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THE STORY 
 
 OF 
 
 FRANCIS CLUDDE 
 
 BY 
 
 STANLEY J. WEYMAN 
 
 AUTHOR OF " THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF," ETC. 
 
 ' J >: > >; 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THE CASSELL PUBLISHING CO. 
 31 East 17TH St. (Union Square) 
 
Copyright, 1891, by 
 CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 *■ * '■t *■ 
 
 xc\ «.;,*;; c* c ,' ' 
 
 THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS, 
 RAHWAY, N. J. 
 

 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. " He, Sire Ane, He," i 
 
 II. In THE Bishop's Room, 13 
 
 III. " Down WITH Purveyors!" 24 
 
 IV. Two Sisters of Mercy, ...... 35 
 
 V. Mistress Bertram, .47 
 
 VI. Master Clarence, 59 
 
 VII. On Board the " Framlingham," 69 
 
 VIII. A House of Peace, 82 
 
 IX. Playing with Fire 93 
 
 X. The Face in the Porch, 106 
 
 XI. A Foul Blow, .117 
 
 XII. Anne's Petition, . 129 
 
 XIII. A Willful Man's Way, 141 
 
 XIV. At Bay in the Gatehouse, i55 
 
 ' XV. Before the Court, 169 
 
 XVI. In the Duke's Name, . . . . . . .180 
 
 XVII. A Letter that had Many Escapes, .... 192 
 
 XVI II. The Witch's Warning, 202 
 
 XIX. Ferdinand Cludde, . . . . . .215 
 
 XX. The Coming Queen, 227 
 
 XXI. My Father, . . .239 
 
 XXII. Sir Anthony's Purpose, 249 
 
 XXIII. The Last Mass, 259 
 
 XXIV. Awaiting the Blow, ..=,.,. . 270 
 XXV. In Harbor at Last, . 283 
 
 292705 
 
The Story of Francis Cludde. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 •'h^, sire ane, utV* 
 
 ON the boundary line between the two counties of War- 
 wick and Worcester there is a road very famous in 
 those parts, and called the Ridgeway. Father Carey used 
 to say — and no better Latinist could be found for a score of 
 miles round in the times of which I write — that it was made 
 by the Romans. It runs north and south along the narrow 
 spine of the country, which is spread out on either side 
 like a map, or a picture. As you fare southward you see 
 on your right hand the green orchards and pastures of 
 Worcestershire stretching as far as the Malvern Hills. You 
 have in front of you Bredon Hill, which is a wonderful hill, 
 for if a man goes down the Avon by boat it goes with him — 
 now before, and now behind — a whole day's journey — and 
 then stands in the same place. And on the left hand you 
 have the great Forest of Arden, and not much besides, 
 except oak trees, which grow well in Warwickshire. 
 
 I describe this road, firstly, because it is a notable one, 
 and forty years ago was the only Queen's highway, to call 
 a highway, in that country. The rest were mere horse- 
 tracks. Secondly, because the chase wall of Coton End 
 runs along the side of it for two good miles ; and the Cluddes 
 — I am Francis Cludde — have lived at Coton End by the 
 Ridgeway time out of mind, probably — for the name smacks 
 of the soil — before the Romans made the road. And 
 thirdly, because forty years ago, on a drizzling February 
 day in 1555 — second year of Mary, old religion just re- 
 established — a number of people were collected on this 
 
2 THE :STOR y OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 road, forming a group of a score or more, who stood in an 
 ordered kind of disorder about my uncle's gates and looked 
 all one way, as if expecting an arrival, and an arrival of 
 consequence. 
 
 First, there was my uncle Sir Anthony, tall and lean. 
 He wore his best black velvet doublet and cloak, and had 
 put them on with an air of huge importance. This increased 
 each time he turned, staff in hand, and surveyed his follow- 
 ing, and as regularly gave place to a "Pshaw!" of vexation 
 and a petulant glance when his eye rested on me. Close 
 beside him, looking important too, but anxious and a little 
 frightened as well, stood good Father Carey. The priest wore 
 his silk cassock, and his lips moved from time to time with- 
 out sound, as though he were trying over a Latin oration 
 — which, indeed, was the fact. At a more respectful dis- 
 tance were ranged Baldwin Moor, the steward, and a dozen 
 servants; while still farther away lounged as many raga- 
 muffins — landless men, who swarmed about every gentle- 
 man's door in those times, and took toll of such abbey lands 
 as the king might have given him. Against one of the 
 stone gate-pillars I leaned myself — nineteen years and six 
 months old, and none too wise, though well grown, and as 
 strong as one here and there. And perched on the top of 
 the twin post, with his chin on his knees, and his hands 
 clasped about them, was Martin Luther, the fool. 
 
 Martin had chosen this elevated position partly out of 
 curiosity, and partly, perhaps, under a strong sense of duty. 
 He knew that, whether he would or no, he must needs look 
 funny up there. His nose was red, and his eyes were run- 
 ning, and his teeth chattering; and he did look funny. But 
 as he felt the cold most his patience failed first. The 
 steadv, silent drizzle, the mist creeping about the stems of 
 the oak trees, the leaden sky proved too much for him in 
 the end. "A watched pot never boils!" he grumbled. 
 
 "Silence, sirrah ! " commanded my uncle angrily. "This 
 is no time for your fooling. Have a care how you talk in 
 the same breath of pots and my Lord Bishop!" 
 
 *^ SanctcE ecclesics" Father Carey broke out, turning up 
 his eyes in a kind of ecstasy, as though he were knee to 
 knee with the prelate — *7<? defensorem indytum atque ar- 
 dent ejn " 
 
 **Foiiutnr* cried I, laughing loudly at my own wit. 
 
*'H&, SIRE ANE, Hir* 3 
 
 It was an ill-mannered word, but I was cold and peevish. 
 I had been forced to this function against my will. I had 
 never seen the guest whom we were expecting, and who 
 was no other than the Queen's Chancellor, Stephen Gar- 
 diner, but I disliked him as if I had. In truth, he was 
 related to us in a peculiar fashion, which my uncle and 1 
 naturally looked at from different standpoints. Sir An- 
 thony viewed with complacence, if not with pride, any con- 
 nection with the powerful Bishop of Winchester, for the 
 knight knew the world, and could appreciate the value it 
 sets on success, and the blind eyes it has for spots if they 
 do but speckle the risen sun. I could make no such allow- 
 ance, but, with the pride of youth and family, at once 
 despised the great Bishop for his base blood, and blushed 
 that the shame lay on our side. I hated this parade of doing 
 honor to him, and would fain have hidden at home with 
 Petronilla, my cousin, Sir Anthony's daughter, and awaited 
 our guest there. The knight, however, had not permitted 
 this, and I had been forced out, being in the worst of 
 humors. 
 
 So I said ''Pottum! " and laughed. 
 
 "Silence, boy!" cried Sir Anthony fiercely. He loved 
 an orderly procession, and to arrange things decently. 
 "Silence!" he repeated, darting an angry glance first at me 
 and then at his followers, "or I will warm that jacket of 
 yours, lad! And you, Martin Luther, see to your tongue 
 for the next twenty-four hours, and keep it off my Lord 
 Bishop! And, Father Carey, hold yourself ready " 
 
 "For here Sir Hot-Pot cometh!" cried the undaunted 
 Martin, skipping nimbly down from his post of vantage; 
 "and a dozen of London saucepans with him, or may I 
 never lick the inside of one again!" 
 
 A jest on the sauciness of London serving-men wffe sure 
 to tell with the crowd, and there was a great laugh at this, 
 especially .among the landless men, who were on the skirts 
 of the party, and well sheltered from Sir Anthony's eye. 
 He glared about him, provoked to find at this critical mo- 
 ment smiles where there should have been looks of defer- 
 ence, a'nd a ring round a fool where he had marshaled a 
 procession. Unluckily, he chose to visit his displeasure 
 upon me. "You won't behave, won't you, you puppy!" 
 he cried. "You won't, won't you!" and stepping forward 
 
4 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 he aimed a blow at my shoulders, which would have made 
 me rub myself if it had reached me. But 1 was too quick. 
 I stepped back, the stick swung idly, and the crowd laughed. 
 
 And there the matter would have ended, for the Bishop's 
 party were now close upon us, had not my foot slipped on 
 the wet grass and I fallen backward. Seeing me thus at his 
 mercy, the temptation proved too much for the knight. He 
 forgot his love of seemliness and even that his visitors were 
 at his elbow— and, stooping a moment to plant home a 
 couple of shrewd cuts, cried, "Take that! Take that, my 
 lad!"^ in a voice that rang as crisply as his thwacks. 
 
 I was up in an instant; not that the pain was anything, 
 and before our own people I should have thought as little 
 of shame, for if the old may not lay hand to the young, 
 being related, where is to be any obedience? Now, how- 
 ever, my first glance met the grinning faces^of strange lack- 
 eys, and while my shoulders still smarted, the laughter of a 
 couple of soberly-clad pages stung a hundred times more 
 sharply. I glared furiously round, and my eyes fell on one 
 face — a face long remembered. It was that of a man who 
 neither smiled nor laughed; a man whom I recognized im- 
 mediately, not by his sleek hackney or his purple cassock, 
 which a riding-coat partially concealed, or even by his jew- 
 eled hand, but by the keen glance of power which passed 
 over me, took me in, and did not acknowledge me; which 
 saw my humiliation without interest or amusement. The 
 look hurt me beyond smarting of shoulders, for it conveyed 
 to me in the twentieth part of a second how very small a 
 person Francis Cludde was, and how very great a personage 
 was Stephen Gardiner, whom in my thoughts I had pre- 
 sumed to belittle. 
 
 I stood irresolute a moment, shifting my feet and glower- 
 ing at him, my face on fire. But when he raised his hand 
 to give the Benediction, and the more devout, or those with 
 mended hose, fell on their knees in the mud, I turned my 
 back abruptly, and, climbing the wall, flung away across 
 the chase. 
 
 "What, Sir Anthony!" I heard him say as I stalked off, 
 his voice ringing clear and incisive amid the reverential 
 silence which followed the Latin words; "have we a heretic 
 here, cousin? How is this? So near home too!" 
 
 "It is my nephew, my Lord Bishop," I could hear Sir 
 
*' HE, SIRE ANE, H& r* 5 
 
 Anthony answer, apology in his tone; "and a willful boy at 
 times. You know of him ; he has queer notions of his own, 
 put into his head long ago." 
 
 I caught no more, my angry strides carrying me out of 
 earshot. Fuming, I hurried across the long damp grass, 
 avoiding here and there the fallen limb of an elm or a huge 
 round of holly. I wanted to get out of the way, and be 
 out of the way ; and made such haste that before the slowly 
 moving cavalcade had traversed one-half of the interval 
 between the road and, the house I had reached the bridge 
 which crossed the moat, and, pushing my way impatiently 
 through the maids and scullions who had flocked to it to see 
 the show, had passed into the courtyard. 
 
 The light was failing, and the place looked dark and 
 gloomy in spite of the warm glow of burning logs which 
 poured from the lower windows, and some show of green 
 boughs which had been placed over the doorways in honor 
 of the occasion. I glanced up at a lattice in one of the 
 gables — the window of Petronilla's little parlor. There was 
 no face at it, and I turned fretfully into the hall — and yes, 
 there she was, perched up in one of the high window-seats. 
 She was looking out on the chase, as the maids were doing. 
 Yes, as the maids were doing. She too was watching for 
 his High Mightiness, I muttered, and that angered me 
 afresh. I crossed the rushes in silence, and climbed up 
 beside her. 
 
 "Well," I said ungraciously, as she started, hearing me 
 at her shoulder, "well, have you seen enough of him yet, 
 cousin? You will, I warrant you, before he leaves. A 
 little of him goes far." 
 
 "A little of whom, Francis?" she asked simply. 
 Though her voice betrayed some wonder at my rough 
 tone, she was so much engaged with the show that she did 
 not look at me immediately. This of course kept my anger 
 warm, and I began to feel that she was in the conspiracy 
 against me. 
 
 "Of my Lord of Winchester, of course," I answered, 
 laughing rudely; "of Sir Hot-Pot!" 
 
 "Why do you call him that?" she remonstrated in gentle 
 wonder. And then she did turn her soft dark eyes upon 
 me. She was a slender, willowy girl in those days, with a 
 complexion clear yet pale — a maiden all bending and grace- 
 
6 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 fulness, yet with a great store of secret firmness, as I was to 
 learn. "He seems as handsome an old man," she contin- 
 ued, "as I have ever met, and stately and benevolent, too, 
 as I see him at this distance. What is the matter with you, 
 Francis? What has put you out?" 
 
 "Put me out!" I retorted angrily. "Who said anything 
 had put me out?" 
 
 But I reddened under her eyes; I was longing to tell her 
 all, and be comforted, while at the same time I shrank with 
 a man's shame from saying to her that I had been beaten. 
 
 "I can see that something is the matter," she said sagely, 
 with her head on one side, and that air of being the elder 
 which she often assumed with me, though she was really the 
 younger by two years. "Why did you not wait for the 
 others? Why have you come home alone? Francis," [with 
 sudden conviction] "you have vexed my father! That 
 is it!" 
 
 "He has beaten me like a dog!" I blurted out passion- 
 ately; "and before them all! Before those strangers he 
 flogged me'" 
 
 She had l:ier back to the window, and some faint gleam of 
 wintry sunshine, passing through the gules of the shield 
 blazoned behind her, cast a red stain on her dark hair and 
 shapely head. She was silent, probably through pity or 
 consternation; but I could not see her face, and misread 
 her. I thought her hard, and, resenting this, bragged on 
 with a lad's empty violence. 
 
 "He did; but I will not stand it! I give you warning, 
 I won't stand it, Petronilla'" and I stamped, young bully 
 that I was, until the dust sprang out of the boards, and the 
 hounds by the distant hearth jumped up and whined. "No ' 
 not for all the base bishops in Engand!" I continued, tak- 
 ing a step this way and that. "He had better not do it 
 again ! If he does, I tell you it will be the worse for some 
 one!" 
 
 "Francis," she exclaimed abruptly, "you must not speak 
 in that way!" 
 
 But I was too angry to be silenced, though instinctively 
 I changed my ground. 
 
 "Stephen Gardiner!" I cried furiously. "Who is Ste- 
 phen Gardiner, I should like to know? He has no right to 
 call himself Gardiner at all ' Dr. Stephens he used to call 
 
*'H&, SIRE ANE, H£.r* 7 
 
 himself, I have heard. A child with no name but his god- 
 father's; that is what he is, for all his airs and his bish- 
 opric! Who is he to look on and see a Cludde beaten? 
 If my uncle does not take care " 
 
 "Francis!" she cried again, cutting me short ruthlessly. 
 "Be silent, sir!" [and this time I was silent]. "You un- 
 manly boy," she continued, her face glowing with indigna- 
 tion, "to threaten my father before my face! How dare 
 you, sir? How dare you? And who are you, you poor 
 child," she exclaimed, with a startling change from invec- 
 tive to sarcasm — "who are you to talk of bishops, I should 
 like to know?" 
 
 "One," I said sullenly, "who thinks less of cardinals and 
 bishops than some folk. Mistress Petronilla!" 
 
 "Ay, I know," she retorted scathingly — "I know that 
 you are a kind of half-hearted Protestant — neither fish, 
 flesh, nor fowl!" 
 
 "I am what my father made me!" I muttered. 
 
 "At any rate," she replied, "you do not see how small 
 you are, or you would not talk of bishops. Heaven help 
 us! That a boy who has done nothing and seen nothing, 
 should talk of the Queen's Chancellor! Go! Go on, you 
 foolish boy, and rule a country, or cut off heads, and then 
 you may talk of such men — men who could unmake you and 
 yours with a stroke of the pen ! You, to talk so of Stephen 
 Gardiner! Fie, fie, I say! For shame!" 
 
 I looked at her, dazed and bewildered, and had long 
 afterward in my mind a picture of her as she stood above 
 me, in the window bay, her back to the light, her slender 
 figure drawn to its full height, her hand extended toward me. 
 I could scarcely understand or believe that this was my 
 gentle cousin. I turned without a word and stole away, not 
 looking behind me. I was cowed. 
 
 It happened that the servants came hurrying in at the 
 moment with a clatter of dishes and knives, and the noise 
 covered my retreat. I had a fancy afterward that, as I 
 moved away, Petronilla called to me. But at the time, 
 what with the confusion and my own disorder, I paid no 
 heed to her, but got myself blindly out of the hall, and 
 away to my own attic. 
 
 It was a sharp lesson. But my feelings when, being 
 alone, I had time to feel, need not be set down. After 
 
8 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 events made them of no moment, for I was even then on 
 the verge of a change so great that all the threats and mis- 
 givings, the fevers and agues, of that afternoon, real as they 
 seemed at the time, became in a few hours as immaterial as 
 the dew which fell before yesterday's thunderstorm. 
 
 The way the change began to come about was this. I 
 crept in late to supper, facing the din and lights, the rows 
 of guests and the hurrying servants, with a mixture of shame 
 and sullenness. I was sitting down with a scowl next the 
 Bishop's pages — my place was beside them, half-way down 
 the table, and I was not too careful to keep my feet clear of 
 their clothing — when my uncle's voice, raised in a harsher 
 tone than was usual with him, even when he was dis- 
 pleased, summoned me. 
 
 "Come here, sirrah!" he cried roundly. "Come here. 
 Master Francis! I have a word to speak to you!" 
 
 I went slowly, dragging my feet, while all looked up, and 
 there was a partial silence. I was conscious of this, and it 
 nerved me. For a moment indeed, as I stepped on to the 
 dais I had a vision of scores of candles and rushlights float- 
 ing in mist, and of innumerable bodiless faces all turned up 
 to me. But the vision and the mistiness passed away, and 
 left only my uncle's long, thin face inflamed with anger, and 
 beside it, in the same ring of light, the watchful eyes and 
 stern, impassive features of Stephen Gardiner. The Bish- 
 op's face and his eyes were all I saw then ; the same face, 
 the same eyes, I remembered, which had looked unyielding 
 into those of the relentless Cromwell and had scarce 
 dropped before the frown of a Tudor. His purple cap and 
 cassock, the lace and rich fur, the chain of office, I re- 
 membered afterward. 
 
 "Now, boy," thundered Sir Anthony, pointing out the 
 place where I should stand, "what have you to say for 
 yourself? why have you so misbehaved this afternoon? 
 Let your tongue speak quickly, do you hear, or you will 
 smart for it. And let it be to the purpose, boy!" 
 
 I was about to answer something — whether it was likely 
 to make things worse or better, I cannot remember— when 
 Gardiner stayed me. He laid his hand gently on Sir 
 Anthony's sleeve, and interposed. "One moment," he 
 said mildly, "your nephew did not stay for the Church's 
 blessing, I remember. Perhaps he has scruples. There 
 
**H&, SIRE ANE, H^r* 9 
 
 are people nowadays who have. Let us hear if it be 
 so." 
 
 This time it was Sir Anthony who did not let me answer. 
 
 "No, no," he cried hastily; "no, no; it is not so. He 
 conforms, my lord, he conforms. You conform, sir," he 
 continued, turning fiercely upon me, "do you not? An- 
 swer, sir." 
 
 "Ah!" the Bishop put in with a sneer, "you conform, 
 do you?" 
 
 "I attend mass — to please my uncle," I replied boldly. 
 
 "He was ill brought up as a child," Sir Anthony said 
 hastily, speaking in a tone which those below could not 
 hear. "But you know all that, my lord — you know all 
 that. It is an old story to you. So I make, and I pray you 
 to make for the sake of the house, some allowance. He 
 conforms; he undoubtedly conforms." 
 
 "Enough!" Gardiner assented. "The rest is for the 
 good priest here, whose ministrations will no doubt in time 
 avail. But a word with this young gentleman. Sir An- 
 thony, on another subject. If it was not to the holy office 
 he objected, perhaps it was to the Queen's Chancellor, or 
 to the Queen?" He raised his voice with the last words 
 and bent his brows, so that I could scarcely believe it was 
 the same man speaking. "Eh, sir, was that so?" he con- 
 tinued severely, putting aside Sir Anthony's remonstrance 
 and glowering at me. "It may be that we have a rebel 
 here instead of a heretic." 
 
 "God forbid!" cried the knight, unable to contain him- 
 self. It was clear that he repented already of his ill-timed 
 discipline. "I will answer for it that we have no Wyatts 
 here, my lord." 
 
 * 'That is well ! " the Chancellor replied. "That is well ! " 
 he repeated, his eyes leaving me and roving the hall with so 
 proud a menace in their glance that all quailed, even the 
 fool. "That is very well," he said, drumming on the table 
 with his fingers; "but let Master Francis speak for him- 
 self." 
 
 "I never heard," said I boldly — I had had a moment for 
 thought — "that Sir Thomas Wyatt had any following in this 
 country. None to my knowledge. As for the Queen's 
 marriage with the Prince of Spain, which was the ground, 
 as we gathered here, of Wyatt' s rising with the Kentish 
 
lo THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE, 
 
 folk, it seems a matter rather for the Queen's grace than 
 her subjects. But if that be not so, I, for my part, would 
 rather have seen her married to a stout Englishman — ay, or 
 to a Frenchman." 
 
 "And why, young gentleman?" 
 
 "Because I would we kept at peace with France. We 
 have more to gain by fighting Spain than fighting France," 
 I answered bluntly. 
 
 My uncle held up his hands. "The boy is clean mad!" 
 he groaned. "Who ever heard of such a thing? With all 
 France, the rightful estate of her Majesty, waiting to be 
 won back, he talks of fighting Spain ! And his own grand- 
 mother was a Spaniard!" 
 
