir Richard,” replied the man-at-arms, “Iwould follow the line until they scatter.”

“Ye are, doubtless, right,” returned Dick;“but we came right hastily upon the errand, even as thetime commanded. Here are no houses, neither for food norshelter, and by the morrow’s dawn we shall know both coldfingers and an empty belly. How say ye, lads? Will yestand a pinch for expedition’s sake, or shall we turn byHolywood and sup with Mother Church? The case beingsomewhat doubtful, I will drive no man; yet if ye would suffer meto lead you, ye would choose the first.”

The men answered, almost with one voice, that they wouldfollow Sir Richard where he would.

And Dick, setting spur to his horse, began once more to goforward.

The snow in the trail had been trodden very hard, and thepursuers had thus a great advantage over the pursued. Theypushed on, indeed, at a round trot, two hundred hoofs beatingalternately on the dull pavement of the snow, and the jingle ofweapons and the snorting of horses raising a warlike noise alongthe arches of the silent wood.

Presently, the wide slot of the pursued came out upon the highroad from Holywood; it was there, for a moment,indistinguishable; and, where it once more plunged into theunbeaten snow upon the farther side, Dick was surprised to see itnarrower and lighter trod. Plainly, profiting by the road,Sir Daniel had begun already to scatter his command.

At all hazards, one chance being equal to another, Dickcontinued to pursue the straight trail; and that, after anhour’s riding, in which it led into the very depths of theforest, suddenly split, like a bursting shell, into two dozenothers, leading to every point of the compass.

Dick drew bridle in despair. The short winter’sday was near an end; the sun, a dull red orange, shorn of rays,swam low among the leafless thickets; the shadows were a milelong upon the snow; the frost bit cruelly at the finger-nails;and the breath and steam of the horses mounted in a cloud.

“Well, we are outwitted,” Dick confessed.“Strike we for Holywood, after all. It is stillnearer us than Tunstall—or should be by the station of thesun.”

So they wheeled to their left, turning their backs on the redshield of sun, and made across country for the abbey. Butnow times were changed with them; they could no longer spankforth briskly on a path beaten firm by the passage of their foes,and for a goal to which that path itself conducted them.Now they must plough at a dull pace through the encumbering snow,continually pausing to decide their course, continuallyfloundering in drifts. The sun soon left them; the glow ofthe west decayed; and presently they were wandering in a shadowof blackness, under frosty stars.

Presently, indeed, the moon would clear the hilltops, and theymight resume their march. But till then, every random stepmight carry them wider of their march. There was nothingfor it but to camp and wait.

Sentries were posted; a spot of ground was cleared of snow,and, after some failures, a good fire blazed in the midst.The men-at-arms sat close about this forest hearth, sharing suchprovisions as they had, and passing about the flask; and Dick,having collected the most delicate of the rough and scanty fare,brought it to Lord Risingham’s niece, where she sat apartfrom the soldiery against a tree.

She sat upon one horse-cloth, wrapped in another, and staredstraight before her at the firelit scene. At the offer offood she started, like one wakened from a dream, and thensilently refused.

“Madam,” said Dick, “let me beseech you,punish me not so cruelly. Wherein I have offended you, Iknow not; I have, indeed, carried you away, but with a friendlyviolence; I have, indeed, exposed you to the inclemency of night,but the hurry that lies upon me hath for its end the preservationof another, who is no less frail and no less unfriended thanyourself. At least, madam, punish not yourself; and eat, ifnot for hunger, then for strength.”

“I will eat nothing at the hands that slew mykinsman,” she replied.

“Dear madam,” Dick cried, “I swear to youupon the rood I touched him not.”

“Swear to me that he still lives,” shereturned.

“I will not palter with you,” answered Dick.“Pity bids me to wound you. In my heart I do believehim dead.”

“And ye ask me to eat!” she cried.“Ay, and they call you ‘sir!’ Y’have won your spurs by my good kinsman’s murder. Andhad I not been fool and traitor both, and saved you in yourenemy’s house, ye should have died the death, andhe—he that was worth twelve of you—wereliving.”

“I did but my man’s best, even as your kinsman didupon the other party,” answered Dick. “Were hestill living—as I vow to Heaven I wish it!—he wouldpraise, not blame me.”

“Sir Daniel hath told me,” she replied.“He marked you at the barricade. Upon you, he saith,their party foundered; it was you that won the battle.Well, then, it was you that killed my good Lord Risingham, assure as though ye had strangled him. And ye would have meeat with you—and your hands not washed from killing?But Sir Daniel hath sworn your downfall. He ’tis thatwill avenge me!”

The unfortunate Dick was plunged in gloom. Old Arblasterreturned upon his mind, and he groaned aloud.

“Do ye hold me so guilty?” he said; “youthat defended me—you that are Joanna’sfriend?”

“What made ye in the battle?” she retorted.“Y’ are of no party; y’ are but a lad—butlegs and body, without government of wit or counsel!Wherefore did ye fight? For the love of hurt,pardy!”

“Nay,” cried Dick, “I know not. But asthe realm of England goes, if that a poor gentleman fight notupon the one side, perforce he must fight upon the other.He may not stand alone; ’tis not in nature.”

“They that have no judgment should not draw thesword,” replied the young lady. “Ye that fightbut for a hazard, what are ye but a butcher? War is butnoble by the cause, and y’ have disgraced it.”

“Madam,” said the miserable Dick, “I dopartly see mine error. I have made too much haste; I havebeen busy before my time. Already I stole aship—thinking, I do swear it, to do well—and therebybrought about the death of many innocent, and the grief and ruinof a poor old man whose face this very day hath stabbed me like adagger. And for this morning, I did but design to do myselfcredit, and get fame to marry with, and, behold! I have broughtabout the death of your dear kinsman that was good to me.And what besides, I know not. For, alas! I may have setYork upon the throne, and that may be the worser cause, and maydo hurt to England. O, madam, I do see my sin. I amunfit for life. I will, for penance sake and to avoid worseevil, once I have finished this adventure, get me to acloister. I will forswear Joanna and the trade ofarms. I will be a friar, and pray for your goodkinsman’s spirit all my days.”

It appeared to Dick, in this extremity of his humiliation andrepentance, that the young lady had laughed.

Raising his countenance, he found her looking down upon him,in the fire-light, with a somewhat peculiar but not unkindexpression.

“Madam,” he cried, thinking the laughter to havebeen an illusion of his hearing, but still, from her changedlooks, hoping to have touched her heart, “madam, will notthis content you? I give up all to undo what I have doneamiss; I make heaven certain for Lord Risingham. And allthis upon the very day that I have won my spurs, and thoughtmyself the happiest young gentleman on ground.”

“O boy,” she said—“goodboy!”

And then, to the extreme surprise of Dick, she first verytenderly wiped the tears away from his cheeks, and then, as ifyielding to a sudden impulse, threw both her arms about his neck,drew up his face, and kissed him. A pitiful bewildermentcame over simple-minded Dick.

“But come,” she said, with great cheerfulness,“you that are a captain, ye must eat. Why sup yenot?”

“Dear Mistress Risingham,” replied Dick, “Idid but wait first upon my prisoner; but, to say truth, penitencewill no longer suffer me to endure the sight of food. Iwere better to fast, dear lady, and to pray.”

“Call me Alicia,” she said; “are we not oldfriends? And now, come, I will eat with you, bit for bitand sup for sup; so if ye eat not, neither will I; but if ye eathearty, I will dine like a ploughman.”

So there and then she fell to; and Dick, who had an excellentstomach, proceeded to bear her company, at first with greatreluctance, but gradually, as he entered into the spirit, withmore and more vigour and devotion: until, at last, he forgot evento watch his model, and most heartily repaired the expenses ofhis day of labour and excitement.

“Lion-driver,” she said, at length, “ye donot admire a maid in a man’s jerkin?”

The moon was now up; and they were only waiting to repose thewearied horses. By the moon’s light, the stillpenitent but now well-fed Richard beheld her looking somewhatcoquettishly down upon him.

“Madam”—he stammered, surprised at this newturn in her manners.

“Nay,” she interrupted, “it skills not todeny; Joanna hath told me, but come, Sir Lion-driver, look atme—am I so homely—come!”

And she made bright eyes at him.

“Ye are something smallish, indeed”—beganDick.

And here again she interrupted him, this time with a ringingpeal of laughter that completed his confusion and surprise.

“Smallish!” she cried. “Nay, now, behonest as ye are bold; I am a dwarf, or little better; but forall that—come, tell me!—for all that, passably fairto look upon; is’t not so?”

“Nay, madam, exceedingly fair,” said thedistressed knight, pitifully trying to seem easy.

“And a man would be right glad to wed me?” shepursued.

“O, madam, right glad!” agreed Dick.

“Call me Alicia,” said she.

“Alicia,” quoth Sir Richard.

“Well, then, lion-driver,” she continued,“sith that ye slew my kinsman, and left me without stay, yeowe me, in honour, every reparation; do ye not?”

“I do, madam,” said Dick. “Although,upon my heart, I do hold me but partially guilty of that braveknight’s blood.”

“Would ye evade me?” she cried.