 "I am none the less an Englishman for that!" I said; 
 whereon there was a slight murmur of applause in the hall 
 below. "And for France," I continued, carried away by 
 this, * 'we have been fighting it, off and on, as long as men 
 remember; and what are we the better? We have only 
 lost what we had to begin. Besides, I am told that France 
 is five times stronger than it was in Henry the Fifth's time, 
 and we should only spend our strength in winning what we 
 could not hold. While as to Spain " 
 
 "Ay, as to Spain?" grumbled Sir Anthony, forgetting his 
 formidable neighbor, and staring at me with eyes of wonder. 
 "Why, my father fought the French at Guinegate, and my 
 grandfather at Cherbourg, and his father at Agincourt! 
 But there! As to Spain, you popinjay?" 
 
 "Why, she is conquering here," I answered warmly, 
 "and colonizing there among the newly-discovered coun- 
 tries of the world, and getting all the trade and all the sea- 
 ports and all the gold and silver; and Spain after all is 
 a nation with no greater strength of men than England. 
 Ay, and I hear," I cried, growing more excited and raising 
 my voice, "that now is our time or never! The Spaniards 
 and the Portuguese have discovered a new world over seas. 
 
 " A Castilla y a Leon 
 Nuevo mundo dio Colon ! 
 
 say they; but depend upon it, every country that is to be 
 rich and strong in the time that is coming must have part in 
 it. We cannot conquer either Spain or France; we have 
 not men enough. But we have docks and sailors, and 
 
*'hA, sire ane, H£r* II 
 
 ships in London and Fowey, and Bristol and the Cinque 
 Ports, enough to fight Spain over the great seas, and I say, 
 'Have at her!'" 
 
 "What next?" groaned Sir Anthony piteously. "Did 
 man ever hear such crackbrained nonsense?" 
 
 But I think it was not nonsense, for his words were 
 almost lost in the cry which ran through the hall as I 
 ceased speaking — a cry of English voices. One moment 
 my heart beat high and proudly with a new sense of power; 
 the next, as a shadow of a cloud falls on a sunny hillside, the 
 cold sneer on the statesman's face fell on me and chilled me. 
 His set look had neither thawed nor altered, his color had 
 neither come nor gone. "You speak your lesson well, 
 lad," he said. "Who taught you statecraft?" 
 
 I grew smaller, shrinking with each word he uttered; 
 and faltered, and was dumb. 
 
 "Come," he said, "you see but a little way; yet country 
 lads do not talk of Fowey and Bristol ! Who primed you?" 
 
 "I met a Master Sebastian Cabot," I said reluctantly at 
 last, when he had pressed me more than once, "who stayed 
 a while at a house not far from here, and had been Inspector 
 of the Navy to King Edward. He had been a seaman 
 seventy years, and he talked " 
 
 "Too fast!" said Gardiner, with a curt nod. "But 
 enough, I understand. I know the man. He is dead." 
 
 He was silent then, and seemed to have fallen suddenly 
 into thought, as a man well might who had the governing of 
 a kingdom on his shoulders. 
 
 Seemingly he had done with me. I looked at Sir An- 
 thony. "Ay, go!" he said irritably, waving me off. "Go!" 
 
 And I went. The ordeal was over, and over so success- 
 fully that I felt the humiliation of the afternoon cheap at 
 the price of this triumph ; for, as I stepped down, there was 
 a buzz around me, a murmur of congratulation and pride 
 and excitement. On every Coton face I marked a flush, in 
 every Coton eye I read a sparkle, and every flush and every 
 sparkle was for me. Even the Chancellor's secretaries, 
 grave, down-looking men, all secrecy and caution, cast 
 curious glances at me, as though I were something out of 
 the common; and the Chancellor's pages made way for me 
 with new-born deference. "There is for country wits!" 
 I heard Baldwin Moor cry gleefully, while the man who put 
 
1 2 THE STOR V OF FRA NCIS CL UDDE. 
 
 food before me murmured of ''the Cludde bull-pup!" If 1 
 read in Father Carey's face, as indeed I did, solicitude as 
 well as relief and gladness, I marked the latter only, and 
 hugged a natural pride to my breast. When Martin Luther 
 said boldly that it was not only Bishop could fill a bowl, it 
 was by an effort I refrained from joining in the laugh which 
 followed. 
 
 For an hour I enjoyed this triumph, and did all but brag 
 of it. Especially I wished Petronilla had witnessed it. At 
 the end of that time — Finis^ as the book says. I was cross- 
 ing the courtyard, one-half of which was bathed in a cold 
 splendor of moonlight, and was feeling the first sobering 
 touch of the night air on my brow, when I heard some one 
 call out my name. I turned, to find one of the Chancellor's 
 servants, a sleek, substantial fellow, with a smug mouth, at 
 my elbow. 
 
 "What is it?" I said. 
 
 *'I am bidden to fetch you at once, Master Cludde," he 
 answered, a gleam of sly malice peeping through the grav- 
 ity of his demeanor. "The Chancellor would see you in 
 his room, young sir." 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 IN THE bishop's ROOM. 
 
 1'^HE Chancellor was lodged in the great chamber on the 
 southern side of the courtyard, a room which we called 
 the Tapestried Chamber, and in which tradition said that 
 King Henry the Sixth had once slept. It was on the 
 upper floor, and for this reason free from the damp air 
 which in autumn and winter rose from the moat and hung 
 about the lower range of rooms. It was besides, of easy 
 access from the hall, a door in the gallery of the latter lead- 
 ing into an anteroom, which again opened into the Tapes- 
 tried Chamber; while a winding staircase, starting from a 
 dark nook in the main passage of the house, also led to this 
 state apartment, but by another and more private door. 
 
 I reached the antechamber with a stout heart in my 
 breast, though a little sobered by my summons, and feeling 
 such a reaction from the heat of a few minutes before as 
 follows a plunge into cold water. In the anteroom I was 
 bidden to wait while the great man's will was taken, which 
 seemed strange to me, then unused to the mummery of 
 Court folk. But before I had time to feel much surprise, 
 the inner door was opened, and I was told to enter. 
 
 The great room, which I had seldom seen in use, had 
 now an appearance quite new to me. A dull red fire was 
 glowing comfortably on the hearthstone, before which a 
 posset stool was standing. Near this, seated at a table 
 strewn with a profusion of papers and documents, was a 
 secretary writing busily. The great oaken bedstead, with 
 its nodding tester, lay in a background of shadows, which 
 played about the figures broidered on the hangings, or Were 
 lost in the darkness of the corners ; while near the fire, in 
 the light cast by the sconces fixed above the hearth, lay 
 part of the Chancellor's equipment. The fur rugs and 
 cloak of sable, the saddle-bags, the dispatch-boxes, and the 
 
14 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE, 
 
 silver chafing-dish, gave an air of comfort to this part of the 
 room. Walking up and down in the midst of these, dicta- 
 ting a sentence at every other turn, was Stephen Gardiner. 
 
 As I entered the clerk looked up, holding his pen sus- 
 pended. His master, by a quick nod, ordered him to pro- 
 ceed. Then, signaling to me in a like silent fashion his 
 command that I should stand by the hearth, the Bishop 
 resumed his task of composition. 
 
 For some minutes my interest in the man, whom I had 
 now an opportunity of scrutinizing unmarked and at my 
 leisure, took up all my attention. He was at this time close 
 on seventy, but looked, being still tall and stout, full ten 
 years younger. His face, square and sallow, was indeed 
 wrinkled and lined ; his eyes lay deep in his head, his shoul- 
 ders were beginning to bend, the nape of his neck to be- 
 come prominent. He had lost an inch of his full height. 
 But his eyes still shone brightly, nor did any trace of weak- 
 ness mar the stern character of his mouth, or the crafty 
 wisdom of his brow. The face was the face of a man aus- 
 tere, determined, perhaps cruel ; of a man who could both 
 think and act. 
 
 My curiosity somewhat satisfied, I had leisure, first to 
 wonder why I had been sent for, and then to admire the 
 prodigious number of books and papers which lay about, 
 more, indeed, than I had ever seen together in my life. 
 From this I passed to listening, idly at first, and with inter- 
 est afterward, to the letter which the Chancellor was dictat- 
 ing. It seemed from its tenor to be a letter to some per- 
 son in authority, and presently one passage attracted my 
 attention, so that I could afterward recall it word for word. 
 
 "I do not think" — the Chancellor pronounced, speaking 
 in a sonorous voice, and the measured tone of one whose 
 thoughts lie perfectly arranged in his head — "that the 
 Duchess Katherine will venture to take the step suggested 
 as possible. Yet Clarence's report may be of moment. 
 Let the house, therefore, be watched if anything savoring of 
 flight be marked, and take notice whether there be a vessel 
 in the Pool adapted to her purpose. A vessel trading to 
 Dunquerque would be most likely. Leave her husband till 
 I return, when I will deal with him roundly." 
 
 I missed what followed. It was upon another subject, 
 and my thoughts lagged behind, being wholly taken up with 
 
IN THE BISHOP'S ROOM. - 1$ 
 
 the Duchess Katherine and her fortunes. I wondered who 
 she was, young or old, and what this step could be she was 
 said to meditate, and what the jargon about the Pool and 
 Dunquerque meant. I was still thinking of this when I was 
 aroused by an abrupt silence, and looking up found that the 
 Chancellor was bending over the papers on: the table. The 
 secretary was leaving the room. 
 
 As the door closed behind him, Gardiner rose from his 
 stooping posture and came slowly toward me, a roll of pa- 
 pers in his hand. "Now," he said tranquilly, seating himself 
 in an elbow-chair which stood in front of the hearth, "I 
 will dispose of your business, Master Cludde." 
 
 He paused, looking at me in a shrewd, masterful way, 
 much as if — I thought at the time, little knowing how near 
 the truth my fancy went — I were a beast he was about to 
 buy; and then he went on. "I have sent for you. Master 
 Francis," he said dryly, fixing his piercing eyes on mine, 
 "because I think that this country does not suit your health. 
 You conform, but you conform with a bad grace, and Eng- 
 land is no longer the place for such. You incite the com- 
 monalty against the Queen's allies, and EngXnd is not the 
 place for such. Do not contradict me ; I have heard you 
 myself. Then," he continued, grimly thrusting out his jaw 
 in a sour smile, "you misname those whom the Queen hon- 
 ors; and were Dr. Stephens — you take me. Master Mala- 
 pert? such a man as his predecessors, you would rue the 
 word. For a trifle scarce weightier Wolsey threw a man to 
 rot six years in a dungeon, boy !" 
 
 I changed color, yet not so much in fear — though it were 
 vain to say I did not tremble — as in confusion. I had called 
 him Dr. Stephens indeed, but it had been to Petronilla 
 only. I stood, not knowing what to say, until he, after 
 lingering on his last words to enjoy my misery, resumed his 
 subject. "That is one good and sufficient reason — mind 
 you, sufficient, boy — why England is no place for you. 
 For another, the Cluddes have always been soldiers ; and 
 you — though readier-witted than some, whfch comes of 
 your Spanish grandmother — are quicker with a word than a 
 thought, and a blow than either. Of which afterward. Well, 
 England is going to be no place for soldiers. Please God, 
 we have finished with wars at home. A woman's reigp 
 should be a reign of peace." 
 
l6 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE^ 
 
 I hardened my heart at that. A reign of peace, forsooth, 
 when the week before we had heard of a bishop burned at 
 Gloucester! I hardened my heart. I would not be fright- 
 ened, though I knew his power, and knew how men in those 
 days misused power. I would put a bold face on the 
 matter. 
 
 He had not done with me yet, however. "One more 
 reason I have," he continued, stopping me as I was about 
 to speak, "for saying that England will not suit your health, 
 Master Cludde. It is that I do not want you here. 
 Abroad, you may be of use to me, and at the same time 
 carve out your own fortune. You have courage and can 
 use a sword, I hear. You understand — and it is a rare gift 
 with Englishmen — some Spanish, which I suppose your 
 father or your uncle taught you. You can— so Father 
 Carey says — construe a Latin sentence if it be not too diffi- 
 cult. You are scarcely twenty, and you will have me for 
 your patron. Why, were I you, boy, with your age and 
 your chances, I would die Prince or Pope! Ay, I would!" 
 He stopped speaking, his eyes on fire. Nay, a ring of such 
 real feeling flashed out in his last words that, though I dis- 
 trusted him, though old prejudices warned me against him, 
 and, at heart a Protestant, I shuddered at things I had 
 heard of him, the longing to see the world and have adven- 
 tures seized upon me. Yet I did not speak at once. He 
 had told me that my tongue outran my thoughts, and I 
 stood silent until he asked me curtly, "Well, sirrah, what do 
 you say?" 
 
 "I say, my Lord Bishop," I replied respectfully, "that 
 the prospect you hold out to me would tempt me were I a 
 younger son, or without those ties of gratitude which hold 
 me to my uncle. But, my father excepted, I am Sir An- 
 thony's only heir." 
 
 "Ah, your father!" he said contemptuously. "You do 
 well to remind me of him, for I see you are forgetting the 
 first part of my speech in thinking of the last ! Should I 
 have promised first and threatened later? You would fain, 
 I expect, stay here and woo Mistress Petronilla? Do I 
 touch you there? You think to marry the maid and be 
 master of Coton End in God's good time, do you? Then 
 listen, Francis Cludde. Neither one nor the other, neither 
 maid nor meadow will be yours should you stay here till 
 Doomsday!" 
 
IN THE BISHOP'S ROOM, ^ i7 
 
 I started, and stood glowering on him, speechless with 
 anger and astonishment. 
 
 "You do not know who you are," he continued, leaning 
 forward with a sudden movement, and speaking with one 
 claw-like finger extended, and a malevolent gleam in his 
 eyes. "You called me a nameless child a while ago, and so 
 I was; yet have I risen to be ruler of England, Master 
 Cludde I But you — I will tell you which of us is base-born. 
 I will tell you who and what your father, Ferdinand Chidde, 
 was. He was, nay, he is, my tool, spy, jackal! Do you 
 understand, boy? Your father is one of the band of foul 
 creatures to whom such as I, base-born though I be, fling 
 the scraps from their table! He is the vilest of the vile 
 men who do my dirty work, my lad." 
 
 He had raised his voice and hand in passion, real or 
 assumed. He dropped them as I sprang forward. "You 
 lie!" I cried, trembling all over. 
 
 "Easy! easy!" he said. He stopped me where I was 
 by a gesture of stern command. "Think!" he continued, 
 calmly and weightily. "Has any one ever spoken to you of 
 your father since the day seven years ago, when you came 
 here, a child, brought by a servant? Has Sir Anthony 
 talked of him? Has any servant named his name to you. 
 Think, boy. If Ferdinand Cludde be a father to be proud 
 of, why does his brother make naught of him?" 
 
 "He is a Protestant," I said faintly. Faintly, because I 
 had asked myself this very question not once but often. 
 Sir Anthony so seldom mentioned my father that I had 
 thought it strange myself. I had thought it strange, too, 
 that the servants, who must well remember Ferdinand 
 Cludde, never talked to me about him. Hitherto I had 
 always been satisfied to answer, "He is a Protestant" ; but 
 face to face with this terrible old man and his pitiless 
 charge, the words came but faintly from my lips. 
 
 "A Protestant," he replied solemnly. "Yes, this comes 
 of schism, that villains cloak themselves in it, and parade 
 for true men. A Protestant you call him, boy? He has 
 been that, ay, and all things to all men ; and he has betrayed 
 all things and all men. He was in the great Cardinal's 
 confidence, and forsook him, when he fell, for Cromwell. 
 Thomas Cromwell, although they were of the same persua- 
 sion, he betrayed to me. I have here, here" — and he 
 struck the letters in his hand a scornful blow — ' 'the offer he 
 
iS THE STORY OP PRANCIS CLUDDR, 
 
 made to me, and his terms. Then eight years back, when 
 the late King Edward came to the throne, I too fell on evil 
 days, and Master Cludde abandoned me for my Lord Hert- 
 ford, but did me no great harm. But he did something 
 which blasted him — blasted him at last." 
 
 He paused. Had the fire died down, or was it only my 
 imagination that the shadows thickened round the bed 
 behind him, and closed in more nearly on us, leaving his 
 pale grim face to confront me — his face, which seemed the 
 paler and grimmer, the more saturnine and all-mastering, for 
 the dark frame which set it off? 
 
 "He did this," he continued slowly, "which came to 
 light and blasted him. He asked, as the price of his ser- 
 vice in betraying me, his brother's estate." 
 
 "Impossible!" I stammered. "Why, Sir Anthony " 
 
 "What of Sir Anthony, you would ask?" the Chancellor 
 replied, interrupting me with savage irony, "Oh, he was a 
 Papist! an obstinate Papist! He might go hang — or to 
 Warwick Jail!" 
 
 "Nay, but this at least, my lord, is false!" I cried. 
 "Palpably false! If my father had so betrayed his own 
 flesh and blood, should I be here? Should I be at Coton 
 End? You say this happened eight years ago. Seven 
 years ago I came here. Would Sir Anthony " 
 
 * 'There are fools everywhere," the old man sneered. 
 "When my Lord Hertford refused your father's suit, Fer- 
 dinand began — it is his nature — to plot against him. He 
 was found out, and execrated by all — for he had been false 
 to all — he fled for his life. He left you behind, and a ser- 
 vant brought you to Coton End, where Sir Anthony took 
 you in." 
 
 I covered my face. Alas ! I believed him ; I, who had 
 always been so proud of my lineage, so proud of the brave 
 traditions of the house and its honor, so proud of Coton 
 End and all that belonged to it ! Now, if this were true, I 
 could never again take pleasure in one or the other. I was 
 the son of a man branded as a turncoat and an informer, of 
 one who wa.s the worst of traitors! I sank down on the 
 settle behind me and hid my face. Another might have 
 thought less of the blow, or, with greater knowledge of the 
 world, might have made light of it as a thing not touching 
 himself. But on me* young as I was, and proud, and as 
 
In The bishop's room, i^ 
 
 yet tender, and having done nothing myself, it fell with 
 crushing force. 
 
 It was years since I had seen my father, and I could not 
 stand forth loyally and fight his battle, as a son his father's 
 friend and familiar for years might have fought it. On the 
 contrary, there was so much which seemed mysterious in 
 my past life, so much that bore out the Chancellor's accu- 
 sation, that I felt a dread of its truth even before I had 
 proof. Yet I would have proof. "Show me the letters!" 
 I said harshly; "show me the letters, my lord!" 
 
 "You know your father's handwriting?" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 I knew it, not from any correspondence my father had 
 held with me, but because I had more than once examined 
 with natural curiosity the wrappers of the dispatches which 
 at intervals of many months, sometimes of a year, came 
 from him to Sir Anthony. I had never known anything of 
 the contents of the letters, all that fell to my share being 
 certain formal messages, which Sir Anthony would give me, 
 generally with a clouded brow and a testy manner that grew 
 genial again only with the lapse of time. 
 
 Gardiner handed me the letters, and I took them and 
 read one. One was enough. That my father! Alas! 
 alas ! No wonder that I turned my face to the wall, shiv- 
 ering as with the ague, and that all about me — except the 
 red glow of the fire, which burned into my brain — seemed 
 darkness ! I had lost the thing I valued most. I had lost 
 at a blow everything of which I was proud. The treachery 
 that could flush that worn face opposite to me, lined as it 
 was with statecraft, and betray the wily tongue into passion, 
 seemed to me, young and impulsive, a thing so vile as to 
 brand a man's children through generations. 
 
 Therefore I hid my face in the corner of the settle, while 
 the Chancellor gazed at me a while in silence, as one who 
 had made an experiment might watch the result. 
 
 "You see now, my friend," he said at last, almost gently, 
 "that you may be base-born in more ways than one. But 
 be of good cheer; you are young, and what I have done 
 you may do. Think of Thomas Cromwell — his father was 
 naught. Think of the old Cardinal — my master. Think 
 of the Duke of Suffolk — Charles Brandon, I mean. He was 
 a plain gentleman, yet he married a queei* More, the door 
 
^o THE STORY OP FRANCIS CLtfDDE, 
 
 which they had to open for themselves I will open for you— 
 only, when you are inside, play the man, and be faithful.** 
 
 "What would you have me do?" I whispered hoarsely. 
 
 "I would have you do this," he answered. "There 
 are great things brewing in the Netherlands, boy — great 
 changes, unless I am mistaken. I have need of an agent 
 there, a man, stout, trusty, and, in particular, unknown, 
 who will keep me informed of events. If you will be that 
 agent, I can procure for you — and not appear in the matter 
 myself — a post of pay and honor in the Regent's Guards. 
 What say you to that, Master Cludde? A few weeks and 
 you will be making history, and Coton End will seem a 
 mean place to you. Now, what do you say?" 
 
 I was longing to be away and alone with my misery, but 
 I forced myself to reply patiently. 
 
 "With your leave I will give you my answer to-morrow, 
 my lord," I said, as steadily as I could; and I rose, still 
 keeping my face turned from him. 
 
 "Very well," he replied, with apparent confidence. But 
 he watched me keenly, as I fancied. "I know already what 
 your answer will be. Yet before you go I will give you a 
 piece of advice which in the new life you begin to-night will 
 avail you more than silver, more than gold — ay, more than 
 steel, Master Francis. It is this: Be prompt to think, be 
 prompt to strike, be slow to speak! Mark it well! it is a 
 simple recipe, yet it has made me what I am, and may make 
 you greater. Now go!" 
 
 He pointed to the little door opening on the staircase, 
 and I bowed *and went out, closing it carefully behind me. 
 On the stairs, moving blindly in the dark, I fell over some 
 one who lay sleeping there, and who clutched at my leg. I 
 shook him off, however, with an exclamation of rage, and, 
 stumbling down the rest of the steps, gained the open air. 
 Excited and feverish, I shrank with aversion from the con- 
 finement of my room, and, hurrying over the drawbridge, 
 sought at random the long terrace by the fish-pools, on 
 which the moonlight fell, a sheet of silver, broken only by 
 the sundial and the shadows of the rose bushes. The night 
 air, weeping chill from the forest, fanned my cheeks as I 
 paced up and down. One way I had before me the manor- 
 house — the steep gable-ends, the gateway tower, the low 
 outbuildings and cornstacks and stables — and flankiae; these 
 
IN THE BISHOP'S ROOM. 21 
 
 the squat tower and nave of the church. I turned. Now 
 I saw only the water and the dark line of trees which fringed 
 the further bank. But above these the stars were shin- 
 ing. 
 
 Yet in my mind there was no starlight. There all was a 
 blur of wild passions and resolves. Shame and an angry 
 resentment against those who had kept me so long in igno- 
 rance — even against Sir Anthony — were my uppermost 
 feelings. I smarted under the thought that I had been 
 living on his charity. I remembered many a time when I 
 had taken much on myself, and he had smiled, and the 
 remembrance stung me. I longed to assert myself and do 
 something to wipe off the stain. 
 
 But should I accept the Bishop's offer? It never crossed 
 my mind to do so. He had humiliated me, and I hated 
 him for it. Longing to cut myself off from my old life, I 
 could not support a patron who would know, and might cast 
 in my teeth the old shame. A third reason, too, worked 
 powerfully with me as I became cooler. This was the con- 
 viction that, apart from the glitter which the old man's craft 
 had cast about it, the part he would have me play was that 
 of a spy — an informer! A creature like — I dared not say 
 like my father, yet I had him in my mind. And from this, 
 from the barest suspicion of this, I shrank as the burned 
 puppy from the fire — shrank with fierce twitching of nerve 
 and sinew. 
 
 Yet if I would not accept his offer it was clear I must 
 fend for myself. His threats meant as much as that, and I 
 smiled sternly as I found necessity at one with inclination. 
 I would leave Coton End at once, and henceforth I would 
 fight for my own hand. I would have no naaie until I had 
 made for myself a new one. 
 
 This resolve formed, I turned and went back to the 
 house, and felt my way to my own chamber. The moon- 
 light poured through the lattice and fell white on my pallet. 
 I crossed the room and stood still. Down the middle of 
 the coverlet — or my eyes deceived me — lay a dark line. 
 
 I stooped mechanically to see what this was and found 
 my own sword lying there; the sword which Sir Anthony 
 had given me on my last birthday. But how had it come 
 there? As I took it up something soft and light brushed my 
 hand and drooped from, the hilt. Then I remembered. A 
 
22 THE STORY OP FRANCIS CLUDDB. 
 
 week before I had begged Petronilla to make me a sword- 
 knot of blue velvet for use on state occasions. No doubt 
 she had done it, and had brought the sword back this even- 
 ing, and laid it there in token of peace. 
 
 I sat down on my bed, and softer and kindlier thoughts 
 came to me ; thoughts of love and gratitude, in which the 
 old man who had been a second father to me had part. I 
 would go as I had resolved, but I would return to them 
 when I had done a thing worth doing; something which 
 should efface the brand that lay on me now. 
 
 With gentle fingers I disengaged the velvet knot and 
 thrust it into my bosom. Then I tied about the hilt the old 
 leather thong, and began to make my preparations; consid- 
 ing this or that route while I hunted for my dagger and 
 changed my doublet and hose for stouter raiment and long, 
 untanned boots. I was yet in the midst of this, when a 
 knock at the door startled me. 
 
 "Who is there? " I asked, standing erect. 
 
 For answer Martin Luther slid in, closing the door behind 
 him. The fool did not speak, but turning his eyes first on 
 one thing and then on another nodded sagely. 
 
 "Well?" I growled. 
 
 "You are off, master," he said, nodding again. "I 
 thought so." 
 
 "Why did you think so?" I retorted impatiently. 
 
 "It is time for the young birds to fly when the cuckoo 
 begins to stir," he answered. 
 
 I understood him dimly and in part. "You have been 
 listening," I said wrathfully, my cheeks burning. 
 
 "And been kicked in the face like a fool for my pains," 
 he answered. "Ah, well, it is better to be kicked by the 
 boot you love than kissed by the lips you hate. But Master 
 Francis, Master Francis!" he continued in a whisper. 
 
 He said no more, and I looked up. The man was stoop- 
 ing slightly forward, his pale face thrust out. There was a 
 strange gleam in his eyes, and his teeth grinned in the 
 moonlight. Thrice he drew his finger across his lean 
 knotted throat. "Shall I?" he hissed, his hot breath 
 reaching me, "shall I?" 
 
 I recoiled from him shuddering. It was a ghastly pan- 
 tomime, and it seemed to me that I saw madness in his eyes. 
 
IN THE BISHOP'S ROOM. n 
 
 "In Heaven's name, no!" I cried — "No! Do you hear, 
 Martin? No!" 
 
 He stood back on the instantj as a dog might have done 
 being reproved. But I could hardly finish in comfort after 
 that with him standing there, although when I next turned 
 to him he seemed half asleep and his eyes were dull and 
 fishy as ever. 
 
 "One thing you can do," I said brusquely. Then I 
 hesitated, looking round me. I wished to send something 
 to Petronilla, some word, some keepsake. But I had noth- 
 ing that would serve a maid's purpose, and could think of 
 nothing until my eye lit on a house-martin's nest, lying 
 where I had cast it on the window-sill. I had taken it 
 down that morning because the droppings during the last 
 summer had fallen on the lead work, and I would not have 
 it used when the swallows returned. It was but a bit of 
 clay, and yet it would serve. She would guess its meaning. 
 
 I gave it into his hands. "Take this," I said, "and give 
 it privately to Mistress Petronilla. Privately, you under- 
 stand. And say nothing to any one, or the Bishop will 
 flay your back, Martin." 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 "down with purveyors!'* 
 
 THE first streak of daylight found me already footing it 
 through the forest by paths known to few save the 
 woodcutters, but with which many a boyish exploration had 
 made me familiar. From Coton End the London road lies 
 plain and fair through Stratford-on-Avon and Oxford. But 
 my plan, the better to evade pursuit, was, instead, to cross 
 the forest in a northeasterly direction, and, passing by War- 
 wick, to strike the great north road between Coventry and 
 Daventry, which, running thence southeastward, would take 
 me as straight as a bird might fly through Dunstable, St. 
 Albans, and Barnet, to London. My baggage consisted 
 only of my cloak, sword, and dagger; and for money I had 
 but a gold angel, and a few silver bits of doubtful value. 
 But I trusted that this store, slender as it was, would meet 
 my charges as far as London. Once there I must depend 
 on my wits either for providence at home or a passage 
 abroad. 
 
 Striding steadily up and down hill, for Arden Forest is 
 made up of hills and dells which follow one another as do 
 the wave and trough of the sea, only less regularly, I made 
 my way toward Wootton Wawen. As soon as I espied its 
 battlemented church lying in a wooded bottom below me, I 
 kept a more easterly course, and, leaving Henley-in-Arden 
 far to the left, passed down toward Leek Wootton. The 
 damp, dead bracken underfoot, the leafless oaks and gray 
 sky overhead, nay the very cry of the bittern fishing in the 
 bottoms, seemed to be at one with my thoughts; for these 
 were dreary and sad enough. 
 
 But hope and a fixed aim form no bad makeshifts for 
 happiness. Striking the broad London road as I had pur- 
 posed I slept that night at Ryton Dunsmoor, and the next 
 at Towcester; and the third day, which rose bright and 
 frosty, found me stepping gayly southward, travel-stained 
 indeed, but dry and whole. My spirits rose with the tem- 
 perature. For a time I put the past behind me, and found 
 amusement in the sights of the road ; in the heavy wagons 
 and long trains of pacJ'-horses, and the cheery greetings 
 
DOWN- WITH PURVEYORS. 25 
 
 which met me with each mile. After all, I had youth and 
 strength, and the world before me ; and particularly Stony 
 Stratford, where I meant to dine. 
 
 There was one trouble common among wayfarers which 
 did not touch me; and that was the fear of robbers, for he 
 would be a sturdy beggar who would rob an armed foot- 
 passenger for the sake of an angel ; and the groats were 
 gone. So I felt no terrors on that account, and even when 
 about noon I heard a horseman trot up behind me, and rein 
 in his horse so as to keep pace with me at a walk, step for 
 step — a thing which might have seemed suspicious to some 
 — I took no heed of him. I was engaged with my first view 
 of Stratford, and did not turn my head. We had walked 
 on so for fifty paces or more, before it struck me as odd 
 that the man did not pass me. 
 
 Then I turned, and shading my eyes from the sun, which 
 stood just over his shoulder, said, ''Good-day, friend." 
 
 "Good-day, master," he answered. 
 
 He was a stout fellow, looking like a citizen, although he 
 had a sword by his side, and wore it with an air of impor- 
 tance which the sunshine of opportunity might have ripened 
 into a swagger. His dress was plain ; and he sat a good 
 hackney as a miller's sack might have sat it. His face was 
 the last thing I looked at. When I raised my eyes to it, 1 
 got an unpleasant start. The man was no stranger. I 
 knew him in a moment for the messenger who had sum- 
 moned me to the Chancellor's presence. 
 
 The remembrance did not please me; and reading in the 
 fellow's sly look that he recognized me, and thought he had 
 made a happy discovery on. finding me, I halted abruptly. 
 He did the same. 
 
 *Tt is a fine morning," he said, taken aback by my sud- 
 den movement, but affecting an indifference which the 
 sparkle in his eye belied. "A rare day for the time of 
 year." 
 
 *Tt is," I answered, gazing steadily at him. 
 
 "Going to London? Or may be only to Stratford?" he 
 hazarded. He fidgeted uncomfortably under my eye, but 
 still pretended ignorance of me. 
 
 "That is as may be," I answered. 
 
 "No offense, I am sure," he said. 
 
 I cast a quick glance up and down the road. There 
 
26 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 happened to be no one in sight. "Look here!" I replied, 
 stepping forward to lay my hand on the horse's shoulder — 
 but the man reined back and prevented me, thereby giving 
 mc a clew to his character — "you are in the service of the 
 Bishop of Winchester?" 
 
 His face fell, and he could not conceal his disappoint- 
 ment at being recognized. "Well, master," he answered 
 reluctantly, "perhaps I am, and perhaps I am not." 
 
 "That is enough," I said shortly. "And you know me. 
 You need not lie about it, man, for I can see you do. Now, 
 look here, Master Steward, or whatever your name may 
 be " 
 
 "It is Master Pritchard," he put in sulkily; "and I am 
 not ashamed of it." 
 
 "Very v/ell. Then let us understand one another. Do 
 you mean to interfere with me?" 
 
 He grinned. "Well, to be plain, I do," he replied, rein- 
 ing his horse back another step. "I have orders to look out 
 for you, and have you stopped if I find you. And I must 
 do my duty, sir; I am sworn to it, Master Cludde." 
 
 "Right," said I calmly; "and I must do mine, which is 
 to take care of my skin." And I drew my sword and 
 advanced upon him with a flourish. "We will soon decide 
 this little matter," I added grimly, one eye on him and one 
 on the empty road, "if you will be good enough to defend 
 yourself." 
 
 But there was no fight in the fellow. By good luck, too, 
 he was so startled that he did not do what he might have 
 done with safety ; namely, retreat, and keep me in sight 
 until some passers-by came up. He did give back, indeed, 
 but it was against the bank. "Have a care," he cried in 
 a fume, his eye following my sword nervously ; he did not 
 try to draw his own. "There is no call for fighting, I say." 
 
 "But I say there is," I replied bluntly. "Call and 
 cause! Either you fight me, or I go where I please." 
 
 "You may go to Bath for me!" he spluttered, his face 
 the color of a turkey-cock's wattles with rage. 
 
 "Do you mean it, my friend?" I said, and I played my 
 point about his leg, half-minded to give him a little prod by 
 way of earnest. "Make up your mind." 
 
 "Yes!" he shrieked out, suspecting my purpose, and 
 bouncing about in his saddle like a parched pea. "Yes, I 
 
DOWN WITH PURVEYORS. 27 
 
 say!" he roared. "Do you hear me? You go your way, 
 and I will go mine." 
 
 "That is a bargain," I said quietly; "and mind you 
 keep to it." 
 
 I put up my sword with my face turned from him, lest he 
 should see the curl of my lip and the light in my eyes. In 
 truth, I was uncommonly well pleased with myself, and was 
 thinking that if I came through all my adventures as well, I 
 should do merrily. Outwardly, however, I tried to ignore 
 my victory, and to make things as easy as I could for my 
 friend — if one may call a man who will not fight him a 
 friend, a thing I doubt. "Which way are you going?" I 
 asked amicably ; "to Stratford?" 
 
 He nodded, for he was too sulky to speak. 
 
 "All right!" I said cheerfully, feeling that my dignity 
 could take care of itself now, "Then so far we may go 
 together. Only do you remember the terms. After din- 
 ner each goes his own way." 
 
 He nodded again, and we turned, and went on in silence, 
 eying one another askance, like two ill-matched dogs 
 coupled together. But, lucjcily, our forced companionship 
 did not last long, a quarter of a mile and a bend in the road 
 bringing us to the first low, gray houses of Stratford; a 
 long, straggling village it seemed, made up of inns strewn 
 along the road, like beads threaded on a rosary. And to 
 be sure, to complete the likeness, we came presently upon 
 an ancient stone cross standing on the green. I pulled up 
 in front of this with a sigh of pleasure, for on either side of 
 it, one facing the other, was an inn of the better class. 
 
 "Well," I said, "which shall it be? The Rose and 
 Crown, or the Crown without the Rose?" 
 
 "Choose for yourself," he answered churlishly. "I go 
 to the other." 
 
 I shrugged my shoulders. After all, you cannot make a 
 silk purse out of a sow's ear, and if a man has not courage 
 he is not likely to have good-fellowship. But the words 
 angered me, nevertheless, for a shabby, hulking fellow 
 lounging at my elbow overheard them and grinned ; a hic- 
 coughing, blear-eyed man he was as I had ever met, with 
 a red nose and the rags of a tattered cassock about him. I 
 turned away in annoyance, and chose the "Crown" at haz- 
 ard; and pushing my way through a knot of horses that 
 
28 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 Stood tethered at the door, went m, leaving the two to their 
 devices. 
 
 I found a roaring fire in the great room, and three or four 
 yeomen standing about it, drinking ale. But I was hot 
 from walking, so, after saluting them and ordering my meal, 
 I went and sat for choice on a bench by the window away 
 from the fire. The window was one of a kind common in 
 Warwickshire houses; long and low and beetle-browed, the 
 story above projecting over it. I sat here a minute looking 
 idly out at the inn opposite, a heavy stone building with a 
 walled courtyard attached to it ; such an inn as was com- 
 mon enough about the time of the Wars of the Roses when 
 wayfarers looked rather for safety than comfort. Presently 
 I saw a boy come out of it and start up the road at a run. 
 Then, a minute later, the ragged fellow I had seen on the 
 green came out and lurched across the road. He seemed to 
 be inaking, though uncertainly, for my inn, and, sure 
 enough, just as my bread and bacon — the latter hot and 
 hissing — were put before me, he staggered into the room, 
 bringing a strong smell of ale and onions with him. ''Pax 
 vobiscujuT' he said, leering at me with tipsy solemnity. 
 
 I guessed what he was — a monk, one of those unfortu- 
 nates still to be found here and there up and down the coun- 
 try, whom King Henry, when he put down the monasteries, 
 had made homeless. I did not look on the class with much 
 favor, thinking that for most of them the cloister, even if the 
 Queen should succeed in setting the abbeys on their legs 
 again, would have few attractions. But I saw that the sim- 
 ple farmers received his scrap of Latin with respect, and I 
 nodded civilly as I went on with my meal. 
 
 I was not to get off so easily, however. He came and 
 planted himself opposite to me. 
 
 ''Pax vobiscum^ my son," he repeated. "The ale is 
 cheap here, and good." 
 
 "So is the ham, good father," I replied cheerfully, not 
 pausing in my attack on the victuals. "I will answer for 
 so much." 
 
 "Well, well," the knave replied with ready wit, "I 
 breakfasted early. I am content. Landlord, another plate 
 and a full tankard. The young gentleman would have me 
 dine with him." 
 
DOWN WITH PURVEYORS. 29 
 
 I could not tell whether to be angry or to laugh at his 
 impudence. 
 
 "The gentleman says he will answer for it!" repeated 
 the rascal, with a twinkle in his eye, as the landlord hesi- 
 tated. He was by no means so drunk as he looked. 
 
 "No, no, father," I cried, joining in the general laugh 
 into which the farmers by the fire broke. "A cup of ale is 
 in reason, and for that I will pay, but for no more. Drink 
 it, and wish me Godspeed." 
 
 "I will do more than that, lad," he answered. Swaying 
 to and fro my cup, which he had seized in his grasp, he laid 
 his hand on the window-ledge beside me, as though to 
 steady himself, and stooped until his coarse, puffy face was 
 but a few inches from mine. "More than that," he whis- 
 pered hoarsely; and his eyes, peering into mine, were now 
 sober and full of meaning. "If you do not want to be put 
 in the stocks or worse, make tracks! Make tracks, lad!" 
 he continued. "Your friend over there — he is a niggardly 
 oaf — has sent for the hundredman and the constable, and 
 you are the quarry. So the word is. Go! That," he 
 added aloud, standing erect again, with a drunken smile, 
 '*is for your cup of ale; and good coin too!" 
 
 For half a minute I sat quite still ; taken aback, and 
 wondering, while the bacon cooled on the plate before me, 
 what I was to do. I did not doubt the monk was telling 
 the truth. Why should he lie to me? And I cursed my 
 folly in trusting to a coward's honor or a serving-man's 
 good faith. But lamentations were useless. What was I to 
 do? I had no horse, and no means of getting one. I was 
 in a strange country, and to try to escape on foot from pur- 
 suers who knew the roads, and had the law on their side, 
 would be a hopeless undertaking. Yet to be haled back 
 to Coton End a prisoner — I could not face that. Mechan- 
 ically I raised a morsel of bacon to my lips, and as I did 
 so, a thought occurred to me — an idea suggested by some 
 talk I had heard the evening before at Towcester. 
 
 Fanciful as the plan was, I snatched at it; and knowing 
 each instant to be precious, took my courage in my hand 
 — and my tankard. "Here," I cried, speaking suddenly 
 and loudly, "here is bad luck to purveyors, Master Host!" 
 
 There were a couple of stablemen within hearing, loung- 
 ing in the doorway, besides the landlord and his wife and 
 
30 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 the farmers. A villager or two also had dropped in, and 
 there were two peddlers lying half asleep in the corner. 
 All these pricked up their ears more or less at my words. 
 But, like most country folk, they were slow to take in any- 
 thing new or unexpected; and I had to drink afresh and 
 say again, "Here is bad luck to purveyors!" before any 
 one took it up. 
 
 Then the landlord showed he understood. 
 
 "Ay, so say I!" he cried, with an oath. "Purveyors, 
 indeed! It is such as they give the Queen a bad name." 
 
 "God bless her!" quoth the monk loyally. 
 
 "And drown the purveyors!" a farmer exclaimed. 
 
 "They were here a year ago, and left us as bare as a 
 shorn sheep," struck in a strapping villager, speaking at a 
 white heat, but telling me no news ; for this was what I had 
 heard at Towcester the night before. "The Queen should 
 lie warm if she uses all the wool they took! And the pack- 
 horses they purveyed to carry off the plunder — why, the 
 packmen avoid Stratford ever since as though we had the 
 Black Death! Oh, down with the purveyors, say I! The 
 first that comes this way I will show the bottom of the Ouse. 
 Ay, that I will, though I hang for it!" 
 
 "Easy! easy, Tom Miller!" the host interposed, affect- 
 ing an air of assurance, even while he cast an eye of trouble 
 at his flitches. "It will be another ten 'years before they 
 harry us again. There is Potter's Pury ! They never took 
 a tester's worth from Potter's Pury! No, nor from Preston 
 Gobion! But they will go to them next, depend upon 
 it!" 
 
 "I hope they will," I said, with a world of gloomy insin- 
 uation in my words. "But I doubt it!" 
 
 And this time my hint was not wasted. The landlord 
 changed color. "What are you driving at, master?" he 
 asked mildly, while the others looked at me in silence and 
 waited for more. 
 
 "What if there be one across the road now!" I said, 
 giving way to the temptation, and speaking falsely — for 
 which I paid dearly afterward. "A purveyor, I mean, 
 unless I am mistaken in him, or he tells lies. He has come 
 straight from the Chancellor, white wand, warrant, and all. 
 He is taking his dinner now, but he has sent for the hun- 
 dredman, so I guess he means business." 
 
DO WN . WITH P UR VE YORS. • 3 1 
 
 "For the hundredman?" repeated the landlord, his brows 
 meeting. 
 
 "Yes; unless I am mistaken." 
 
 There was silence for a moment. Then the man they 
 called Tom Miller dashed his cap on the floor and, folding 
 his arms defiantly, looked -round on his neighbors. "He 
 has come, has he!" he roared, his face swollen, his eyes 
 bloodshot. "Then I will be as good as my word! Who 
 will help? Shall we sit down and be shorn like sheep, as 
 we were before, so that our children lay on the bare stones, 
 and we pulled the plow ourselves? Or shall we show that 
 we are free Englishmen, and not slaves of Frenchmen? 
 Shall we teach Master Purveyor not to trouble us again? 
 Now, what say you, neighbors?" 
 