“Madam, not so. I have told you; at your bidding,I will even turn me a monk,” said Richard.

“Then, in honour, ye belong to me?” sheconcluded.

“In honour, madam, I suppose”—began theyoung man.

“Go to!” she interrupted; “ye are too fullof catches. In honour do ye belong to me, till ye have paidthe evil?”

“In honour, I do,” said Dick.

“Hear, then,” she continued; “Ye would makebut a sad friar, methinks; and since I am to dispose of you atpleasure, I will even take you for my husband. Nay, now, nowords!” cried she. “They will avail younothing. For see how just it is, that you who deprived meof one home, should supply me with another. And as forJoanna, she will be the first, believe me, to commend the change;for, after all, as we be dear friends, what matters it with whichof us ye wed? Not one whit!”

“Madam,” said Dick, “I will go into acloister, an ye please to bid me; but to wed with anyone in thisbig world besides Joanna Sedley is what I will consent to neitherfor man’s force nor yet for lady’s pleasure.Pardon me if I speak my plain thoughts plainly; but where a maidis very bold, a poor man must even be the bolder.”

“Dick,” she said, “ye sweet boy, ye mustcome and kiss me for that word. Nay, fear not, ye shallkiss me for Joanna; and when we meet, I shall give it back toher, and say I stole it. And as for what ye owe me, why,dear simpleton, methinks ye were not alone in that great battle;and even if York be on the throne, it was not you that set himthere. But for a good, sweet, honest heart, Dick, y’are all that; and if I could find it in my soul to envy yourJoanna anything, I would even envy her your love.”

CHAPTER VI—NIGHT IN THE WOODS (concluded): DICK ANDJOAN

The horses had by this time finished the small store ofprovender, and fully breathed from their fatigues. AtDick’s command, the fire was smothered in snow; and whilehis men got once more wearily to saddle, he himself, remembering,somewhat late, true woodland caution, chose a tall oak and nimblyclambered to the topmost fork. Hence he could look farabroad on the moonlit and snow-paven forest. On thesouth-west, dark against the horizon, stood those upland, heathyquarters where he and Joanna had met with the terrifyingmisadventure of the leper. And there his eye was caught bya spot of ruddy brightness no bigger than a needle’seye.

He blamed himself sharply for his previous neglect. Werethat, as it appeared to be, the shining of Sir Daniel’scamp-fire, he should long ago have seen and marched for it; aboveall, he should, for no consideration, have announced hisneighbourhood by lighting a fire of his own. But now hemust no longer squander valuable hours. The direct way tothe uplands was about two miles in length; but it was crossed bya very deep, precipitous dingle, impassable to mounted men; andfor the sake of speed, it seemed to Dick advisable to desert thehorses and attempt the adventure on foot.

Ten men were left to guard the horses; signals were agreedupon by which they could communicate in case of need; and Dickset forth at the head of the remainder, Alicia Risingham walkingstoutly by his side.

The men had freed themselves of heavy armour, and left behindtheir lances; and they now marched with a very good spirit in thefrozen snow, and under the exhilarating lustre of the moon.The descent into the dingle, where a stream strained sobbingthrough the snow and ice, was effected with silence and order;and on the further side, being then within a short half mile ofwhere Dick had seen the glimmer of the fire, the party halted tobreathe before the attack.

In the vast silence of the wood, the lightest sounds wereaudible from far; and Alicia, who was keen of hearing, held upher finger warningly and stooped to listen. All followedher example; but besides the groans of the choked brook in thedingle close behind, and the barking of a fox at a distance ofmany miles among the forest, to Dick’s acutest hearkening,not a breath was audible.

“But yet, for sure, I heard the clash of harness,”whispered Alicia.

“Madam,” returned Dick, who was more afraid ofthat young lady than of ten stout warriors, “I would nothint ye were mistaken; but it might well have come from either ofthe camps.”

“It came not thence. It came from westward,”she declared.

“It may be what it will,” returned Dick;“and it must be as heaven please. Reck we not a jot,but push on the livelier, and put it to the touch. Up,friends—enough breathed.”

As they advanced, the snow became more and more trampled withhoof-marks, and it was plain that they were drawing near to theencampment of a considerable force of mounted men.Presently they could see the smoke pouring from among the trees,ruddily coloured on its lower edge and scattering brightsparks.

And here, pursuant to Dick’s orders, his men began toopen out, creeping stealthily in the covert, to surround on everyside the camp of their opponents. He himself, placingAlicia in the shelter of a bulky oak, stole straight forth in thedirection of the fire.