 So fierce a growl of impatience and anger rose round me 
 as at once answered the question. A dozen red faces 
 glared at me and at one another, and from the very motion 
 and passion of the men as they snarled and threatened, the 
 room seemed twice as full as it was. Their oaths and cries 
 of encouragement, not loud, but the more dangerous for 
 that, the fresh burst of fury which rose as the village smith 
 and another came in and learned the news, the menacing 
 gestures of a score of brandished fists — these sights, though 
 they told of the very effect at which I had aimed, scared as 
 well as pleased me. I turned red and white, and hesitated, 
 fearing that I had gone too far. 
 
 The thing was done, however; and, what was more, I 
 had soon to take care of myself. At the very moment when 
 the hubbub was at its loudest I felt a c[iill run down my 
 back as I met the monk's eye, and, reading in it whimsical 
 admiration, read in it something besides, and that was an un- 
 mistakable menace. "Clever lad!" the eye said. "I will 
 expose you," it threatened. 
 
 I had forgotten him — or, at any rate, that my acting would 
 be transparent enough to him holding the clew in his hand 
 — and his look was like the shock of cold water to me. 
 But it is wonderful how keen the wits grow on the grind- 
 stone of necessity. With scarcely a second's hesitation I 
 drew out my only piece of gold, and unnoticed by the other 
 men, who were busy swearing at and encouraging one 
 another, I disclosed a morsel of it. The monk's crafty eye 
 glistened. I laid my finger on my lips. 
 
32 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 He held up two fingers. 
 
 I shook my head and showed an empty pahn. I had no 
 more. He nodded ; and the relief that nod gave me was 
 great. Before I had time, however, to consider the nar- 
 rowness of my escape, a movement of the crowd — for the 
 news had spread with strange swiftness, and there was now 
 a crowd assembled which more than filled the room — pro- 
 claimed that the purveyor had come out, and was in the 
 street. 
 
 The room was nearly emptied at a rush. Though I pru- 
 dently remained behind, I could, through the open window, 
 hear as well as see what passed. The leading spirits had 
 naturally struggled out first, and were gathered, sullen and 
 full of dangerous possibilities, about the porch. 
 
 I suppose the Bishop's messenger saw in them nothing 
 but a crowd of country clowns, for he came hectoring 
 toward the door, smiting his boot with his whip, and puffing 
 out his red cheeks mightily. He felt brave enough, now 
 that he had dined and had at his back three stout consta- 
 bles sworn to keep the Queen's peace. 
 
 "Make way! Make way, there, do you hear?" he cried 
 in a husky, pompous voice. "Make way!" he repeated, 
 lightly touching the nearest man with his switch. "I am 
 on the Queen's service, boobies, and must not be hindered." 
 
 The man swore at him, but did not budge, and the bully, 
 brought up thus sharply, awoke to the lowering faces and 
 threatening looks which confronted him. He changed color 
 a little. But the ^ale was still in him, and, forgetting his 
 natural discretion, he thought to carry matters with a high 
 hand. "Come! come!" he exclaimed angrily. **I have a 
 warrant, and you resist me at your peril. I have to enter 
 this house. Clear the way. Master Hundredman, and 
 break these fellows' heads if they withstand you." 
 
 A growl as of a dozen bulldogs answered him, and he drew 
 back, as a child might who has trodden on an adder. 
 "You fools!" he spluttered, glaring at them viciously. 
 "Are you mad? Do you know what you are doing? Do 
 you see this?" He whipped out from some pocket a short 
 white staff and brandished it. "1 come direct from the Lord 
 Chancellor and upon his business, do you hear, and if you 
 resist me it is treason. Treason, you dogs!" he cried, 
 
DOtVN- WITH PURVEYORS. 33 
 
 his rage getting the better of him, "and like dogs you will 
 hang for it. "Master Hundredman, I order you to take in 
 your constables and arrest that man!" 
 
 "What man?" quoth Tom Miller, eying him fixedly. 
 
 "The stranger who carne in an hour ago, and is inside 
 the house." 
 
 "Him, he means, who told about the purveyor across the 
 road," explained the monk with a wink. 
 
 That wink sufficed. There was a roar of execration, and 
 in the twinkling of an eye the Jack-in-office, tripped up 
 this way and shoved that, was struggling helplessly in the 
 grasp of half a dozen men, who fought savagely for his 
 body with the Hundredman and the constables. 
 
 "To the river! To the Ouse with him !" yelled the mob. 
 "In the Queen's name!" shouted the officers. But these 
 were to those as three to a score, and taken by surprise 
 besides, and doubtful of the rights of the matter. Yet for 
 an instant, as the crowd went reeling and fighting down the 
 road, they prevailed; the constables managed to drag their 
 leader free, and I caught a glimpse of him, wild-eyed and 
 frantic with fear, his clothes torn from his back, standing at 
 bay like some animal, and brandishing his staff in one hand, 
 a packet of letters in the other. 
 
 "I have letters, letters of state!" he screamed shrilly. 
 "Let me alone, I tell you! Let me go, you curs!" 
 
 But in vain. The next instant the mob were upon him 
 again. The packet of letters went one way, the staff was 
 dashed another. He was thrown down and plucked up 
 again, and hurried, bruised and struggling, toward the river, 
 his screams for mercy and furious threats rising shrilly 
 above the oaths and laughter. 
 
 I felt myself growing pale as scream followed scream. 
 "They will kill him!" I exclaimed trembling, and pre- 
 pared to follow. "I cannot see this done." 
 
 But the monk, who had returned to my side, grasped my 
 arm. "Don't be a fool," he said sharply. "I will answer 
 for it they will not kill him. Tom Miller is not a fool, 
 though he is angry. He will duck him, and let him go. 
 But I will trouble you for that bit of gold, young gentle- 
 man." 
 
 I gave it to him. 
 
 "Now," he continued with a leer, "I will give you a hint 
 
34 THE STORY OT FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 in return. If you are wise, you will be out of this county 
 in twelve hours. Tethered to the gate over there is a good 
 horse which belongs to a certain purveyor now in the river. 
 Take it! There is no one to say you nay. And begone!" 
 
 I looked hard at him for a minute, my heart beating fast. 
 This was horse-stealing. And horse-stealing was a hanging 
 matter. But I had done so much already that I felt 1 
 might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a Iamb. I was 
 not sure that I had not incited to treason, and what was 
 stealing a horse beside that? "I will do it!" I said des- 
 perately. 
 
 "Don't lose time, then," quoth my mentor. 
 
 I went out then and there, and found he had told the 
 truth. Every soul in the place had gone to see the duck- 
 ing, and the street was empty. Kicked aside in the road- 
 way lay the bundle of letters, soiled but not torn, and in 
 the gutter was the staff. I stooped and picked up one and 
 the other — in for a lamb, in for a sheep! and they might be 
 useful some day. Then I jumped into the saddle, and 
 twitched the reins off the hook. 
 
 But before I could drive in the spurs, a hand fell on the 
 bridle, and the monk's face appeared at my knee. "Well?" 
 I said, glaring down at him — I was burning to be away. 
 
 "That is a good cloak you have got there," he muttered 
 hurriedly. "There, strapped to the saddle, you fool. You 
 do not want that, give it me. Do you hear? Quick, give it 
 me," he cried, raising his voice and clutching at it fiercely, 
 his face dark with greed and fear. 
 
 "I see," I replied, as I unstrapped it. "I am to steal 
 the horse that you may get the cloak. And then you will 
 lay the lot on my shoulders. Well, take it!" I cried, "and 
 go your way as fast as you can." 
 
 Throwing it at him as hard as I could, I shook up the 
 reins and went off down the road at a gallop. The wind 
 whistled pleasantly past my ears. The sounds of the town 
 grew faint and distant. Each bound of the good hack 
 carried me farther and farther from present danger, farther 
 and farther from the old life. In the exhilaration and ex- 
 citement of the moment I forgot my condition ; forgot that 
 1 had not a penny-piece in my pocket, and that I had left 
 an unpaid bill behind me; forgot even that I rode a — well, 
 a borrowed horse. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 TWO SISTERS OF MERCY. 
 
 A YOUNGER generation has often posed me finely by 
 asking, "What, Sir Francis! Did you not see one 
 bishop burned? Did you not know one of the martyrs? 
 Did you never come face to face with Queen Mary?" To 
 all which questions I have one answer, No, and I watch 
 small eyes grow large with astonishment. But the truth is, 
 a man can only be at one place at a time. And though, in 
 this very month of February, 1555, Prebendary Rogers — a 
 good, kindly man, as I have heard, who had a wife and 
 nine children — was burned in Smithfield in London for 
 religion, and the Bishop of Gloucester suffered in his own 
 city, and other inoffensive men were burned to death, and 
 there was much talk of these things, and in thousands of 
 breasts a smoldering fire was kindled which blazed high 
 enough by and by — why, I was at Coton End, or on the 
 London Road, at the time, and learned such things only 
 dimly and by hearsay. 
 
 But the rill joins the river at last; and ofttimes sud- 
 denly and at a bound, as it were. On this very day, while 
 I cantered easily southward with my face set toward St, 
 Albans, Providence was at work shaping a niche for me in 
 the lives of certain people who were at the time as uncon- 
 scious of my existence as I was of theirs. In a great house 
 in the Barbican in London there was much stealthy going 
 and coming on this February afternoon and evening. Be- 
 hind locked doors, and in fear and trembling, mails were 
 being packed and bags strapped, and fingers almost too 
 delicate for the task were busy with nails and hammers, 
 securing this and closing that. The packers knew nothing 
 of me, nor I of them. Yet but for me all that packing 
 would have been of no avail; and but for them my fate 
 might have been very different. Still, the sound of the 
 hammer did not reach my ears, or, doing so, was covered by 
 the steady tramp of the roadster; and no vision, so far as I 
 ever heard, of a dusty youth riding Londonward came 
 between the secret workers and their task. 
 
 I had made up my mind to sleep at St. Albans *J«M^t night, 
 
36 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 and for this reason, and for others relating to the Sheriff of 
 Buckinghamshire, in which county Stony Stratford lies, I 
 pushed on briskly. I presently found time, however, to ex- 
 amine the packet of letters of which I had made spoil. On 
 the outer wrapper I found there was no address, only an 
 exhortation to be speedy. Off this came, therefore, without 
 ceremony, and was left in the dirt. Inside I found two 
 sealed epistles, each countersigned on the wrapper, 
 "Stephen Winton." 
 
 "Ho! ho!" said 1. "I did well to take them." 
 Over the signature on the first letter — it seemed to be 
 written on parchment — were the words, "Haste! haste! 
 haste!" This was the thicker and heavier of the two, and 
 was addressed to Sir Maurice Berkeley, at St. Mary Overy's, 
 Southwark, London. I turned it over and over in my 
 hands, and peeped into it, hesitating. Twice I muttered, 
 "All is fair in love and war!" And at last, with curiosity 
 fully awake, and a glance behind me to make sure that the 
 act was unobserved, I broke the seal. The document 
 proved to be as short and pithy as it was startling. It was 
 an order commanding Sir Maurice Bei'keley forthwith in the 
 Queen's name, and by the authority of the Council, and so 
 on, and so on, to arrest Katherine Willoughby de Eresby, 
 Duchess of Suffolk, and to deliver her into the custody of 
 the Lieutenant of the Tower, "These presents to be his 
 waranty »for the detention of the said Duchess of Suffolk 
 until her Grace's pleasure in the matter be known." 
 
 When it was too late I trembled to think what I had 
 done. To meddle with matters of state might be more 
 dangerous a hundred times than stealing horses, or even 
 than ducking the Chancellor's messenger! Seeing at this 
 moment a party of travelers approach, I crammed the letter 
 into my pocket, and rode by them with a red face, and a 
 tongue that stuttered so feebly that I could scarcely return 
 their greetings. When they had gone by I pulled out the 
 warrant again, having it in my mind to tear it up without 
 a moment's delay — to tear it into the smallest morsels, and 
 so get rid of a thing most dangerous. But the great red 
 seal dangling at the foot of the parchment caught my eye, 
 and I paused to think. It was so red, so large, so impos- 
 ing, it seemed a pity to destroy it. It must surely be good 
 for something. I folded up the warrant again, and put it 
 
TIVO SIST£/^S OF MERCY. 37 
 
 away In my safest pocket. Yes, it might be good for some- 
 thing. 
 
 I took out the other letter. It was bound with green rib- 
 bon and sealed with extreme care, being directed simply to 
 Mistress Clarence — there was no address. But over Gar- 
 diner's signature on the wrapper were the words, "These, 
 on your peril, very privately." 
 
 I turned it over and over, and said the same thing about 
 love and war, and even repeated to myself my old proverb 
 about a sheep and a iamb. But somehow I could not do it. 
 The letter was a woman's letter; the secret, her secret; and 
 though my fingers itched as they hovered about the seals, 
 my cheek tingled too. So at last, with a muttered, "What 
 would Petronilla say?" I put it away unopened in the 
 pocket where the warrant lay. The odds were imniense 
 that Mistress Clarence would never get it; but at least her 
 secret should remain hers, my honor mine! 
 
 It was dark when I rode, thoroughly jaded, into St. 
 Albans. I was splashed with mud up to the waist and 
 wetted by a shower, and looked, I have no doubt, from the 
 effect of my journeying on foot and horseback, as disrepu- 
 table a fellow as might be. The consciousness too that I 
 was without a penny, and the fear lest, careful as I had 
 been to let no one outsrip me, the news of the riot at Strat- 
 ford might have arrived, did not tend to give me assurance. 
 I poked my head timidly into the great room, hoping that I 
 might have it to myself. To my disgust it was full of peo- 
 ple. Half-a-dozen travelers and as many townsfolk were 
 sitting round the fire, talking briskly over their evening 
 draught. Yet I had no choice. I was hungry, and the 
 thing had to be done, and I swaggered in, something of 
 the sneak, no doubt, peeping through my bravado. I re- 
 marked, as I took my seat by the fire and set to drying 
 myself, that I was greeted by a momentary silence, and that 
 two or three of the company began to eye me suspiciously. 
 
 There was one man, who sat on the settle in the warmest 
 corner of the chimney, who seemed in particular to resent 
 my damp neighborhood. His companions treated him with 
 so much reverence, and he snubbed them so regularly, that 
 I wondered who he was; and presently, listening to the 
 conversation which went on round me, I had my curiosity 
 
SS THE STORY OP FRAMCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 satisfied. He was no less a personage than the Bailiff of St. 
 Albans, and his manner befitted such a man ; for it seemed 
 to indicate that he thought himself heir to all the powers of 
 the old Abbots under whose broad thumb his father and 
 grandfather had groaned. 
 
 My conscience pricking me, I felt some misgiving when I 
 saw him, after staring at me and whispering to two or three 
 of his neighbors, beckon the landlord aside. His big round 
 face and burly figure gave him a general likeness to bluff 
 King Hal and he appeared to be aware of this himself, and 
 to be inclined to ape the stout king's ways, which, I have 
 heard my uncle say, were ever ways heavy for others' toes. 
 For a while, however, seeing my supper come in, I forgot 
 him. The bare-armed girl who brought it to me, and in 
 whom my draggled condition seemed to provoke feelings of 
 a different nature, lugged up a round table to the fire. On 
 this she laid my meal, not scrupling to set aside some of the 
 snug dry townsfolk. Then she set a chair for me well in 
 the blaze, and folding her arms in her apron stood to watch 
 me fall to. I did so with a will, and with each mouthful of 
 beef and draught of ale, spirit and strength came back to 
 me. The cits round me might sneer and shake their heads, 
 and the travelers smile at my appetite. In five minutes I 
 cared not a whit! I could give them back joke for joke, 
 and laugh with the best of them. 
 
 Indeed, I had clean forgotten the Bailiff, when he stalked 
 back to his place. But the moment our eyes met, I guessed 
 there was trouble afoot. The landlord came with him and 
 stood looking at me, sending off the wench with a flea in 
 her ear; and I felt under his eye an uncomfortable con- 
 sciousness that my purse was empty. Two or three late 
 arrivals, to whom I suppose Master Bailiff had confided 
 his suspicions, took their stand also in a half-circle and 
 scanned me queerly. Altogether it struck me suddenly 
 that I was in a tight place, and had need of my wits. 
 
 "Ahem!" said the Bailiff abruptly, taking skillful advan- 
 tage of a lull in the talk. "Where from last, young man?" 
 He spoke in a deep choky voice, and, if I was not mistaken, 
 he winked one of his small eyes in the direction of his 
 friends, as though to say, "Now see me pose him!" 
 
 But I only put another morsel in my mouth. For a mo- 
 ment indeed the temptation to reply "Towcester," seeing 
 
TPVO SISTERS OP MERCY. 39 
 
 that such a journey over a middling road was something to 
 brag of before the Highway Law came in, almost overcame 
 me. But in time I bethought me of Stephen Gardiner's 
 maxim, "Be slow to speak!" and I put another morsel in 
 my mouth. 
 
 The Bailiff's face grew red, or rather, redder. "Come, 
 young man, did you hear me speak?" he said pompously. 
 "Where from last?" 
 
 "From the road, sir," I replied, turning to him as if I 
 had not heard him before. "And a very wet road it was." 
 
 A man who sat next me chuckled, being apparently a 
 stranger like myself. But the Bailiff puffed himself into a 
 still more striking likeness to King Henry, and including 
 him in his scowl shouted at me, "Sirrah! don't bandy 
 words with me ! Which way did you come along the road, I 
 asked." 
 
 It was on the tip of my tongue to answer saucily, "The 
 right way!" But I reflected that I might be stopped; and 
 to be stopped might mean to be hanged at worst, and some- 
 thing very unpleasant at best. So I controlled myself, and 
 answered — though the man's arrogance was provoking 
 enough — "I have come from Stratford, and I am going to 
 London. Now you know as much as I do." 
 
 "Do I?" he said, with a sneer and a wink at the landlord. 
 
 "Yes, I think so," I answered patiently. 
 
 "Well, I don't!" he retorted, in vulgar triumph. "I 
 don't. It is my opinion that you have come from London." 
 
 I went on with my supper. 
 
 "Do you hear?" he asked pompously, sticking his arms 
 akimbo and looking round for sympathy. "You will have 
 to give an account of yourself, young man. We will have 
 no penniless rogues and sturdy vagabonds wandering about 
 St. Albans." 
 
 "Penniless rogues do not go a-horseback," I answered. 
 But it was wonderful how my spirits sank again under that 
 word "penniless." It hit me hard. 
 
 "Wait a bit," he said, raising his finger to command 
 attention for his next question. "What is your religion, 
 young man?" 
 
 "Oh!" I replied, putting down my knife and looking 
 open scorn at him, "you are an inquisitor, are you?" At 
 which words of mine there was a kind of stir. "You would 
 
40 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 burn me as I hear they burned Master Sandars at Coventry- 
 last week, would you? They were talking about it down 
 the road." 
 
 "You will come to a bad end, young man!" he retorted 
 viciously, his outstretched finger shaking as if the palsy had 
 seized him. For this time my taunt had gone home, and 
 more than one of the listeners standing on the outer edge of 
 the group, and so beyond his ken, had muttered "shame." 
 More than one face had grown dark. "You will come to a 
 bad end!" he repeated. "If it be not here, then some- 
 where else ! It is my opinion that you have come from 
 London, and that you have been in trouble. There is a 
 hue-and-cry out for a young fellow just your age, and a 
 cock of your hackle, I judge, who is wanted for heresy. A 
 Londoner too. You do not leave here until you have given 
 an account of yourself. Master Jack-a-Dandy ! " The party 
 had all risen round me, and some of the hindmost had got 
 on benches to see me the better. Among these, between 
 two bacon flitches, I caught a glimpse of the serving-maid's 
 face as she peered at me, pale and scared, and a queer 
 impulse led me to nod to her — a reassuring little nod. I 
 found myself growing cool and confident, seeing myself so 
 cornered. 
 
 "Easy! easy!" I said, "let a man finish his supper and 
 get warmed in peace." 
 
 "Bishop Bonner will warm you!" cried the Bailiff. 
 
 "I dare say — as they warm people in Spain!" I sneered. 
 
 "He will be Bishop Burner to you ! " shrieked the Bailiff, 
 almost beside himself with rage at being so bearded by a 
 lad. 
 
 "Take care!" I retorted. "Do not you speak evil of 
 dignitaries, or you will be getting into trouble!" 
 
 He fairly writhed under this rejoinder. 
 
 "Landlord!" he spluttered. "I shall hold you responsi- 
 ble! If this person leaves your house, and is not forthcom- 
 ing when wanted, you will suffer for it!" 
 
 The landlord scratched his head, being. a good-natured 
 fellow; but a bailiff is a bailiff, especially at St. Albans. 
 And I was muddy and travel-stained, and quick of my 
 tongue for one so young; which the middle-aged never like, 
 though the old bear it better. He hesitated. 
 
 "Do not be a fool, Master Host!" I said. "I have 
 
TIVO SISTERS OF MERCY, 41 
 
 something here " and I touched my pocket, which hap- 
 pened to be near my sword-hilt — "that will make you rue it 
 if you interfere with me!" 
 
 "Ho! ho!" cried the Bailiff, in haste and triumph. "So 
 that is his. tone! We have a tavern-brawler here, have we! 
 A young swashbuckler! His tongue will not run so fast 
 when he finds his feet in the stocks. Master landlord, call 
 the watch ! Call the watch at once, I command you !" 
 