At last, through an opening of the wood, his eye embraced thescene of the encampment. The fire had been built upon aheathy hummock of the ground, surrounded on three sides bythicket, and it now burned very strong, roaring aloud andbrandishing flames. Around it there sat not quite a dozenpeople, warmly cloaked; but though the neighbouring snow wastrampled down as by a regiment, Dick looked in vain for anyhorse. He began to have a terrible misgiving that he wasout-manoeuvred. At the same time, in a tall man with asteel salet, who was spreading his hands before the blaze, herecognised his old friend and still kindly enemy, Bennet Hatch;and in two others, sitting a little back, he made out, even intheir male disguise, Joanna Sedley and Sir Daniel’swife.

“Well,” thought he to himself, “even if Ilose my horses, let me get my Joanna, and why should Icomplain?”

And then, from the further side of the encampment, there camea little whistle, announcing that his men had joined, and theinvestment was complete.

Bennet, at the sound, started to his feet; but ere he had timeto spring upon his arms, Dick hailed him.

“Bennet,” he said—“Bennet, old friend,yield ye. Ye will but spill men’s lives in vain, ifye resist.”

“’Tis Master Shelton, by St. Barbary!” criedHatch. “Yield me? Ye ask much. What forcehave ye?”

“I tell you, Bennet, ye are both outnumbered andbegirt,” said Dick. “Cæsar andCharlemagne would cry for quarter. I have two score men atmy whistle, and with one shoot of arrows I could answer for youall.”

“Master Dick,” said Bennet, “it goes againstmy heart; but I must do my duty. The saints helpyou!” And therewith he raised a little tucket to hismouth and wound a rousing call.

Then followed a moment of confusion; for while Dick, fearingfor the ladies, still hesitated to give the word to shoot,Hatch’s little band sprang to their weapons and formed backto back as for a fierce resistance. In the hurry of theirchange of place, Joanna sprang from her seat and ran like anarrow to her lover’s side.

“Here, Dick!” she cried, as she clasped his handin hers.

But Dick still stood irresolute; he was yet young to the moredeplorable necessities of war, and the thought of old LadyBrackley checked the command upon his tongue. His own menbecame restive. Some of them cried on him by name; others,of their own accord, began to shoot; and at the first dischargepoor Bennet bit the dust. Then Dick awoke.

“On!” he cried. “Shoot, boys, and keepto cover. England and York!”

But just then the dull beat of many horses on the snowsuddenly arose in the hollow ear of the night, and, withincredible swiftness, drew nearer and swelled louder. Atthe same time, answering tuckets repeated and repeatedHatch’s call.

“Rally, rally!” cried Dick. “Rallyupon me! Rally for your lives!”

But his men—afoot, scattered, taken in the hour whenthey had counted on an easy triumph—began instead to giveground severally, and either stood wavering or dispersed into thethickets. And when the first of the horsemen came chargingthrough the open avenues and fiercely riding their steeds intothe underwood, a few stragglers were overthrown or speared amongthe brush, but the bulk of Dick’s command had simply meltedat the rumour of their coming.

Dick stood for a moment, bitterly recognising the fruits ofhis precipitate and unwise valour. Sir Daniel had seen thefire; he had moved out with his main force, whether to attack hispursuers or to take them in the rear if they should venture theassault. His had been throughout the part of a sagaciouscaptain; Dick’s the conduct of an eager boy. And herewas the young knight, his sweetheart, indeed, holding him tightlyby the hand, but otherwise alone, his whole command of men andhorses dispersed in the night and the wide forest, like a paperof pins in a bay barn.

“The saints enlighten me!” he thought.“It is well I was knighted for this morning’s matter;this doth me little honour.”

And thereupon, still holding Joanna, he began to run.

The silence of the night was now shattered by the shouts ofthe men of Tunstall, as they galloped hither and thither, huntingfugitives; and Dick broke boldly through the underwood and ranstraight before him like a deer. The silver clearness ofthe moon upon the open snow increased, by contrast, the obscurityof the thickets; and the extreme dispersion of the vanquished ledthe pursuers into wildly divergent paths. Hence, in but alittle while, Dick and Joanna paused, in a close covert, andheard the sounds of the pursuit, scattering abroad, indeed, inall directions, but yet fainting already in the distance.

“An I had but kept a reserve of them together,”Dick cried, bitterly, “I could have turned the tablesyet! Well, we live and learn; next time it shall go better,by the rood.”

“Nay, Dick,” said Joanna, “what mattersit? Here we are together once again.”

He looked at her, and there she was—John Matcham, as ofyore, in hose and doublet. But now he knew her; now, evenin that ungainly dress, she smiled upon him, bright with love;and his heart was transported with joy.

“Sweetheart,” he said, “if ye forgive thisblunderer, what care I? Make we direct for Holywood; therelieth your good guardian and my better friend, Lord Foxham.There shall we be wed; and whether poor or wealthy, famous orunknown, what, matters it? This day, dear love, I won myspurs; I was commended by great men for my valour; I thoughtmyself the goodliest man of war in all broad England. Then,first, I fell out of my favour with the great; and now have Ibeen well thrashed, and clean lost my soldiers. There was adownfall for conceit! But, dear, I care not—dear, ifye still love me and will wed, I would have my knighthood doneaway, and mind it not a jot.”

“My Dick!” she cried. “And did theyknight you?”

“Ay, dear, ye are my lady now,” he answered,fondly; “or ye shall, ere noon to-morrow—will yenot?”

“That will I, Dick, with a glad heart,” sheanswered.

“Ay, sir? Methought ye were to be a monk!”said a voice in their ears.

“Alicia!” cried Joanna.

“Even so,” replied the young lady, comingforward. “Alicia, whom ye left for dead, and whomyour lion-driver found, and brought to life again, and, by mysooth, made love to, if ye want to know!”

“I’ll not believe it,” cried Joanna.“Dick!”

“Dick!” mimicked Alicia. “Dick,indeed! Ay, fair sir, and ye desert poor damsels indistress,” she continued, turning to the youngknight. “Ye leave them planted behind oaks. Butthey say true—the age of chivalry is dead.”

“Madam,” cried Dick, in despair, “upon mysoul I had forgotten you outright. Madam, ye must try topardon me. Ye see, I had new found Joanna!”

“I did not suppose that ye had done it o’purpose,” she retorted. “But I will be cruellyavenged. I will tell a secret to my Lady Shelton—shethat is to be,” she added, curtseying.“Joanna,” she continued, “I believe, upon mysoul, your sweetheart is a bold fellow in a fight, but he is, letme tell you plainly, the softest-hearted simpleton inEngland. Go to—ye may do your pleasure withhim! And now, fool children, first kiss me, either one ofyou, for luck and kindness; and then kiss each other just oneminute by the glass, and not one second longer; and then let usall three set forth for Holywood as fast as we can stir; forthese woods, methinks, are full of peril and exceedingcold.”

“But did my Dick make love to you?” asked Joanna,clinging to her sweetheart’s side.

“Nay, fool girl,” returned Alicia; “it was Imade love to him. I offered to marry him, indeed; but hebade me go marry with my likes. These were his words.Nay, that I will say: he is more plain than pleasant. Butnow, children, for the sake of sense, set forward. Shall wego once more over the dingle, or push straight forHolywood?”

“Why,” said Dick, “I would like dearly toget upon a horse; for I have been sore mauled and beaten, one wayand another, these last days, and my poor body is onebruise. But how think ye? If the men, upon the alarmof the fighting, had fled away, we should have gone about fornothing. ’Tis but some three short miles to Holywooddirect; the bell hath not beat nine; the snow is pretty firm towalk upon, the moon clear; how if we went even as weare?”

“Agreed,” cried Alicia; but Joanna only pressedupon Dick’s arm.

Forth, then, they went, through open leafless groves and downsnow-clad alleys, under the white face of the winter moon; Dickand Joanna walking hand in hand and in a heaven of pleasure; andtheir light-minded companion, her own bereavements heartilyforgotten, followed a pace or two behind, now rallying them upontheir silence, and now drawing happy pictures of their future andunited lives.

Still, indeed, in the distance of the wood, the riders ofTunstall might be heard urging their pursuit; and from time totime cries or the clash of steel announced the shock ofenemies. But in these young folk, bred among the alarms ofwar, and fresh from such a multiplicity of dangers, neither fearnor pity could be lightly wakened. Content to find thesounds still drawing farther and farther away, they gave up theirhearts to the enjoyment of the hour, walking already, as Aliciaput it, in a wedding procession; and neither the rude solitude ofthe forest, nor the cold of the freezing night, had any force toshadow or distract their happiness.

At length, from a rising hill, they looked below them on thedell of Holywood. The great windows of the forest abbeyshone with torch and candle; its high pinnacles and spires arosevery clear and silent, and the gold rood upon the topmost summitglittered brightly in the moon. All about it, in the openglade, camp-fires were burning, and the ground was thick withhuts; and across the midst of the picture the frozen rivercurved.

“By the mass,” said Richard, “there are LordFoxham’s fellows still encamped. The messenger hathcertainly miscarried. Well, then, so better. We havepower at hand to face Sir Daniel.”