 "You will do so at your peril!" I said sternly. Then, 
 seeing that my manner had some effect upon all save the 
 angry official, I gave way to the temptation to drive the 
 matter home and secure my safety by the only means that 
 seemed possible. It is an old story that one deception leads 
 inevitably to another. I solemnly drew out the white staff 
 I had taken from the apparitor. "Look here!" I con- 
 tinued, waving it. "Do you see this, you booby? I am 
 traveling in the Queen's name, and on her service. By 
 special commission, too, from the Chancellor! Is that 
 plain speaking enough for you? And let me tell you. Mas- 
 ter Bailiff," I added, fixing my eye upon him, "that my 
 business is private, and that my Lord of Winchester will 
 not be best pleased when he hears how I have had to 
 declare myself. Do you think the Queen's servants go 
 always in cloth of gold, you fool? The stocks indeed!" 
 
 I laughed out loudly and without effort, for there never 
 was anything so absurd as the change in the Bailiff's visage. 
 His color fled, his cheeks grew pendulous, his lip hung 
 loose. He stared at me, gasping like a fish out of water, and 
 seemed unable to move toe or finger. The rest enjoyed the 
 scene, as people will enjoy a marvelous sudden stroke of 
 fortune. It was as good as a stage pageant to them. They 
 could not take their eyes from the pocket in which I had 
 replaced my wand, and continued, long after I had returned 
 to my meal, to gaze at me in respectful silence. The crest- 
 fallen Bailiff presently slipped out, and I was left cock of 
 the walk, and for the rest of the evening enjoyed the fruits 
 of victory. 
 
 They proved to be more substantial than I had expected, 
 for, as I was on my way upstairs to bed, the landlord pre- 
 ceding me with a light, a man accosted me, and beckoned 
 me aside mysteriously. 
 
 "The Bailiff is very much annoyed," he said, speaking 
 
42 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 in a muffled voice behind his hand, while his eyes peered 
 into mine. 
 
 '/Well, what is that to me?" I replied, looking sternly at 
 him. I was tired and sleepy after my meal. "He should 
 not make such a fool of himself." 
 
 "Tut, tut, tut, tut! You misunderstood me, young sir," 
 the man answered, plucking my sleeve as I turned away. 
 "He regrets the annoyance he has caused you. A mis- 
 take, he says, a pure mistake, and he hopes you will have 
 forgotten it by morning." Then, with a skillful hand, which 
 seemed not unused to the task, he slid two coins into my 
 palm. I looked at them, for a moment not perceiving his 
 drift. Then I found they were two gold angels, and I 
 began to understand. *-'Ahem!" I said, fingering them 
 uneasily. "Yes. Well, well, I will look over it, I will 
 look over it! Tell him from me," I continued, gaining 
 confidence as I proceeded with my new role, "that he shall 
 hear no more about it. He is zealous — perhaps over 
 zealous!" 
 
 "That is it!" muttered the envoy eagerly; "that is it, 
 my dear sir! You see perfectly how it is. He is zealous. 
 Zealous in the Queen's service!" 
 
 "To be sure; and so*I will report him. Tell him that 
 so I will report him. And here, my good friend, take one 
 of these for yourself," I added, magnificently giving him 
 back half my fortune — young donkey that I was. "Drink 
 to the Queen's health; and so good-night to you." 
 
 He went away, bowing to the very ground, and, when 
 the landlord likewise had left me, I was very merry over 
 this, being in no mood for weighing words. The world 
 seemed — to be sure, the ale was humming in my head, and 
 I was in the landlord's best room — easy enough to conquer, 
 provided one possessed a white staff. The fact that I had 
 no right to mine only added — be it remembered I was 
 young and foolish — to my enjoyment of its power. I went 
 to bed in all comfort with it under my pillow, and slept 
 soundly, untroubled by any dream of a mischance. But 
 when did a lie ever help a man in the end? 
 
 >.When I awoke, which I seemed to do on a sudden, it was 
 still dark. I wondered for a moment where I was, and 
 what was the meaning of the shouting and knocking I 
 
TIVO SISTERS OF MERCY. 43 
 
 heard. Then, discerning the faint outline of the window, 
 I remembered the place in which I had gone to bed, and 
 I sat up and listened. Some one — nay, several people — 
 were drumming and kicking against the wooden doors of 
 the inn-yard, and shouting besides, loud enough to raise the 
 dead. In the next room to mine I caught the grumbling 
 voices of persons disturbed, like myself, from sleep. And 
 by and by a window was opened, and I heard the landlord 
 ask what was the matter. 
 
 "In the Queen's name!" came the loud, impatient an- 
 swer, given in a voice that rose above the ring of bridles 
 and the stamping of iron hoofs, "open! and that quickly. 
 Master Host. The watch are here, and we must search." 
 
 I waited to hear no more. I was out of bed, and hud- 
 dling on my clothes, and thrusting my feet into my boots, 
 like one possessed. My heart was beating as fast as if I 
 had been running in a race, and my hands were shaking 
 with the shock of the alarm. The impatient voice without 
 was Master Pritchard's, and it rang with all the vengeful 
 passion which I should have expected that gentleman, 
 duped, ducked, and robbed, to be feeling. There would be 
 little mercy to be had at his hands. Moreover, my ears, 
 grown as keen for the moment as the hunted hare's, distin- 
 guished the tramping of at least half-a-dozen horses, so that 
 it was clear that he had come with a force at his back. 
 Resistance would be useless. My sole chance lay in flight 
 — if flight should still be possible. 
 
 Even in my haste I did not forsake the talisman which 
 had served me so well, but stayed an instant to thrust it 
 into my pocket. The Cluddes have, I fancy, a knack of 
 keeping cool in emergencies, getting, indeed, the cooler the 
 greater the stress. 
 
 By this time the inn was thoroughly aroused. Doors 
 were opening and shutting on all sides of me, and questions 
 were being shouted in different tones from room to room. 
 In the midst of the hubbub I heard the landlord come out 
 muttering, and go downstairs to open the door. Instantly 
 I unlatched mine, slipped through it stealthily, sneaked a 
 step or two down the passage, and then came plump in the 
 dark against some one who was moving as softly as myself. 
 The surprise was complete, and I should have cried out at 
 the unexpected collision, had not the unknown laid a cold 
 
44 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 hand on my mouth, and gently pushed me back into my 
 room. 
 
 Here there was now a faint glimmer of dawn, and by this 
 I saw that my companion was the serving-maid. **Hist!" 
 she said, speaking under her breath, "Is it you they want?" 
 
 I nodded. 
 
 "I thought so," she muttered. "Then you must get out 
 through your window. You cannot pass them. They are 
 a dozen or more, and armed. Quick! knot this about the 
 bars. It is no great depth to the bottom, and the ground 
 is soft from the rain." 
 
 She tore, as she spoke, the coverlet from the bed, and, 
 twisting it into a kind of rope, helped me to secure one 
 corner of it about the window-bar. ' 'When you are down," 
 she whispered, "keep along the wall to the right until you 
 come to a haystack. Turn to the left there — you will 
 have to ford the water — and you will soon be clear of the 
 town. Look about you then, and you will see a horse- 
 track, which leads to Elstree, running in a line with the 
 London Road, but a mile from it and through woods. At 
 Elstree any path to the left will take you to Barnet, and 
 not two miles lost." 
 
 "Heaven bless you!" I said, turning from the gloom, 
 the dark sky, and driving scud without to peer gratefully 
 at her. "Heaven bless you for a good woman!" 
 
 "And God keep you for a bonny boy<" she whispered. 
 
 I kissed her, forcing into her hands — a thing the remem- 
 brance of which is very pleasant to me to this day — my last 
 piece of gold. 
 
 A moment more, and I stood unhurt, but almost up to 
 my knees in mud, in an alley bounded on both sides, as far 
 as I could see, by blind walls. Stopping only to indicate 
 by a low whistle that I was safe, I turned and sped away as 
 fast as I could run in the direction which she had pointed 
 out. There was no one abroad, and in a shorter time than 
 I had expected I found myself outside the town, traveling 
 over a kind of moorland tract bounded in the distance by 
 woods. 
 
 Here I picked up the horse-track easily enough, and 
 without stopping, save for a short breathing space, hurried 
 along it, to gain the shelter of the trees. So far so good ! 
 
TWO SISTERS OF MERCY, 45 
 
 I had reason to be thankful. But my case was still an 
 indifferent one. More than once in getting out of the town 
 I had slipped and fallen. I was wet through, and plastered 
 with dirt owing to these mishaps ; and my clothes were in a 
 woeful plight. For a time excitement kept me up, however, 
 and I made good way, warmed by the thought that I had 
 again baffled the great Bishop. It was only when the day 
 had come, and grown on to noon, and I saw no sign of any 
 pursuers, that thought got the upper hand. Then I began 
 to compare, with some bitterness of feeling, my present 
 condition — wet, dirty, and homeless — with that which I had 
 enjoyed only a week before ; and it needed all my courage 
 to support me. Skulking, half famished, between Barnet 
 and Tottenham, often compelled to crouch in ditches or 
 behind walls while travelers went by, and liable each instant 
 to have to leave the highway and take to my heels, I had 
 leisure to feel ; and I did feel, more keenly, I think, that 
 afternoon than at any later time, the bitterness of fortune. 
 I cursed Stephen Gardiner a dozen times, and dared not 
 let my thoughts wander to my father. I had said that I 
 would build my house afresh. Well, truly I was building 
 it from the foundation. 
 
 It added very much to my misery that it rained all day a 
 cold, half-frozen rain. The whole afternoon I spent in 
 hiding, shivering and shaking in a hole under a ledge near 
 Tottenham; being afraid to go into London before night- 
 fall, lest I should be waited for at the gate and be captured. 
 Chilled and bedraggled as I was, and weak through want of 
 food which I dared not go out to beg, the terrors of cap- 
 ture got hold of my mind and presented to me one by one 
 every horrible form of humiliation, the stocks, the pillory, 
 the cart-tail; so that even Master Pritchard, could he 
 have seen me and known my mind, might have pitied me; 
 so that I loathe to this day the hours I spent in that foul 
 hiding-place. Between a man's best and worse, there is 
 little but a platter of food. 
 
 The way this was put an end to, I well remember. An 
 old woman came into the field where I lay hid, to drive 
 home a cow. I had had my eyes on this cow for at least 
 an hour, having made up my mind to milk it for my own 
 benefit as soon as the dusk fell. In my disappointment at 
 seeing it driven off, and also out of a desire to learn whether 
 
46 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 the old dame might not be going to milk it in a corner of 
 the pasture, in which case I might still get an after taste, 
 I crawled so far out of my hole that, turning suddenly, she 
 caught sight of me. I expected to see her hurry off, but 
 she did not. She took a long look, and then came back 
 toward me, making, however, as it seemed to me, as if she 
 did not see me. When she had come within a few feet of 
 me, she looked down abruptly, and our eyes met. What 
 she saw in mine I can only guess. In hers I read a divine 
 pity. "Oh, poor lad!" she murmured; "oh, you poor, 
 poor lad!" and there were tears in her voice. 
 
 I was so weak — it was almost twenty-four hours since I 
 had tasted food, and I had come twenty-four miles in the 
 time — that at that I broke down, and cried like a child. 
 
 I learned later that the old woman took me for just the 
 same person for whom the Bailiff at St. Albans had mistaken 
 me, a young apprentice named Hunter, who had got into 
 trouble about religion, and was at this time hiding up and 
 down the country; Bishop Bonner having clapped his 
 father into jail until the son should come to hand. But 
 her kind heart knew no distinction of creeds. She took 
 me to her cottage as soon as night fell, and warmed, and 
 dried, and fed me. She did not dare to keep me under 
 her roof for longer than an hour or two, neither would I 
 have stayed to endanger her. But she sent me out a new 
 man, with a crust, moreover, in my pocket. A hundred 
 times between Tottenham and Aldersgate I said "God bless 
 her!" And I say so now. 
 
 So twice in one day, and that the gloomiest day of my 
 life, I was succored by a woman. I have never forgotten 
 it. I have tried to keep it always in mind ; remembering 
 too a saying of my uncle's, that "there is nothing on earth 
 so merciful as a good woman, or so pitiless as a bad one ! ' ' 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 MISTRESS BERTRAM. 
 
 ""TVING! ding! ding! Aid ye the poor! Pray for the 
 U dead! Five o'clock and a murky morning." 
 
 The noise of the bell, and the cry which accompanied it, 
 roused me from my first sleep in London, and that with a 
 vengeance; the bell being rung and the words uttered 
 within three feet of my head. Where did I sleep, then? 
 Well, I had found a cozy resting-place behind some boards 
 which stood propped against the wall of a baker's oven in a 
 street near Moorgate. The wall was warm and smelt of new 
 bread, and another besides myself had discovered its 'advan- 
 tages. This was the watchman, who had slumbered away 
 most of his vigil cheek by jowl with me, but, morning 
 approaching, had roused himself, and before he was well 
 out of his bed, certainly before he had left his bedroom, 
 had begun — the ungrateful wretch — to prove his watchful- 
 ness by disturbing every one else. 
 
 I sat up and rubbed my eyes, grinding my shoulders. well 
 against the wall for warmth. I had no need to turn out 
 yet, but I began to think, and the more I thought the harder 
 I stared at the planks six inches before my nose. My 
 thoughts turned upon a very knotty point; one that I had 
 never seriously considered before. What was I going to do 
 next? How was I going to live or to rear the new house of 
 which I have made mention? Hitherto I had aimed simply 
 at reaching London. London had paraded itself before my 
 mind — though my mind should have known better — not as 
 a town of cold streets and dreary alleys and shops open 
 from seven to four with perhaps here and there a vacant 
 place for an apprentice ; but as a gilded city of adventure 
 and romance, in which a young man of enterprise, whether 
 he wanted to go abroad or to rise at home, might be sure 
 of finding his sword weighed, priced, and bought up on the 
 instant, and himself valued at his own standard. 
 
 But London reached, the hoarding in Moorgate reached, 
 and five o'clock in the morning reached, somehow these 
 visions faded rapidly. In the cold reality left to me I felt 
 myself astray. If I would stay at home, who was going to 
 
48 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE, 
 
 employ me? To whom should I apply? What patron had 
 I? Or if I would go abroad, how was I to set about it? 
 how find a vessel, seeing that I might expect to be arrested 
 the moment I showed my face in daylight? 
 
 Here all my experience failed me. I did not know what 
 to do, though the time had come for action, and I must do 
 or starve. It had been all very well when I was at Coton, 
 to propose that I would go up to London, and get across 
 the water — such had been my dim notion — to the Courte- 
 nays and Killigrews, who, with other refugees, Protestants 
 for the most part, were lying on the French coast, waiting 
 for better times. But now that I was in London, and as 
 good as an outlaw myself, I saw no means of going to them. 
 I seemed farther from my goal than I had been in War- 
 wickshire. 
 
 Thinking very blankly over this I began to munch the 
 piece of bread which I owed to the old dame at Tottenham; 
 and had solemnly got through half of it, when the sound of 
 rapid footsteps — the footsteps of women, I judged from the 
 lightness of the tread — caused me to hold my hand and 
 listen. Whoever they Avere — and I wondered, for it was still 
 early, and I had heard no one pass since the watchman left 
 me — they came to a stand in front of my shelter, and one 
 one of them spoke. Her words made me start; unmistakably 
 the voice was a gentlewoman's, such as I had not heard for 
 almost a week. And at this place and hour, on the raw 
 borderland of day and night, a gentlewoman was the last 
 person I expected to light upon. Yet if the speaker were 
 not some one of station, Petronilla's lessons had been 
 thrown away upon me. 
 
 The words were uttered in a low voice ; but the planks 
 in front of me were thin, and the speaker was actually lean- 
 ing against them. I caught every accent of what seemed to 
 be the answer to a question. "Yes, yes! It is all right!" 
 she said, a covert ring of impatience in her tone. "Take 
 breath a moment. I do not see him now." 
 
 "TJiank Heaven!" muttered another voice. As I had 
 fancied, there were two persons. The latter speaker's tone 
 smacked equally of breeding with the former's, but was 
 rounder and fuller, and more masterful; and she appeared 
 to be out of breath. "Then perhaps we have thrown him 
 off the trail," she continued, after a short pause, in which 
 
MISTMSS BERTkAM, 49 
 
 she seemed to have somewhat recovered herself. "I dis- 
 trusted him from the first, Anne — from the first. Yet, do 
 you know, I never feared him as I did Master Clarence; 
 and as it was too much to hope that we should be rid of 
 both at once — they took good care of that — w hy, the attempt 
 had to be made while he was at home. But I always felt 
 he was a spy." 
 
 "Who? Master Clarence?" asked she who had spoken 
 first. 
 
 "Ay, he certainly. But I did not mean him, I meant 
 Philip." 
 
 "Well, I — I said at first, you remertiber, that it was a 
 foolhardy enterprise, mistress!" 
 
 "Tut, tut, girl!" quoth the other tartly — this time the 
 impatience lay with her, and she took no pains to conceal 
 it — "we are not beaten yet. Come, look about! Cannot 
 you remember where we are, nor which way the river should 
 be? If the dawn were come, we could tell." 
 
 "But with the dawn " 
 
 "The streets would fill. True, and. Master Philip giving 
 the alarm, we should be detected before we had gone far. 
 The more need, girl, to lose no time. I have my breath 
 again, and the child is asleep. Let us venture one way or 
 the other, and Heaven grant it be the right one!" 
 
 "Let me see," the younger woman answered slowly, as 
 if in doubt. "Did we come by the church? No; we came 
 the other way. Let us try this turning, then." 
 
 "Why, child, we came that way," was the decided an- 
 swer. "What are you thinking of? That would take us 
 straight back into his arms, the wretch! Come, come! 
 you loiter," continued this, the more masculine speaker, 
 "and a minute may make all the difference between a 
 prison and freedom. If we can reach the Lion Wharf by 
 seven — it is like to be a dark morning and foggy — we may 
 still escape before Master Philip brings the watch upon us." 
 
 They moved briskly away as she spoke, and her words were 
 already growing indistinct from distance, while I remained 
 still, idly seeking the clew to their talk and muttering over 
 and over again the name Clarence, which seemed familiar 
 to me, when a cry of ala.rm, in which I recognized one of 
 their voices, cut short my reverie. I crawled with all speed 
 from my shelter, and sU^ up, being still in a line with the 
 
5o THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 boards, and not easily distinguishable. As she had said, it 
 was a dark morning; but the roofs of the houses — now high, 
 now low — could be plainly discerned against a gray, drift- 
 ing sky wherein the first signs of dawn were visible ; and 
 the blank outlines of the streets, which met at this point, 
 could be seen. Six or seven yards from me, in the middle 
 of the roadway, stood three dusky figures, of whom I judged 
 the nearer, from their attitudes, to be the two women. The 
 farthest seemed to be a man. 
 
 I was astonished to see that he was standing cap in hand; 
 nay, I was disgusted as well, for I had crept out hot-fisted, 
 expecting to be called upon to defend the women. But, 
 despite the cry I had heard, they were talking to him quietly 
 enough, as far as I could hear. And in a minute or so I 
 saw the taller woman give him something. 
 
 He took it with a low bow, and appeared almost to sweep 
 the dirt with his bonnet. She waved her hand in dismissal, 
 and he stood back still uncovered. And — hey, presto! the 
 women tripped swiftly away. 
 
 By this time my curiosity was intensely excited, but for 
 a moment I thought it was doomed to disappointment. I 
 thought that it was all over. It was not, by any means. 
 The man stood looking after them until they reached the 
 corner, and the moment they had passed it, he followed. 
 His stealthy manner of going, and his fashion of peering 
 after them, was enough for me. I guessed at once that he 
 was dogging them, following them unknown to them and 
 against their will; and with considerable elation I started 
 after him, using the same precautions. What was sauce, 
 for the geese was sauce for the gander! So we went, two — 
 one — one, slipping after one another through half a dozen 
 dark streets, ten.ding generally southward. 
 
 Following him in this way I seldom caught a glimpse of 
 the women. The man kept at a considerable distance 
 behind them, and I had my attention fixed on him. But 
 once or twice, when, turning a corner, I all but trod on his 
 heels, I saw them ; and presently an odd point about them 
 struck me. There was a white kerchief or something 
 attached apparently to the back of the one's cloak, which 
 considerably assisted my stealthy friend to keep them in 
 view. It puzzled me. Was it a signal to him? Was he 
 really all the time acting in concert with 4hem ; ap4 was I 
 
MISTRESS BERTRAM. $1 
 
 throwing away my pains? Or was the white object which 
 so betrayed them merely the result of carelessness, and the 
 lack of foresight of women grappling with a condition of 
 things to which they were unaccustomed? Of course I 
 could not decide this, the more as, at that distance, I failed 
 to distinguish what the white something was, or even which 
 of the two wore it. 
 
 Presently I got a clew to our position, for we crossed 
 Cheapside close to Paul's Cross, which my childish memo- 
 ries of the town enabled me to recognize, even by that light. 
 Here my friend looked up and down, and hung a minute on 
 his heel before he foil-owed the women, as if expecting or 
 looking for some one. It might be that he was trying to 
 make certain that the watch were not in sight. They were 
 not, at any rate. Probably they had gone home to bed, 
 for the morning was growing. And, after a momentary 
 hesitation, he plunged into the narrow street down which 
 the women had flitted. 
 
 . He had only gone a few yards when I heard him cry 
 out. The next instant, almost running against him myself, 
 I saw what had happened. The women had craftily lain in 
 wait for him in the little court into which the street ran and 
 .had caught him as neatly as could be. When I came upon 
 them the taller woman was standing at bay with a passion 
 that was almost fury in her pose and gesture. Her face, 
 from which the hood of a coarse cloak had fallen back, was 
 pale with anger; her gray eyes flashed, her teeth glimmered. 
 Seeing her thus, and seeing the burden she carried under 
 her cloak — which instinct told me was her child — I thought 
 of a tigress brought to bay. 
 
 "You lying knave!" she hissed. "You Judas!" 
 
 The man recoiled a couple of paces, and in recoiling 
 nearly touched me. 
 
 "What would you?" she continued. "What do you 
 want? What would you do? You have been paid to go. 
 Go, and leave us!" 
 
 **I dare not," he muttered, keeping away from her as if 
 he dreaded a blow. She looked a woman who could deal a 
 blow, a woman who could both love and hate fiercely and 
 openly — as proud and frank and haughty a lady as I had 
 ever seen in my life. "I dare not," he roiiUered sullenly; 
 "I have my orders." 
 
52 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE, 
 
 "Oh!" she cried, with scorn. "You have your orders, 
 have you! The murder is out. But from whom, sirrah? 
 Whose orders are to supersede mine? I would King Harry 
 were alive, and I would have you whipped to Tyburn. 
 Speak, rogue; who bade you follow me ?" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 She looked about her wildly, passionately, and I saw that 
 she was at her wits' end what to do, or how to escape him. 
 But she was a woman. When she next spoke there was a 
 marvelous change in her. Her face had grown soft, her 
 voice low. "Philip," she said gently, "the purse was light. 
 I will give you more. I will give. you treble the amount 
 within a few weeks, and I will thank you on my knees, and 
 my husband shall be such a friend to you as you have never 
 dreamed of, if you will only go home and be silent. Only 
 that — or, better still, walk the streets an hour, and then 
 report that you lost sight of us. Think, man, think!" she 
 cried with energy — "the times may change. A little more, 
 and Wyatt had been master of London last year. Now the 
 people are fuller of discontent than ever, and these burnings 
 and torturings, these Spaniards in the streets — England 
 will not endure them long. The times will change. Let 
 us go, and you will have a friend — when most you need one." 
 
 He shook his head sullenly. "I dare not do it," he said. 
 And somehow I got the idea that he was telling the truth, 
 and that it was not the man's stubborn nature only that 
 withstood the bribe and the plea. He spoke as if he were 
 repeating a lesson and the master were present. 
 
 When she saw that she could not move him, the anger, 
 which I think came more naturally to her, broke out afresh. 
 "You will not, you hound!" she cried. "Will neither 
 threats nor promises move you?" 
 
 "Neither," he answered doggedly; "I have my orders." 
 
 So far, I had remained a quiet listener, standing in the 
 mouth of the lane which opened upon the court where they 
 were. The women had taken no notice of me ; either 
 because they did not see me, or because, seeing me, they 
 thought that I was a hanger-on of the man before them. 
 And he, having his back to me, and his eyes on them, could 
 not see me. It was a surprise to him — a very great surprise, 
 I think — when I took three steps forward, and gripped him 
 by the scruff of his neck. 
 
MISTRESS BERTRAM. S3 
 
 "You have your orders, have you?" I muttered in his 
 ear, as I shook him to and fro, while the taller woman 
 started back and the younger uttered a cry of alarm at my 
 sudden appearance. "Well, you will not obey them. Do 
 you hear? Your employer may go hang! You will do just 
 what these ladies please to ask of you." 
 
 He struggled an instant ; but he was an undersized man, 
 and he could not loosen the hold which I had secured at my 
 leisure. Then I noticed his hand going to his girdle in a 
 suspicious way. "Stop that!" I said, flashing before his 
 eyes a short, broad blade, which had cut many a deer's 
 throat in Old Arden Forest. "You had better keep quiet, 
 or it will be the worse for you! Now, mistress," I con- 
 tinued, "you can dispose of this little man as you please." 
 
 "Who are you?" she said, after a pause; during which 
 she had stared at me in open astonishment. No doubt I 
 was a wild-looking figure. 
 
 "A friend," I replied. "Or one who would be such. 
 I saw this fellow follow you, and I followed him. For the 
 last five minutes I have been listening to your talk. He 
 was not amenable to reason then, but I think he will be 
 now. What shall I do with him?" 
 
 She smiled faintly, but did not answer at once, the cool- 
 ness and resolution with which she had faced him before 
 failing her nov/, possibly in sheer astonishment, or because 
 my appearance at her side, by removing the strain, sapped 
 the strength. "I do not know," she said at length, in a 
 vague, puzzled tone. 
 
 "Well," I answered, "you are going to the Lion 
 Wharf, and " 
 
 "Oh, you fool!" she screamed out loud. "Oh, you 
 fool!" she repeated bitterly. "Now you have told him 
 all." 
 
 I stood confounded. My cheeks burned with shame, 
 and her look of contempt cut me like a knife. That the 
 reproach was deserved I knew at once, for the man in my 
 grasp gave a start, which proved that the information was 
 not lost upon him. "Who told you?" the woman went on, 
 clutching the child jealously to her breast, as though she 
 saw herself menaced afresh. "Who told you about the 
 Lion Wharf?" 
 
 "Never mind," I answered gloomily. "I have made a 
 
54 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 mistake, but it is easy to remedy it." And I took out my 
 knife again. "Do you go on and leave us." 
 
 I hardly know whether I meant my threat or no. But 
 my prisoner had no doubts. He shrieked out — a wild cry 
 of fear which rang round the empty court — and by a rapid 
 blow, despair giving him courage, he dashed the hunting- 
 knife from my hand. This done he first flung himself on 
 me, then tried by a sudden jerk to free himself. In a mo- 
 ment we were down on the stones, and tumbling over one 
 another in the dirt, while he struggled to reach his knife, 
 which was still in his girdle, and I strove to prevent him. 
 The fight was sharp, but it lasted barely a minute. When 
 the first effort of his despair was spent, I came uppermost, 
 and he was but a child in my hands. Presently, with my 
 knee on his chest, I looked up. The women were still there, 
 the younger clinging to the other. 
 
 "Go! go!" I cried impatiently. Each second I ex- 
 pected the court to be invaded, for the man had screamed 
 more than once. 
 
 But they hesitated. I had been forced to hurt him a 
 little, and he was moaning piteously. "Who are you?" the 
 elder woman asked — she who had spoken all through. 
 
 "Nay, never mind that!" I answered. "Do you go! 
 Go, while you can. You know the way to the WHiarf. " 
 
 "Yes," she answered. "But I cannot go and leave him 
 at your mercy. Remember he is a man, and has " 
 
 "He is a treacherous scoundrel," I answered, giving his 
 throat a squeeze. "But he shall have one more chance. 
 Listen, sirrah!" I continued to the man, "and stop that 
 noise or I will knock out your teeth with my dagger-hilt. 
 Listen and be silent. I shall go with these ladies, and I 
 promise you this : If they are stopped or hindered on their 
 way, or if evil happen to them at that wharf, whose name 
 you had better forget, it will be the worse for you. Do you 
 hear? You will suffer for it, though there be a dozen 
 guards about you! Mind you," I added, "I have nothing 
 to lose myself, for I am desperate already." 
 
 He vowed — the poor craven — with his stuttering tongue, 
 that he would be true, and vowed it again and again. But 
 I saw that his eyes did not meet mine. They glanced 
 instead at the knife-blade, and I knew, even while I pre- 
 tended to trust him, that he would betray us. My real hope 
 
MISTRESS BERTRAM. 55 
 
 lay in his fears, and in this, that as the fugitives knew the 
 way to the wharf, and it could not now be far distant, we 
 might reach it, and go on board some vessel — I had gath- 
 ered they were flying the country — before this wretch could 
 recover himself and get together a force to stop us. That 
 was my real hope, and in that hope only I left him. 
 
 We went as fast as the women could walk. I did not 
 trouble them with questions ; indeed, I had myself no more 
 leisure than enabled me to notice their general appearance, 
 which was that of comfortable tradesmen's womenfolk. 
 Their cloaks and hoods were plainly fashioned, and of 
 coarse stuff, their shoes were thick, and no jewel or scrap 
 of lace, peeping out, betrayed them. Yet there was some- 
 thing in their carriage which could not be hidden, some- 
 thing which, to my eye, told tales ; so that minute by min- 
 ute I became more sure that this was really an adventure 
 worth pursuing, and that London had kept a reward in 
 store for me besides its cold stones and inhospitable streets. 
 
 The city was beginning to rouse itself. As we flitted 
 through the lanes and alleys which lie between Cheapside 
 and the river, we met many people, chiefly of the lower 
 classes, on their way to work. Yet in spite of this, we had 
 no need to fear observation, for, though the morning was 
 fully come, with the light had arrived such a thick, choking, 
 yellow fog as I, being for the most part country-bred, had 
 never experienced. It was so dense and blinding that we 
 had a difficulty in keeping together, and even hand in hand 
 could scarcely see one another. In my wonder how my 
 companions found their way, I presently failed to notice 
 their condition, and only remarked the distress and ex- 
 haustion which one of them was suffering, when she began, 
 notwithstanding all her efforts, to lag behind. Then 1 
 sprang forward, blaming myself much. "Forgive me," I 
 said. "You are tired, and no wonder. Let me carry the 
 child, mistress." 
 
 Exhausted as she was, she drew away from me jealously. 
 
 "No," she panted. "We are nearly there. I am better 
 now." And she strained the child closer to her, as though 
 she feared I might take it from her by force. 
 
 "Well, if you will not trust me," I answered, "let your 
 friend carry it for a time. I can see you are tired out." 
 
 Through the mist she bent forward, and peered into my 
 
5^ THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDR. 
 
 face, her eyes scarcely a foot from mine. The scrutiny 
 seemed to satisfy her. She drew a long breath and held 
 out her burden. "No," she said ; "you shall take him. I 
 will trust you." 
 
 I took the little wrapped-up thing as gently as I could. 
 "You shall not repent it, if I can help it, Mistress " 
 
 "Bertram," she said. 
 
 "Mistress Bertram," I repeated. "Now let us get on 
 and lose no time." 
 
 A walk of a hundred yards or so brought us clear of the 
 houses, and revealed before us, in place of all else, a yellow 
 curtain of fog. Below this, at our feet, yet apparently a 
 long way from us, was a strange, pale line of shimmering 
 light, which they told me was the water. At first I could 
 hardly believe this. But, pausing a moment while my com- 
 panions whispered together, dull creakings and groanings 
 and uncouth shouts and cries, and at last the regular beat 
 of oars, came to my ears out of the bank of vapor, and con- 
 vinced me that we really had the river before us. 
 
 Mistress Bertram turned to me abruptly. "Listen," she 
 said, "and decide for yourself, my friend. We are close 
 to the wharf now, and in a few minutes shall know our fate. 
 It is possible that we may be intercepted at this point, and 
 if that happen, it will be bad for me and worse for any one 
 aiding me. You have done us gallant service, but you are 
 young; and I am loath to drag you into perils which do not 
 belong to you. Take my advice, then, and leave us now. 
 I would I could reward you," she added hastily, "but that 
 knave has my purse." 
 
 I put the child gently back into her arms. "Good-by," 
 she said, with more feeling. "We thank you. Some day I 
 may return to England, and have ample power " 
 
 "Not so fast," I answered stiffly. "Did you think it 
 possible, mistress, that I would desert you now? I gave 
 you back the child only because it might hamper me, and 
 will be safer with you. Come, let us on at once to the 
 wharf." 
 
 "You mean it?" she said. 
 
 "Of a certainty!" I answered, settling my cap on my 
 head with perhaps a boyish touch of the brnggart. 
 
 At any rate, she did not take me at once at my word; 
 and her thought for me touched me the more because I 
 
MISTRESS BERTRAM. 57 
 
 judged her — I know not exactly why — to be a woman not 
 over prone to think of others. "Do not be reckless," she 
 said slowly, her eyes intently fixed on mine. "I should be 
 sorry to bring evil upon you. You are but a boy." 
 
 "And yet," I answered, smiling, "there is as good as a 
 price upon my head already. I should be reckless if I 
 stayed here. If you will take me with you, let us go. We 
 have loitered too long already." 
 
 She turned then, asking no questions; but she looked at 
 me from time to time in a puzzled way, as though she 
 thought she ought to know me — as though I reminded her 
 of someone. Paying little heed to this then, I hurried her 
 and her companion down to the water, traversing a stretch 
 of foreshore strewn with piles of wood and stacks of barrels 
 and old rotting boats, between which the mud lay deep. 
 Fortunately it was high tide, and so ^ve had not far to go. 
 In a minute or two I distinguished the hull of a ship loom- 
 ing large through the fog ; and a few more steps placed us 
 safely on a floating raft, on the far side of which the vessel 
 lay moored. 
 
 There was only one man to be seen lounging on the raft, 
 and the neighborhood was quiet. My spirits rose as I 
 looked round. "Is this the WhelpV the tall lady asked. 
 I had not heard the other open her mouth since the en- 
 counter in the court. 
 
 "Yes, it is the Whelps madam," the man answered, 
 saluting her and speaking formally, and with a foreign 
 accent. "You are the lady who is expected?" 
 
 "I am," she answered, with authority. "Will you tell 
 the captain that I desire to sail immediately, without a mo- 
 ent's delay? Do you understand?" 
 
 "Well, the tide is going out," quoth the sailor, dubi- 
 ously, looking steadily into the fog, which hid the river. 
 "It has just turned, it is true. But as to sailing " 
 
 She cut him short. "Go, go! man. Tell your captain 
 what I say. And let down a ladder for us to get on board. " 
 
 He caught a rope which hung over the side, and, swing- 
 ing himself up, disappeared. We stood below, listening to 
 the weird sounds which came off the water, the creaking 
 and flapping of masts and canvas, the whir of wings and 
 shrieks of unseen gulls, the distant hail of boatmen. A bell 
 in the city solemnly tolled eight. The younger woman 
 
58 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 shivered. The elder's foot tapped impatiently on the 
 planks. Shut in by the yellow walls of fog, I experienced 
 a strange sense of solitude ; it was as if we three were alone 
 in the world — we three who had come together so strangely. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 MASTERCLARENCE. 
 
 WE had stood thus for a few moments when a harsh 
 voice, hailing us from above,put an end to our several 
 thoughts and forebodings. We looked up and I saw half a 
 dozen night-capped heads thrust over the bulwarks. A 
 rope ladder came hurtling down at our feet, and a man, 
 nimbly descending, held it tight at the bottom. "Now, 
 madame!" he said briskly. They all, I noticed, had the 
 same foreign accent, yet all spoke English; a singularity I 
 did not understand, until I learned later that the boat was 
 the Lion's Whelps trading between London and Calais, and 
 manned from the latter place. 
 
 Mistress Bertram ascended quickly and steadily, holding 
 the baby in her arms. The other made some demur, lin- 
 gering at the foot of the ladder and looking up as if afraid, 
 until her companion chid her sharply. Then she too went 
 up, but as she passed me — I was holding one side of the 
 ladder steady — she shot at me from under her hood a look 
 which disturbed me strangely. 
 
 It was the first time I had seen her face, and it was such 
 a face as a man rarely forgets. Not because of its beauty ; 
 rather because it was a speaking face, a strange and expres- 
 sive one, which the dark waving hair, swelling in thick clus- 
 ters upon either temple, seemed to accentuate. The features 
 were regular, but, the full red lips excepted, rather thin 
 than shapely. The nose, too, was prominent. But the 
 eyes! The eyes seemed to glorify the dark brilliant thinness 
 of the face, and to print it upon the memory. They were 
 dark flashing eyes, and their smile seemed to me perpetually 
 to challenge, to allure and repulse, and even to goad. 
 Sometimes they were gay, more rarely sad, sometimes soft, 
 and again hard as steel. They changed in a moment as 
 one or another approached her. But always at their gay- 
 
6o THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 est, there was a suspicion of weariness and fatigue in their 
 depths. Or so I thought later. 
 
 Something of this flashed through my mind as I followed 
 heir up the side. But once on bo'ard I glanced round, for- 
 getting her in the novelty of my position. The Whelp was 
 decked fore and aft only, the blackness of the hold gaping 
 amidships, spanned by a narrow gangway, which served to 
 connect the two decks. We found ourselves in the fore- 
 part, amid coils of rope and windlasses and water-casks; 
 surrounded by half a dozen wild-looking sailors wearing 
 blue knitted frocks and carrying sheath-knives at their 
 girdles. 
 
 The foremost and biggest of these seemed to be the cap- 
 tain, although, so far as outward appearances went, the 
 only difference between him and his crew lay in a marlin- 
 spike which he wore slung to a thong beside his knife. 
 When I reached the deck he was telling a long story to 
 Mistress Bertram, and telling it very slowly. But -the drift 
 of it I soon gathered. While the fog lasted he could not 
 put to sea. 
 
 "Nonsense!" cried my masterful companion, chafing at 
 his slowness of speech. "Why not? Would it be dan- 
 gerous?" 
 
 "Well, madam, it would be dangerous," he answered, 
 more slowly than ever. "Yes, it would be dangerous. And 
 to put to sea in a fog? That is not seamanship. And your 
 baggage has not arrived." 
 
 "Never mind my baggage!" she answered imperiously. 
 "I have made other arrangements for it. Two or three 
 things I know came on board last night. I want to start — 
 to start at once, do you hear?" 
 
 The captain shook his head, and said sluggishly that it 
 was impossible. Spitting on the deck he ground his heel 
 leisurely round in a knothole. "Impossible," he repeated; 
 "it would not be seamanship to start in a fog. When the 
 fog lifts we will go. 'Twill be all the same to-morrow. 
 We shall lie at Leigh to-night, whether we go now or go 
 when the fog lifts." 
 
 "At Leigh?" 
 
 "That is it, madam." 
 
 "And when will you go from Leigh?" she cried indig- 
 nantly. 
 
MASTER CLARENCE. 6i 
 
 •'Daybreak to-morrow," he answered. "You leave it to 
 me, mistress," he continued, in a tone of rough patronage, 
 "and you will see your good man before you expect it," 
 
 "But, man!" she exclaimed, trembling with impotent 
 rage. "Did not Master Bertram engage you to bring me 
 across whenever I might be ready? Ay, and pay you 
 handsomely for it? Did he not, sirrah?" 
 
 "To be sure, to be sure!" replied the giant unmoved. 
 "Using seamanship, and not going to sea in a fog, if it 
 please you." 
 
 "It does not please me!" she retorted. "And why stay 
 at Leigh?" 
 
 He looked up at the rigging, then down at the deck. He 
 set his heel in the knothole, and ground it round again. 
 Then he looked at his questioner with a broad smile. 
 "Well, mistress, for a very good reason. It is there your 
 good man is waiting for you. Only," added this careful 
 keeper of a secret, "he bade me not tell any one." 
 
 She uttered a low cry, which might have been an echo of 
 her baby's cooing, and convulsively clasped the child more 
 tightly to her. "He is at Leigh!" she murmured, flushing 
 and trembling, another woman ^Jtogether. Even her voice 
 was wonderfully changed. "He is really at Leigh, you 
 say?" 
 
 "To be sure!" replied the captain, with a portentous 
 wink and a mysterious roll of the head. "He is there safe 
 enough! Safe enough, you may bet your handsome face 
 to a rushlight. And we will be there to-night." 
 
 She started up with a wild gesture. For a moment she 
 had sat down on a cask standing beside her, and forgotten 
 our peril, and the probability that we might never see Leigh 
 at all. Now, I have said, she started up. "No, no!" she 
 cried, struggling for breath and utterance. "Oh, no! no! 
 Let us go at once. We must start at once!" Her voice 
 was hysterical in its sudden anxiety and terror, as the con- 
 sciousness of our position rolled back upon her. "Cap- 
 tain! listen, listen!" she pleaded. "Let us start now, and 
 my husband will give you double. I will promise you 
 double whatever he said if you will chance the fog." 
 
 I think all who heard her were moved, save the captain 
 only. He rubbed his head and grinned. Slow and heavy, 
 he saw nothing in her prayer save the freak of a woman 
 
62 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 wild to get to her man. He did not weigh her promise at a 
 groat; she was but a woman. And being a foreigner, he 
 did not perceive a certain air of breeding which might have 
 influenced a native. He was one of those men against 
 whose stupidity Father Carey used to say the gods fight in 
 vain. When he answered good-naturedly, "No, no, mis- 
 tress, it is impossible. It would not be seamanship," I felt 
 that we might as well try to stop the ebbing tide as move 
 him from his position. 
 
 The feeling was a maddening one. The special peril 
 which menaced my companions I did not know ; but I knew 
 they feared pursuit, and I had every reason to fear it for 
 myself. Yet at any moment, out of the fog which encircled 
 us so closely that we could barely see the raft below — and 
 the shore not at all — might come the tramp of hurrying feet 
 and the stern hail of the law. It was maddening to think 
 of this, and to know that we had only to cast off a rope or 
 two in order to escape; and to know also that we were 
 absolutely helpless. 
 
 I expected that Mistress Bertram, brave as she had shown 
 herself, would burst into a passion of rage or tears. But 
 apparently she had one hope left. She looked at me. 
 
 I tried to think — to think hard. Alas, I seemed only 
 able to listen. An hour had gone by since we parted from 
 that rascal in the court, and we might expect him to appear 
 at any moment, vengeful and exultant, with a posse at his 
 back. Yet I tried hard to think; and the fog presently sug- 
 gested a possible course. "Look here," I said suddenly, 
 speaking for the first time, " if you do not start until the fog 
 lifts, captain, we may as well breakfast ashore, and return 
 presently." 
 