But if Lord Foxham’s men still lay encamped in the longholm at Holywood, it was from a different reason from the onesupposed by Dick. They had marched, indeed, for Shoreby;but ere they were half way thither, a second messenger met them,and bade them return to their morning’s camp, to bar theroad against Lancastrian fugitives, and to be so much nearer tothe main army of York. For Richard of Gloucester, havingfinished the battle and stamped out his foes in that district,was already on the march to rejoin his brother; and not longafter the return of my Lord Foxham’s retainers, Crookbackhimself drew rein before the abbey door. It was in honourof this august visitor that the windows shone with lights; and atthe hour of Dick’s arrival with his sweetheart and herfriend, the whole ducal party was being entertained in therefectory with the splendour of that powerful and luxuriousmonastery.

Dick, not quite with his good will, was brought beforethem. Gloucester, sick with fatigue, sat leaning upon onehand his white and terrifying countenance; Lord Foxham, halfrecovered from his wound, was in a place of honour on hisleft.

“How, sir?” asked Richard. “Have yebrought me Sir Daniel’s head?”

“My lord duke,” replied Dick, stoutly enough, butwith a qualm at heart, “I have not even the good fortune toreturn with my command. I have been, so please your grace,well beaten.”

Gloucester looked upon him with a formidable frown.

“I gave you fifty lances, [3] sir,” hesaid.

“My lord duke, I had but fifty men-at-arms,”replied the young knight.

“How is this?” said Gloucester. “Hedid ask me fifty lances.”

“May it please your grace,” replied Catesby,smoothly, “for a pursuit we gave him but thehorsemen.”

“It is well,” replied Richard, adding,“Shelton, ye may go.”

“Stay!” said Lord Foxham. “This youngman likewise had a charge from me. It may be he hath bettersped. Say, Master Shelton, have ye found themaid?”

“I praise the saints, my lord,” said Dick,“she is in this house.”

“Is it even so? Well, then, my lord theduke,” resumed Lord Foxham, “with your good will,to-morrow, before the army march, I do propose a marriage.This young squire—”

“Young knight,” interrupted Catesby.

“Say ye so, Sir William?” cried Lord Foxham.

“I did myself, and for good service, dub himknight,” said Gloucester. “He hath twicemanfully served me. It is not valour of hands, it is aman’s mind of iron, that he lacks. He will not rise,Lord Foxham. ’Tis a fellow that will fight indeedbravely in a mellay, but hath a capon’s heart.Howbeit, if he is to marry, marry him in the name of Mary, and bedone!”

“Nay, he is a brave lad—I know it,” saidLord Foxham. “Content ye, then, Sir Richard. Ihave compounded this affair with Master Hamley, and to-morrow yeshall wed.”

Whereupon Dick judged it prudent to withdraw; but he was notyet clear of the refectory, when a man, but newly alighted at thegate, came running four stairs at a bound, and, brushing throughthe abbey servants, threw himself on one knee before theduke.

“Victory, my lord,” he cried.

And before Dick had got to the chamber set apart for him asLord Foxham’s guest, the troops in the holm were cheeringaround their fires; for upon that same day, not twenty milesaway, a second crushing blow had been dealt to the power ofLancaster.

CHAPTER VII—DICK’S REVENGE

The next morning Dick was afoot before the sun, and havingdressed himself to the best advantage with the aid of the LordFoxham’s baggage, and got good reports of Joan, he setforth on foot to walk away his impatience.

For some while he made rounds among the soldiery, who weregetting to arms in the wintry twilight of the dawn and by the redglow of torches; but gradually he strolled further afield, and atlength passed clean beyond the outposts, and walked alone in thefrozen forest, waiting for the sun.

His thoughts were both quiet and happy. His brief favourwith the Duke he could not find it in his heart to mourn; withJoan to wife, and my Lord Foxham for a faithful patron, he lookedmost happily upon the future; and in the past he found but littleto regret.

As he thus strolled and pondered, the solemn light of themorning grew more clear, the east was already coloured by thesun, and a little scathing wind blew up the frozen snow. Heturned to go home; but even as he turned, his eye lit upon afigure behind, a tree.

“Stand!” he cried. “Whogoes?”

The figure stepped forth and waved its hand like a dumbperson. It was arrayed like a pilgrim, the hood loweredover the face, but Dick, in an instant, recognised SirDaniel.

He strode up to him, drawing his sword; and the knight,putting his hand in his bosom, as if to seize a hidden weapon,steadfastly awaited his approach.

“Well, Dickon,” said Sir Daniel, “how is itto be? Do ye make war upon the fallen?”

“I made no war upon your life,” replied the lad;“I was your true friend until ye sought for mine; but yehave sought for it greedily.”