 "That is as you please," he answered indifferently. 
 
 "What do you think?" I said, turning to my companions 
 with as much carelessness as I could command. "Had we 
 not better do that?" 
 
 Mistress Bertram did not understand, but in her despair 
 she obeyed the motion of my hand mechanically, and walked 
 to the side. The younger woman followed more slowly, so 
 that I had to speak to her with some curtness, bidding her 
 make haste; for I was in a fever until we were clear of the 
 Whelp and the Lion Wharf. It had struck me that, if the 
 ship were not to leave at once, we were nowhere in so much 
 
MASTER CLARENCE, d^ 
 
 danger as on board. At large in the fog we might escape 
 detection for a time. Our pursuers might as well look for a 
 needle in a haystack as seek us through it when once we 
 were clear of the wharf. And this was not the end of my 
 idea. But for the present it was enough. Therefore I 
 took up Mistress Anne very short. "Come!" I said, "be 
 quick! Let me help you." 
 
 She obeyed, and I was ashamed of my impatience when 
 at the foot of the ladder she thanked me prettily. It was 
 almost with good cheer in my voice and a rebound of spirits 
 that I explained, as I hurried my companions across the 
 raft, what my plan was. 
 
 The moment we were ashore I felt safer. The fog swal- 
 lowed us up quick, as the Bible says. The very hull of the 
 ship vanished from sight before we had gone half a dozen 
 paces. I had never seen a London fog before, and to me it 
 seemed portentous and providential; a marvel as great as 
 the crimson hail which fell in the London gardens to mark 
 her Majesty's accession. 
 
 Yet after all, without my happy thought, the fog would 
 have availed us little. We had scarcely gone a score of 
 yards before the cautious tread of several people hastening 
 down the strand toward the wharf struck my ear. They 
 were proceeding in silence, and we might not have noticed 
 their approach if the foremost had not by chance tripped 
 and fallen; whereupon one laughed and another swore. 
 With a warning hand I grasped my companions' arms, and 
 hurried them forward some paces until I felt sure that our 
 figures could not be seen through the mist. Then I halted, 
 and we stood listening, gazing into one another's strained 
 eyes, while the steps came nearer and nearer, crossed our 
 track and then with a noisy rush thundered on the wooden 
 raft. My ear caught the jingle of harness and the clank of 
 weapons. 
 
 "It is the watch," I muttered. "Come, and make no 
 noise. What I want is a little this way. I fancy I saw it 
 as we passed down to the wharf." 
 
 They turned with me, but we had not taken many steps 
 before Mistress Anne, who was walking on my left side, 
 stumbled over something. She tried to save herself, but 
 failed and fell heavily, uttering as she did so a loud cry. I 
 sprang to her assistance, and even before I raised her I laid 
 
64 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 my hand lightly on her mouth. "Hush!" I said softly, 
 "for safety's sake, make no noise. What is the mat- 
 ter ? * ' 
 
 * 'Oh ! ' ' she moaned, making no effort to rise, * 'my ankle ! 
 my ankle! I am sure I have broken it." 
 
 I muttered my dismay, while Mistress Bertram, stooping 
 anxiously, examined the injured limb. "Can you stand?" 
 she asked. 
 
 But it was no time for questioning, and I put her aside. 
 The troop which had passed were within easy hearing, and 
 if there should be one among them familiar with the girl's 
 voice, we might be pounced upon, fog or no fog, I felt 
 that it was no time for ceremony, and picked Mistress Anne 
 up in my arms, whispering to the elder woman: "Go on 
 ahead! I think I see the boat. It is straight before you." 
 
 Luckily I was right, it was the boat; and so far well. 
 But at the moment I spoke I heard a sudden outcry behind 
 us, and knew the hunt was up. I plunged forward with my 
 burden, recklessly and blindly, through mud and over ob- 
 stacles. The wherry for which I was making was moored 
 in the water a few feet from the edge. I had remarked it 
 idly and without purpose as we came down to the wharf, and 
 had even noticed that the oars were lying in it. Now, if 
 we could reach it and start down the river for Leigh, we 
 might by possibility gain that place, and meet Mistress Ber- 
 tram's husband. 
 
 At any rate, nothing in the world seemed so desirable to 
 me at the moment as the shelter of that boat. I plunged 
 through the mud, and waded desperately through the water 
 to it. Mistress Bertram scarce a whit behind me. I reached 
 it, but reached it only as the foremost pursuer caught sighi 
 of us. I heard his shout of triumph, and somehow I 
 bundled my burden into the boat — I remember that she 
 clung about my neck in fear, and I had to loosen her hands 
 roughly. But I did loosen them — in time. With one 
 stroke of my hunting-knife, I severed the rope, and pushing 
 off the boat with all my strength, sprang into it as it floated 
 away — and was in time. But one second's delay would 
 have undone us. Two men were already in the water up to 
 their knees, and their very breath was hot on my face as we 
 swung out into the stream. 
 
 Fortunately, I had had experience of boats on the Avon, 
 
MASTER CLARENCE, 65 
 
 at Bidford and Stratford, and could pull a good oar. For 
 a moment indeed the wherry rolled and dipped as I 
 snatched up the sculls ; but I quickly got her in hand, and, 
 bending to my work, sent her spinning through the mist, 
 every stroke I pulled increasing the distance between us and 
 our now unseen foes. Happily we were below London 
 Bridge, and had not that dangerous passage to make. The 
 river, too, was nearly clear of craft, and though once and 
 again in the Pool a huge hulk loomed suddenly across our 
 bows, and then faded behind us into the mist like some 
 monstrous phantom, and so told of a danger narrowly 
 escaped, I thought it best to run all risks, and go ahead as 
 long as the tide should ebb. 
 
 It was strange how suddenly we had passed from storm 
 into calm. Mistress Anne had bound her ankle with a 
 handkerchief, and bravely made light of the hurt ; and now 
 the two women sat crouching in the stern watching me, 
 their heads together, their faces pale. The mist had closed 
 round us, and we were alone again, gliding over the bosom 
 of the great river that runs down to the sea. I was oddly 
 struck by the strange current of life which for a week had 
 tossed me from one adventure to another, only to bring me 
 into contact at length with these two, and sweep me into 
 the unknown whirlpool of their fortunes. 
 
 Who were they? A merchant's wife and her sister flying 
 from Bishop Bonner's inquisition? I thought it likely. 
 Their cloaks and hoods indeed, and all that I could see of 
 their clothes, fell below such a condition ; but probably 
 they were worn as a disguise. Their speech rose as much 
 above it, but I knew that of late many merchant's wives had 
 j3ecome scholars, and might pass in noblemen's houses; 
 even as in those days when London waxed fat, and set up 
 and threw down governments, every alderman had come to 
 ride in mail. 
 
 No doubt the women, watching me in anxious silence, were 
 as curious about me. I still bore the stains of country 
 travel. I was unwashen, unkempt, my doublet was torn, 
 the cloak I had cast at my feet was the very wreck of a 
 cloak. Yet I read no distrust in their looks. The elder's 
 brave eyes seemed ever thanking me. I never saw her lips 
 move silently that they did not shape "Well done!" And 
 though I caught Mistress Anne scanning me once or twice 
 
66 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 with an expression I could ill interpret, a smile took its 
 place the moment her gaze met mine. 
 
 We had passed, but were still in sight of, Greenwich 
 Palace — as they told me — when the mist rose suddenly like 
 a curtain rolled away, and the cold, bright February sun, 
 shining out, disclosed the sparkling river with the green 
 hills rising on our right hand. Here and there on its sur- 
 face a small boat such as our own moved to and fro, and in 
 the distant Pool from which we had come rose a little forest 
 of masts. I hung on the oars a moment, and my eyes were 
 drawn to a two-masted vessel which, nearly half a mile 
 below us, was drifting down, gently heeling over with the 
 current as the crew got up the sails. "I wonder whither 
 she is bound," I said thoughtfully, "and whether they 
 would take us on board by any chance." 
 
 Mistress Bertram shook her head. "I have no money," 
 she answered sadly. "I fear we must go on to Leigh, if it 
 be any way possible. You are tired, and no wonder. But 
 what is it?" with a sudden change of voice. "What is the 
 matter?" 
 
 I had flashed out the oars with a single touch, and begun 
 to pull as fast as I could down the stream. No doubt my 
 face, too, proclaimed my discovery and awoke her fears. 
 "Look behind!" I muttered between my set teeth. 
 
 She turned, and on the instant uttered a low cry. A 
 wherry like our own, but even lighter — in my first glance up 
 the river I had not noticed it — had stolen nearer to us, and 
 yet nearer, and now throwing aside disguise was in hot pur- 
 suit of us. There were three men on board, two rowing and 
 one steering. When they saw that we had discovered them 
 they hailed us in a loud voice, and I heard the steersman's 
 feet rattle on the boards, as he cried to his men to give way, 
 and stamped in very eagerness. My only reply was to take 
 a longer stroke, and, pulling hard, to sweep away from them. 
 
 But presently my first strength died away, and the work 
 began to tell upon me, and little by little they overhauled 
 us. Not that I gave up at once for that. They were still 
 some sixty yards behind, and for a few minutes at any rate 
 I might put off capture. In that time something might 
 happen. At the worst they were only three to one, and 
 their boat looked light and cranky and easy to upset. 
 
 So I pulled on, savagely straining at the oars. But my 
 
MASTER CLARENCE. 67 
 
 chest heaved and my arms ached more and more with each 
 stroke. The banks slid by us ; we turned one bend, then 
 another, though I saw nothing of them. I saw only the 
 pursuing boat, on which my eyes were fixed, heard only the 
 measured rattle of the oars in the rowlocks. A minute, two 
 minutes, three minutes passed. They had not gained on 
 us, but the water was beginning to waver before my eyes, 
 their boat seemed floating in the air, there was a pulsation 
 in my ears louder than that of the oars, I struggled and yet 
 I flagged. My knees trembled. Their boat shot nearer 
 now, nearer and nearer, so that I could read the smile of 
 triumph on the steersman's dark face and hear his cry of 
 exultation. Nearer! and then with a cry I dropped the 
 oars. 
 
 "Quick ! " I panted to my companions. * 'Change places 
 with me! So!" Trembling and out of breath as I was, I 
 crawled between the women and gained the stern sheets of 
 the boat. As I passed Mistress Bertram she clutched my 
 arm. Her eyes, as they met mine, flashed fire, her lips were 
 white. "The man steering!" she hissed between her teeth. 
 "Leave the others. He is Clarence, and I fear him!" 
 
 I nodded; but still, as the hostile boat bore swiftly down 
 upon us, I cast a glance round to see if there were any help 
 at hand. I saw no sign of any. I saw only the pale blue 
 sky overhead, and the stream flowing swiftly under the boat. 
 I drew my sword. The case was one rather for despair 
 than courage. The women were in my charge, and if I did 
 not acquit myself like a man now, when should I do so? 
 Bah! it would soon be over. 
 
 There was an instant's confusion in the other boat, as the 
 crew ceased rowing, and, seeing my attitude and not liking 
 it, changed their seats. To my joy the man, who had hith- 
 erto been steering, flung a curse at the others and came for- 
 ward to bear the brunt of the encounter. He was a tall, 
 sinewy man, past middle age, with a clean-shaven face, a 
 dark complexion, and cruel eyes. So he was Master Clar- 
 ence ! Well, he had the air of a swordsman and a soldier. 
 I trembled for the women. 
 
 "Surrender, you fool!" he cried to me harshly. "In 
 the Queen's- name — do you hear? What do you in this 
 company?" 
 
 I answered nothing, for I was out of breath. But softly, 
 
68 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 my eyes on his, I drew out with my left hand my hunting- 
 knife. If I could beat aside his sword, I would spring upon 
 him and drive the knife home with that hand. So, standing 
 erect in bow and stern we faced one another, the man and 
 the boy, the flush of rage and exertion on my cheek, a dark 
 shade on his. And silently the boats drew together. 
 
 Thought is quick, quicker than anything else in the world 
 I suppose, for in some drawn-out second before the boats 
 came together I had time to wonder where I had seen his 
 face before, and to rack my memory. I knew no Master 
 Clarence, yet I had seen this man somewhere. Another 
 second, and away with thought ! He was crouching for a 
 spring. I drew back a little, then lunged — lunged with 
 heart and hand. Our swords crossed and whistled — just 
 crossed — and even as I saw his eyes gleam behind his point, 
 the shock of the two boats coming together flung us both 
 backward and apart. A moment we reeled, staggering and 
 throwing out wild hands. I strove hard to recover myself, 
 nay, I almost did so; then I caught my foot in Mistress 
 Anne's cloak, which she had left in her place, and fell 
 heavily back into the boat. 
 
 I was up in a moment — on my knees at least — and unhurt. 
 But another was before me. As I stooped half-risen, I saw 
 one moment a dark shadow above me, and the next a sheet 
 of flame shone before my eyes, and a tremendous shock 
 swept all away. I fell senseless into the bottom of the boat, 
 knowing nothing of what had happened to me. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ON BOARD THE **FRAMLINGHAM. " 
 
 1AM told by people who have been seasick that the 
 sound of the waves beating against the hull comes in 
 time to be an intolerable torment. But bad as this may be, 
 it can be nothing in comparison with the pains I suffered 
 from the same cause, as I recovered my senses. My brain 
 seemed to be a cavern into which each moment, with a 
 rhythmical regularity which added the pangs of anticipation 
 to those of reality, the sea rushed, booming and thundering, 
 jarring every nerve and straining the walls to bursting, and 
 making each moment of consciousness a vivid agony. And 
 this lasted long; how long I cannot say. But it had sub- 
 sided somewhat when I first opened my eyes, and dully, 
 not daring to move my head, looked up. 
 
 I was lying on my back. About a foot from my eyes 
 were rough beams of wood disclosed by a smoky yellow 
 light, which flickered on the knotholes and rude joists. 
 The light swayed to and fro regularly; and this adding to 
 my pain, I closed my eyes with a moan. Then some one 
 came to me, and I heard voices which sounded a long way 
 off, and promptly fell again into a deep sleep, troubled still, 
 but less painfully, by the same rhythmical shocks, the same 
 dull crashings in my brain. 
 
 When I awoke again I had sense to know what caused 
 this, and where I was — in a berth on board ship. The 
 noise which had so troubled me was that of the waves beat- 
 ing against her forefoot. The beams so close to my face 
 formed the deck, the smoky light came from the ship's lan- 
 tern swinging on a hook. I tried to turn. Some one came 
 again, and with gentle hands arranged my pillow and pres- 
 ently began to feed me with a spoon. When I had swal- 
 lowed a few mouthfuls I gained strength to turn. 
 
 Who was this feedinp^ me? The light was at her back 
 
70 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 and dazzled me. For a short while I took her for Petro- 
 nilla, my thoughts going back at one bound to Coton, and 
 skipping all that had happened since I left home. But as I 
 grew stronger I grew clearer, and recalling bit by bit what 
 had happened in the boat, I recognized Mistress Anne. I 
 tried to murmur thanks, but she laid a cool finger on my 
 lips and shook her head, smiling on me. "You must not 
 talk," she murmured, "you are getting well. Now go to 
 sleep again." 
 
 I shut my eyes at once as a child might. Another interval 
 of unconsciousness, painless this time, followed, and again I 
 awoke, I was lying on my side now, and without moving 
 could see the whole of the tiny cabin. The lantern still 
 hung and smoked. But the light was steady now, and I 
 heard no splashing without, nor the dull groaning and creak- 
 ing of the timbers within. There reigned a quiet which 
 seemed bliss to me ; and I lay wrapped in it, my thoughts 
 growing clearer and clearer each moment. 
 
 On a sea-chest at the farther end of the cabin were sitting 
 two people engaged in talk. The one, a woman, I recog- 
 nized immediately. The gray eyes full of command, the 
 handsome features, the reddish-brown hair and gracious 
 figure left me in no doubt, even for a moment, that I looked 
 on Mistress Bertram. The sharer of her seat was a tall, 
 thin man with a thoughtful face and dreamy, rather melan- 
 choly eyes. One of her hands rested on his knee, and her 
 lips as she talked were close to his ear. A little aside, sit- 
 ting on the lowest step of the ladder which led to the deck, 
 her head leaning against the timbers, and a cloak about her, 
 was Mistress Anne. 
 
 I tried to speak, and after more than one effort found my 
 voice. "Where am I?" I whispered. My head ached 
 sadly, and I fancied, though I was too languid to raise my 
 hand to it, that it was bandaged. My mind was so far 
 clear that I remembered Master Clarence and his pursuit 
 and the fight in the boats, and knew that we ought to be on 
 our way to prison. Who, then, was the mild, comely gentle- 
 man whose length of limb made the cabin seem smaller than 
 it was? Not a jailer, surely? Yet who else? 
 
 I could compass no more than a whisper, but faint as my 
 voice was they all heard me, and looked up. "Anne!" the 
 elder lady cried sharply, seeming by her tone to direct the 
 
ON- BOARD THE '' FRAMLINGHAMr 71 
 
 Other to attend to me. Yet was she herself the first to rise, 
 and come and lay her hand on my brow. "Ah! the fever 
 is gone!" she said, speaking apparently to the gentleman, 
 who kept his seat. "His head is quite cool. He will do 
 well now, I am sure. Do you know me?" she continued, 
 leaning over me. 
 
 I looked up into her eyes, and read only kindness. 
 "Yes," I muttered. But the effort of looking was so pain- 
 ful that I closed my eyes again with a sigh. Nevertheless, 
 my memory of the events which had gone before my illness 
 grew clearer, and I fumbled feebly for something which 
 should have been at my side. "Where is — where is my 
 sword?" I made shift to whisper. 
 
 She laughed. "Show it to him, Anne," she said; "what 
 a never-die it is! There, Master Knight Errant, we did 
 not forget to bring it off the field, you see!" 
 
 "But how," I murmured, "how did you escape ? " T saw 
 that there was no question of a prison. Her laugh was 
 gay, her voice full of content. 
 
 "That is a long story," she answered kindly. "Are you 
 well enough to hear it? You think you are? Then take 
 some of this first. You remember that knave Philip strik- 
 ing you on the head with an oar as you got up? No? 
 Well, it was a cowardly stroke, but it stood him in little 
 stead, for we had drifted, in the excitement of the race, 
 under the stern of the ship which you remember seeing a 
 little before. There were English seamen on her; and 
 when they saw three men in the act of boarding two de- 
 fenseless women, they stepped in, and threatened to send 
 Clarence and his crew to the bottom unless they sheered 
 off." 
 
 "Ha!" I murmured. "Good!" 
 
 "And so we escaped. I prayed the captain to take us on 
 board his ship, the Framlingham, and he did so. More, 
 putting into Leigh on his way to the Nore, he took off my 
 husband. There he stands, and when you are better he 
 shall thank you." 
 
 "Nay, he will thank you now," said the tall man, rising 
 and stepping to my berth with his head bent. He could 
 not stand upright, so low was the deck. "But for you," he 
 continued, his earnestness showing in his voice and eyes — 
 the latter were almost too tender for a man's — "my wife 
 
72 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 would be now lying in prison, her life in jeopardy, and her 
 property as good as gone. She has told me how bravely 
 you rescued her from that cur in Cheapside, and how your 
 presence of mind baffled the watch at the riverside. It is 
 well, young gentleman. It is very well. But these things 
 call for other returns than words. When it lies in her power 
 my wife will make them ; if not to-day, to-morrow, and if 
 not to-morrow, the day after." 
 
 I was very weak, and his words brought the tears to my 
 eyes. "She has saved my life already," I murmured. 
 
 "You foolish boy!" she cried, smiling down on me, her 
 hand on her husband's shoulder. "You got your head 
 broken in my defense. It was a great thing, was it not, that 
 I did not leave you to die in the boat? There, make haste 
 and get well. You have talked enough now. Go to sleep, 
 or we shall have the fever back again." 
 
 "One thing first," I pleaded. "Tell me whither we are 
 going." 
 
 "In a few hours we shall be at Dort in Holland," she 
 answered. "But be content. We will take care of you, 
 and send you back if you will, or you shall still come with 
 us; as you please. Be content. Go to sleep now and get 
 strong. Presently, perhaps, we shall have need of your 
 help again." 
 
 They went and sat down then on their former seat and 
 talked in whispers, while Mistress Anne shook up my pil- 
 lows, and laid a fresh cool bandage on my head. I vvas 
 too weak to speak my gratitude, but I tried to look it and 
 so fell asleep again, her hand in mine, and the wondrous 
 smile of those lustrous eyes the last impression of which I 
 was conscious. 
 
 A long dreamless sleep followed. When I awoke once 
 more the light still hung steady, but the peacefulness of 
 night was gone. We lay in the midst of turmoil. The 
 scampering of feet over the deck above me, the creaking of 
 the windlass, the bumping and clattering of barrels hoisted 
 in or hoisted out, the harsh sound of voices raised in a 
 foreign tongue and in queer keys, sufficed as I grew wide- 
 awake to tell me we were in port. 
 
 But the cabin was empty, and I lay for some time gazing 
 at its dreary interior, and wondering what was to become of 
 me. Presently an uneasy fear crept into my mind. What 
 
ON BOARD THE '' FRAMLINGHAM." 73 
 
 if my companions had deserted me? Alone, ill, and pen- 
 niless in a foreign land, what should I do? This fear in my 
 sick state was so terrible that 1 struggled to get up, and 
 with reeling brain and nerveless hands did get out of my 
 berth. But this feat accomplished I found that I could not 
 stand. Everything swam before my eyes. I could not 
 take a single step, but remained, clinging helplessly to the 
 edge of my berth, despair at my heart. I tried to call out, 
 but my voice rose little above a whisper, and the banging and 
 shrieking, the babel without went on endlessly. Oh, it was 
 cruel! cruel! They had left me! 
 