“Nay—self-defence,” replied theknight. “And now, boy, the news of this battle, andthe presence of yon crooked devil here in mine own wood, havebroken me beyond all help. I go to Holywood for sanctuary;thence overseas, with what I can carry, and to begin life againin Burgundy or France.”

“Ye may not go to Holywood,” said Dick.

“How! May not?” asked the knight.

“Look ye, Sir Daniel, this is my marriage morn,”said Dick; “and yon sun that is to rise will make thebrightest day that ever shone for me. Your life isforfeit—doubly forfeit, for my father’s death andyour own practices to meward. But I myself have done amiss;I have brought about men’s deaths; and upon this glad day Iwill be neither judge nor hangman. An ye were the devil, Iwould not lay a hand on you. An ye were the devil, ye mightgo where ye will for me. Seek God’s forgiveness; mineye have freely. But to go on to Holywood isdifferent. I carry arms for York, and I will suffer no spywithin their lines. Hold it, then, for certain, if ye setone foot before another, I will uplift my voice and call thenearest post to seize you.”

“Ye mock me,” said Sir Daniel. “I haveno safety out of Holywood.”

“I care no more,” returned Richard. “Ilet you go east, west, or south; north I will not. Holywoodis shut against you. Go, and seek not to return. For,once ye are gone, I will warn every post about this army, andthere will be so shrewd a watch upon all pilgrims that, onceagain, were ye the very devil, ye would find it ruin to make theessay.”

“Ye doom me,” said Sir Daniel, gloomily.

“I doom you not,” returned Richard.“If it so please you to set your valour against mine, comeon; and though I fear it be disloyal to my party, I will take thechallenge openly and fully, fight you with mine own singlestrength, and call for none to help me. So shall I avengemy father, with a perfect conscience.”

“Ay,” said Sir Daniel, “y’ have a longsword against my dagger.”

“I rely upon Heaven only,” answered Dick, castinghis sword some way behind him on the snow. “Now, ifyour ill-fate bids you, come; and, under the pleasure of theAlmighty, I make myself bold to feed your bones tofoxes.”

“I did but try you, Dickon,” returned the knight,with an uneasy semblance of a laugh. “I would notspill your blood.”

“Go, then, ere it be too late,” repliedShelton. “In five minutes I will call the post.I do perceive that I am too long-suffering. Had but ourplaces been reversed, I should have been bound hand and foot someminutes past.”

“Well, Dickon, I will go,” replied SirDaniel. “When we next meet, it shall repent you thatye were so harsh.”

And with these words, the knight turned and began to move offunder the trees. Dick watched him with strangely-mingledfeelings, as he went, swiftly and warily, and ever and againturning a wicked eye upon the lad who had spared him, and whom hestill suspected.

There was upon one side of where he went a thicket, stronglymatted with green ivy, and, even in its winter state, imperviousto the eye. Herein, all of a sudden, a bow sounded like anote of music. An arrow flew, and with a great, choked cryof agony and anger, the Knight of Tunstall threw up his hands andfell forward in the snow.

Dick bounded to his side and raised him. His facedesperately worked; his whole body was shaken by contortingspasms.

“Is the arrow black?” he gasped.

“It is black,” replied Dick, gravely.

And then, before he could add one word, a desperate seizure ofpain shook the wounded man from head to foot, so that his bodyleaped in Dick’s supporting arms, and with the extremity ofthat pang his spirit fled in silence.

The young man laid him back gently on the snow and prayed forthat unprepared and guilty spirit, and as he prayed the sun cameup at a bound, and the robins began chirping in the ivy.

When he rose to his feet, he found another man upon his kneesbut a few steps behind him, and, still with uncovered head, hewaited until that prayer also should be over. It took long;the man, with his head bowed and his face covered with his hands,prayed like one in a great disorder or distress of mind; and bythe bow that lay beside him, Dick judged that he was no otherthan the archer who had laid Sir Daniel low.

At length he, also, rose, and showed the countenance of EllisDuckworth.

“Richard,” he said, very gravely, “I heardyou. Ye took the better part and pardoned; I took theworse, and there lies the clay of mine enemy. Pray forme.”

And he wrung him by the hand.

“Sir,” said Richard, “I will pray for you,indeed; though how I may prevail I wot not. But if ye haveso long pursued revenge, and find it now of such a sorry flavour,bethink ye, were it not well to pardon others?Hatch—he is dead, poor shrew! I would have spared abetter; and for Sir Daniel, here lies his body. But for thepriest, if I might anywise prevail, I would have you let himgo.”

A flash came into the eyes of Ellis Duckworth.

“Nay,” he said, “the devil is still strongwithin me. But be at rest; the Black Arrow fliethnevermore—the fellowship is broken. They that stilllive shall come to their quiet and ripe end, in Heaven’sgood time, for me; and for yourself, go where your better fortunecalls you, and think no more of Ellis.”

CHAPTER VIII—CONCLUSION

About nine in the morning, Lord Foxham was leading his ward,once more dressed as befitted her sex, and followed by AliciaRisingham, to the church of Holywood, when Richard Crookback, hisbrow already heavy with cares, crossed their path and paused.

“Is this the maid?” he asked; and when Lord Foxhamhad replied in the affirmative, “Minion,” he added,“hold up your face until I see its favour.”

He looked upon her sourly for a little.

“Ye are fair,” he said at last, “and, asthey tell me, dowered. How if I offered you a bravemarriage, as became your face and parentage?”

“My lord duke,” replied Joanna, “may itplease your grace, I had rather wed with Sir Richard.”

“How so?” he asked, harshly. “Marrybut the man I name to you, and he shall be my lord, and you mylady, before night. For Sir Richard, let me tell youplainly, he will die Sir Richard.”

“I ask no more of Heaven, my lord, than but to die SirRichard’s wife,” returned Joanna.

“Look ye at that, my lord,” said Gloucester,turning to Lord Foxham. “Here be a pair foryou. The lad, when for good services I gave him his choiceof my favour, chose but the grace of an old, drunkenshipman. I did warn him freely, but he was stout in hisbesottedness. ‘Here dieth your favour,’ said I;and he, my lord, with a most assured impertinence, ‘Mine bethe loss,’ quoth he. It shall be so, by therood!”

“Said he so?” cried Alicia. “Then wellsaid, lion-driver!”

“Who is this?” asked the duke.

“A prisoner of Sir Richard’s,” answered LordFoxham; “Mistress Alicia Risingham.”

“See that she be married to a sure man,” said theduke.

“I had thought of my kinsman, Hamley, an it like yourgrace,” returned Lord Foxham. “He hath wellserved the cause.”

“It likes me well,” said Richard. “Letthem be wedded speedily. Say, fair maid, will youwed?”

“My lord duke,” said Alicia, “so as the manis straight”—And there, in a perfect consternation,the voice died on her tongue.

“He is straight, my mistress,” replied Richard,calmly. “I am the only crookback of my party; we areelse passably well shapen. Ladies, and you, my lord,”he added, with a sudden change to grave courtesy, “judge menot too churlish if I leave you. A captain, in the time ofwar, hath not the ordering of his hours.”

And with a very handsome salutation he passed on, followed byhis officers.

“Alack,” cried Alicia, “I amshent!”

“Ye know him not,” replied Lord Foxham.“It is but a trifle; he hath already clean forgot yourwords.”

“He is, then, the very flower of knighthood,” saidAlicia.

“Nay, he but mindeth other things,” returned LordFoxham. “Tarry we no more.”

In the chancel they found Dick waiting, attended by a fewyoung men; and there were he and Joan united. When theycame forth again, happy and yet serious, into the frosty air andsunlight, the long files of the army were already winding forwardup the road; already the Duke of Gloucester’s banner wasunfolded and began to move from before the abbey in a clump ofspears; and behind it, girt by steel-clad knights, the bold,black-hearted, and ambitious hunchback moved on towards his briefkingdom and his lasting infamy. But the wedding partyturned upon the other side, and sat down, with sober merriment,to breakfast. The father cellarer attended on their wants,and sat with them at table. Hamley, all jealousy forgotten,began to ply the nowise loth Alicia with courtship. Andthere, amid the sounding of tuckets and the clash of armouredsoldiery and horses continually moving forth, Dick and Joan satside by side, tenderly held hands, and looked, with ever growingaffection, in each other’s eyes.

Thenceforth the dust and blood of that unruly epoch passedthem by. They dwelt apart from alarms in the green forestwhere their love began.

Two old men in the meanwhile enjoyed pensions in greatprosperity and peace, and with perhaps a superfluity of ale andwine, in Tunstall hamlet. One had been all his life ashipman, and continued to the last to lament his man Tom.The other, who had been a bit of everything, turned in the endtowards piety, and made a most religious death under the name ofBrother Honestus in the neighbouring abbey. So Lawless hadhis will, and died a friar.

Footnotes:

[1] At the date of this story, RichardCrookback could not have been created Duke of Gloucester; but forclearness, with the reader’s leave, he shall so becalled.

[2] Richard Crookback would have beenreally far younger at this date.

[3] Technically, the term“lance” included a not quite certain number of footsoldiers attached to the man-at-arms.

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