 I think my senses were leaving me too, when I felt an 
 arm about my waist, and found Mistress Anne by my side 
 guiding me to the chest. I sat down on it, the certainty of 
 my helplessness and the sudden relief of her presence bring- 
 ing the tears to my eyes. She fanned me, and gave me 
 some restorative, chiding me the while for getting out of 
 my berth. 
 
 "I thought that you had gone and left me," I muttered. 
 I was as weak as a child. 
 
 She said cheerily: "Did you leave us when we were in 
 trouble? Of course you did not. There, take some more 
 of this. After all, it is well you are up, for in a short time 
 we must move you to the other boat." 
 
 "The other boat?" 
 
 "Yes, we are at Dort, you know. And we are going by 
 the Waal, a branch of the Rhine, to Arnheim. But the 
 boat is here, close to this one, and, with help, I think you 
 will be able to walk to it." 
 
 "I am sure I shall if you will give me your arm," I 
 answered gratefully. 
 
 "But you will not think again," she replied, "that we 
 have deserted you?" 
 
 "No," I said. "I will trust you always." 
 
 I wondered why a shadow crossed her face at that. But 
 I had no time to do more than wonder, for Master Bertram, 
 coming down, brought our sitting to an end. She bustled 
 about to wrap me up, and somehow, partly walking, partly 
 carried, I was got on deck. There I sat down on a bale to 
 recover myself, and felt at once much the better for the 
 fresh, keen air, the clear sky and wintry sunshine which 
 welcomed me to a foreign land. 
 
 On the outer side of the vessel stretched a wide expanse 
 
74 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 of turbid water, five or six times as wide as the Thames at 
 London, and foam-flecked here and there by the up-running 
 tide. On the other side was a wide and spacious quay, 
 paved neatly with round stones, and piled here and there 
 with merchandise; but possessing, by virtue of the lines of 
 leafless elms which bordered it, a quaint air of rusticity in 
 the midst of bustle. The sober bearing of the sturdy lands- 
 men, going quietly about their business, accorded well with 
 the substantial comfort of the rows of tall, steep-roofed 
 houses I saw beyond the quay, and seemed only made 
 more homely by the occasional swagger and uncouth cry of 
 some half-barbarous seaman, wandering aimlessly about. 
 Above the town rose the heavy square tower of a church, 
 a notable landmark where all around, land and water, lay 
 so low, where the horizon seemed so far, and the sky so 
 wide and breezy. 
 
 "So you have made up your mind to come with us," said 
 Master Bertram, returning to my side — he had left me to 
 make some arrangements. "You understand that if you 
 would prefer to go home I can secure your tendance here 
 by good, kindly people, and provide for your passage back 
 when you feel strong enough to cross. You understand 
 that? And that the choice is entirely your own? So which 
 will you do?" 
 
 I changed color and felt I did. I shrunk, as being well 
 and strong I should not have shrunk, from losing sight of 
 those three faces which I had known for so short a time, yet 
 which alone stood between myself and loneliness. "I 
 would rather come with you," I stammered. "But I shall 
 be a great burden to you now, I fear." 
 
 "It is not that," he replied, with hearty assurance in 
 his voice. "A week's rest and quiet will restore you to 
 strength, and then the burden will be on the other shoulder. 
 It is for your own sake I give you the choice, because our 
 future is for the time uncertain. Very uncertain," he re- 
 j)eated, his brow clouding over; "and to become our com- 
 panion may expose you to fresh dangers. We are refugees 
 from England ; that you probably guess. Our plan was to 
 go to France, where are many of our friends, and where we 
 could live safely until better times. You know how that 
 plan was frustrated. Here the Spaniards are masters — 
 Prince Philip's people; and if we are recognized, we shall 
 
ON BOARD THE " FRAMLINGHAM:' 75 
 
 be arrested and sent back to England. Still, my wife and I 
 must make the best of it. The hue and cry will not follow 
 us for some days, and there is still a degree of independence 
 in the cities of Holland which may, since I have friends 
 here, protect us for a time. Now you know something 
 of our position, my friend. You can make your choice 
 with your eyes open. Either way we shall not forget 
 you." 
 
 "I will go on with you, if you please," I answered at 
 once. "I, too, cannot go home." And as I said this, 
 Mistress Bertram also came up, and I took her hand in 
 mine — which looked, by the way, so strangely thin I scarcely 
 recognized it — and kissed it. "I will come with you, 
 madam, if you will let me," I said. 
 
 "Good!" she replied, her eyes sparkling. "I said you 
 would ! I do not mind telling you now that I am glad of 
 it. And if ever we return to England, as God grant we 
 may and soon, you shall not regret your decision. Shall 
 he, Richard?" 
 
 "If you say he shall not, my dear," he responded, smil- 
 ing at her enthusiasm, "I think I may answer for it he will 
 not." 
 
 I was struck then, as I had been before, by a certain air 
 of deference which the husband assumed toward the wife. 
 It did not surprise me, for her bearing and manner, as well 
 as such of her actions as I had seen, stamped her as singu- 
 larly self-reliant and independent for a woman ; and to these 
 qualities, as much as to the rather dreamy character of the 
 husband, I was content to set down the peculiarity. I 
 should add that a rare and pretty tenderness constantly 
 displayed on her part toward him robbed it of any 
 semblance of unseemliness. 
 
 They saw that the exertion of talking exhausted me, and 
 so, with an encouraging nod, left me to myself. A few 
 minutes later a couple of English sailors, belonging to the 
 Framlingham, came up, and with gentle strength transported 
 me, under Mistress Anne's directions, to a queer-looking 
 wide-beamed boat which lay almost alongside. She was 
 more like a huge Thames barge than anything else, for she 
 drew little water, but had a great expanse of sail when all 
 was set. There was a large deck-house, gay with paint and 
 as clean as it could be ; and in a compartment at one end 
 
76 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 of this — which seemed to be assigned to our party — I was 
 soon comfortably settled. 
 
 Exhausted as I was by the excitement of sitting up and 
 being moved, I knew little of what passed about me for the 
 next two days, and remember less. I slept and ate, and 
 sometimes awoke to wonder where I was. But the meals 
 and the vague attempts at thought made scarcely more im- 
 pression on my mind than the sleep. Yet all the while I 
 was gaining strength rapidly, my youth and health standing 
 me in good stead. The wound in my head, which had 
 caused great loss of blood, healed all one way, as we say 
 in Warwickshire; and about noon, on the second day after 
 leaving Dort, I was well enough to reach the deck unassisted, 
 and sit in th'fe sunshine on a pile of rugs which Mistress 
 Anne, my constant nurse, had laid for me in a corner shel- 
 tered from the wind. 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 Fortunately the weather was mild and warm, and the 
 sunshine fell brightly on the wide river and the wider plain 
 of pasture which stretched away on either side of the hori- 
 zon, dotted, here and there only, by a windmill, a farm- 
 house, the steeple of a church, the brown sails of a barge, 
 or at most broken by a low dike or a line of sand-dunes. 
 All was open, free ; all was largeness, space, and distance. 
 I gazed astonished. 
 
 The husband and wife, who were pacing the deck for- 
 ward, came to me. He noticed the wondering looks I cast 
 round. "This is new to you?" he said smiling. 
 
 "Quite — quite new," I answered. 'T never imagined 
 anything so flat, and yet in its way so beautiful." 
 
 "You do not know Lincolnshire?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Ah, that is my native county," he answered. "It is 
 much like this. But you are better, and you can talk again. 
 Now I and my wife have been discussing whether we shall 
 tell you more about ourselves. And since there is no time 
 like the present I may say that we have decided to trust 
 you." 
 
 "All in all or not at all," Mistress Bertram added 
 brightly. 
 
 I murmured my thanks. 
 
 "Then, first to tell you who we are. For myself I am 
 
ON BOARD THE '' FRAMLINGHAMr 77 
 
 plain Richard Bertie of Lincolnshire, at your service. My 
 wife is something more than appears from this, or" — 
 with a smile — "from her present not too graceful dress. 
 She is " 
 
 "Stop, Richard! This is not sufficiently formal," my 
 lady cried prettily. "I have the honor to present to you, 
 young gentleman," she went on, laughing merrily and mak- 
 ing a very grand courtesy before me, "Katherine, Duchess 
 of Suffolk." 
 
 I made shift to get to my feet, and bowed respectfully, 
 but she forced me to sit down again. "Enough of that," 
 she said lightly, "until we go back to England. Here and 
 for the future we are Master Bertram and his wife. And this 
 young lady, my distant kinswoman, Anne Brandon, must 
 pass as Mistress Anne. You wonder how we came to be 
 straying in the streets alone and unattended when you 
 found us?" 
 
 I did wonder, for the name of the gay and brilliant Duch- 
 ess of Suffolk was well known even to me, a country lad. 
 Her former husband, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, 
 had been not only the one trusted and constant friend of 
 King Henry the Eighth, but the king's brother-in-law, his 
 first wife having been Mary, Princess of England and Queen 
 Dowager of France. Late in his splendid and prosperous 
 career the Duke had married Katherine, the heiress of 
 Lord Willoughby de Eresby, and she it was who stood 
 before me, still young and handsome. After her husband's 
 death she had made England ring with her name, first by a 
 love match with a Lincolnshire squire, and secondly by her 
 fearless and outspoken defense of the reformers. I did 
 wonder indeed how she had come to be wandering in the 
 streets at daybreak, an object of a chance passer's chivalry 
 and pity. 
 
 "It is simple enough," she said dryly; "I am rich, I am 
 a Protestant, and I have an enemy. When I do not like a 
 person I speak out. Do I not, Richard?" 
 
 "You do indeed, my dear," he answered smiling. 
 
 "And once I spoke out to Bishop Gardiner. What! 
 Do you know Stephen Gardiner?" 
 
 For I had started at the name, after which I could 
 scarcely have concealed my knowledge if I would. So I 
 answered simply, "Yes, I have seen him." I was thinking 
 
78 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 how wonderful this was. These people had been utter 
 strangers to me until a day or two before, yet now we were 
 all looking out together from the deck of a Dutch boat on 
 the low Dutch landscape, united by one tie, the enmity of 
 the same man. 
 
 "He is a man to be dreaded," the Duchess continued, 
 her eyes resting on her baby, which lay asleep on my bundle 
 of rugs — and I guessed what fear it was had tamed her pride 
 to flight. "His power in England is absolute. We learned 
 that it was his purpose to arrest me, and determined to leave 
 England. But our very household was full of spies, and 
 though we chose a time when Clarence, our steward, whom 
 we had long suspected of being Gardiner's chief tool, was 
 away, Philip, his deputy, gained a clew to our design, and 
 watched us. We gave him the slip with difficulty, leaving 
 our luggage, but he dogged and overtook us, and the rest 
 you know." 
 
 I bowed. As I gazed at her, my admiration, I know, 
 shone in my eyes. She looked, as she stood on the deck, 
 an exile and fugitive, so gay, so bright, so indomitable, that 
 in herself she was at once a warranty and an omen of better 
 times. The breeze had heightened her color and loosened 
 here and there a tress of her auburn hair. No wonder Mas- 
 ter Bertie looked proudly on his Duchess. 
 
 Suddenly a thing I had clean forgotten flashed into my 
 mind, and I thrust my hand into my pocket. The action 
 was so abrupt that it attracted their attention, and when I 
 pulled out a packet — two packets — there were three pairs of 
 eyes upon me. The seal dangled from one missive. 
 "What have you there?" the Duchess asked briskly, for she 
 was a woman, and curious. "Do you carry the deeds of 
 your property about with you?" 
 
 "No," I said, not unwilling to make a small sensation. 
 "This touches your Grace." 
 
 "Hush!" she cried, raising one imperious finger. 
 "Transgressing already? From this time forth I am Mis- 
 tress Bertram, remember. But come," she went on, eying 
 the packet with the seal inquisitively, "how does it touch 
 me?" 
 
 I put it silently into her hands, and she opened it and 
 read a few lines, her husband peeping over her shoulder. 
 As she read her brow darkened, her eyes grew hard. Mas- 
 
ON BOARD THE " FRAMLINGHAMr 79 
 
 ter Bertie*s face changed with hers, and they both peeped 
 suddenly at me over the edge of the parchment, suspicion 
 and hostility in their glances. "How came you by this, 
 young sir?" he said slowly, after a long pause. "Have we 
 escaped Peter to fall into the hands of Paul?" 
 
 "No, no!" I cried hurriedly. I saw that I had made a 
 greater sensation than I had bargained for. I hastened to 
 tell them how I had met with Gardiner's servant at Stony 
 Stratford, and how I had become possessed of his creden-' 
 tials. They laughed of course — indeed they laughed so 
 loudly that the placid Dutchmen, standing aft with their 
 hands in their breeches-pockets, stared open-mouthed at us, 
 and the kindred cattle on the bank looked mildly up from 
 the knee-deep grass. 
 
 "And what was the other packet?" the Duchess asked 
 presently. "Is that it in your hand?" 
 
 "Yes," 1 answered, holding it up with some reluc- 
 tance. * *It seems to be a lettet addressed to Mistress Clar- 
 ence." 
 
 "Clarence!" she cried. "Clarence!" arresting the hand 
 she was extending. "What! Here is our friend again 
 then. What is in it? You have opened it?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You have not? Then quick, open it!" she exclaimed. 
 "This too touches us, I will bet a penny. Let us see at 
 once what it contains. Clarence indeed! Perhaps we 
 may have him on the hip yet, the arch-traitor!" 
 
 But I held the pocket-book back, though my cheeks red- 
 dened and I knew I must seem foolish. They made certain 
 that this letter was a communication to some spy, probably 
 to Clarence himself under cover of a feminine address. 
 Perhaps it was, but it bore a woman's name and it was 
 sealed; and foolish though I might be, I would not betray 
 the woman's secret. 
 
 "No, madam," I said confused, awkward, stammering, 
 yet withholding it with a secret obstinacy ; "pardon me if I 
 do not obey you — if I do not let this be opened. It may 
 be what you say," I added with an effort; "but it may also 
 contain an honest secret, and that a woman's." 
 
 "What do you say?" cried the Duchess; "here are scru- 
 ples!" At that her husband smiled, and I looked in 
 despair from him to Mistress Anne. Would she sympathize 
 
8o THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 with my feelings? I found that she had turned her back on 
 us, and was gazing over the side. **Do you really mean," 
 continued the Duchess, tapping her foot sharply on the 
 deck, "that you are not going to open that, you foolish 
 boy?" 
 
 **I do — with your Grace's leave," I answered. 
 
 "Or without my Grace's leave! That is what you 
 mean," she retorted pettishly, a red spot in each cheek. 
 "When people will not do what I ask, it is always, Grace! 
 Grace! Grace! But I know them now." 
 
 I dared not smile ; and I would not look up, lest my 
 heart should fail me and I should give her her way. 
 
 "You foolish boy!" she again said, and sniffed. Then 
 with a toss of her head she went away, her husband follow- 
 ing her obediently. 
 
 I feared that she was grievously offended, and I got up 
 restlessly and went across the deck to the rail on which 
 Mistress Anne was leaning, meaning to say something 
 which should gain for me her sympathy, perhaps her advice. 
 But the words died on my lips, for as I approached she 
 turned her face abruptly toward me, and it was so white, so 
 haggard, so drawn, that I uttered a cry of alarm. "You 
 are ill!" I exclaimed. "Tet me call the Duchess!" 
 
 She gripped my sleeve almost fiercely, "Hush!" she 
 muttered. "Do nothing of the kind. I am not well. It 
 is the water. But it will pass off, if you do not notice 
 it. I hate to be noticed," she added, with an angry 
 shrug. 
 
 I was full of pity for. her and reproached myself sorely. 
 "What a selfish brute I have been!" I said. "You have 
 watched by me night after night, and nursed me day after 
 day, and I have scarcely thanked you. And now you are 
 ill yourself. It is my fault!" 
 
 She looked at me, a wan smile on her face. * * A little, per- 
 haps," she answered faintly. "But it is chiefly the water. 
 I shall be better presently. About that letter — did you not 
 come to speak to me about it?" 
 
 "Never mind it now," I said anxiously. "Will you not 
 lie down on the rugs awhile? Let me give you my place," 
 I pleaded. 
 
 "No, no!" she cried impatiently; and seeing I vexed 
 her by my importunity, I desisted. "The letter," she went 
 on; "you will open it by and by?" 
 
ON BOARD THE '' FRAMLlNGHAMr 8 1 
 
 "No," I said slowly, considering, to tell the truth, the 
 strength of my resolution, "I think I shall not." 
 
 "You will! you will!" she repeated, with a kind of 
 scorn. "The Duchess will ask you again, and you will 
 give it to her. Of course you will!" 
 
 Her tone was strangely querulous, and her eyes continu- 
 ally flashed keen, biting glances at me. But I thought only 
 that she was ill and excited, and I fancied it was best to 
 humor her. "Well, perhaps I shall," I said soothingly. 
 "Possibly. It is hard to refuse her anything. And yet I 
 hope I may not. The girl — it may be a girl's secret." 
 
 "Well?" she asked, interrupting me abruptly, her voice 
 harsh and unmusical. "What of her?" She laid her hand 
 on her bosom as though to still some secret pain. I looked 
 at her, anxious and wondering, but she had again averted 
 her face. "What of her?" she repeated. 
 
 "Only that — I would not willingly hurt her!" I blurted 
 out. 
 
 She did not answer. She stood a moment, then to my 
 surprise she turned away without a word, and merely com- 
 manding me by a gesture of the hand not to follow, walked 
 slowly away. I watched her cross the deck and pass 
 through the doorway into the deck-house. She did not 
 once turn her face, and my only fear was that she was ill; 
 more seriously ill, perhaps, than she had acknowledged. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A HOUSE OF PEACE. 
 
 AS the day went on, therefore, I looked eagerly for Mis- 
 tress Anne's return, but she appeared no more, though 
 I maintained a close watch on the cabin-door. All the 
 afternoon, too, the Duchess kept away from me, and I 
 feared that I had seriously offended her; so that it was 
 with no very pleasant anticipations that, going into that part 
 of the deck-house which served us for a common room, to see 
 if the evening meal was set, I found only the Duchess and 
 Master Bertie prepared to sit down to it. I suppose that 
 something of my feeling was expressed in my face, for while 
 I was yet half-way between door and table, my lady gave 
 way to a peal of merriment. 
 
 "Come, sit down, and do not be afraid!" she cried pleas- 
 antly, her gray eyes still full of laughter. "I vow the lad 
 thinks I shall eat him. Nay, when all is said and done, I 
 like you the better, Sir Knight Errant, for your scruples. 
 I see that you are determined to act up to your name. But 
 that reminds me," she added in a more serious vein. "We 
 have been frank with you. You must be equally frank 
 with us. What are we to call you, pray?" 
 
 I looked down at my plate and felt my face grow scarlet. 
 The wound which the discovery of my father's treachery 
 had dealt me had begun to heal. In the action, the move- 
 ment, the adventure of the last fortnight, I had well-nigh 
 lost sight of the blot on my escutcheon, of the shame which 
 had driven me from home. But the question, "What are 
 we to call you?" revived the smart, and revived it with an 
 added pang. It had been very well, in theory, to proudly 
 discard my old name. It was painful, in practice, to be un- 
 able to answer the Duchess, "I am a Cludde of Coton, 
 nephew to Sir Anthony, formerly esquire of the body to 
 King Henry. I am no unworthy follower and #«"iociate 
 
A HOUSE OF PEACE. 83 
 
 even for you," and to have instead to reply, "I have no 
 name. I am nobody. I have all to make and win." Yet 
 this was my ill- fortune. 
 
 Her woman's eye saw my trouble as I hesitated, confused 
 and doubting what I should reply. "Come!" she said 
 good-naturedly, trying to reassure me. "You are of gentle 
 birth. Of that we feel sure." 
 
 I shook my head. "Nay, I am of no birth, madam," I 
 answered hurriedly. "I have no name, or at any rate no 
 name that I can be proud of. Call me — call me, if it please 
 you, Francis Carey." 
 
 "It is a good name, ' * quoth Master Bertie, pausing with his 
 knife suspended in the air. "A right good Protestant name ! ' ' 
 
 "But I have no claim to it," I rejoined, more and more 
 hurt. "I have all to make. I am a new man. Yet do not 
 fear!" I added quickly, as I saw what I took to be a cloud 
 of doubt cross my lady's face. "I will follow you no less 
 faithfully for that!" 
 
 "Well," said the Duchess, a smile again transforming 
 her open features, "I will answer for that. Master Carey. 
 Deeds are better than names, and as for being a new man, 
 what with Pagets and Cavendishes and Spencers, we have 
 nought but new men nowadays. So, cheer up!" she con- 
 tinued kindly. * 'And we will poke no questions at you, though 
 I doubt whether you do not possess more birth and breed- 
 ing than you would have us think. And if, when we return 
 to England, as I trust we may before we are old men and 
 women, we can advance your cause, then let us have your 
 secret. No one can say that Katherine Willoughby ever 
 forgot her friend." 
 
 "Or forgave her enemy over quickly," quoth her hus- 
 band naively. 
 
 She rapped his knuckles with the back of her knife for 
 that; and under cover of this small diversion I had time to 
 regain my composure. But the matter left me sore at heart, 
 and more than a little homesick. And I sought leave to 
 retire early. 
 
 "You are right!" said the Duchess, rising graciously. 
 "To- night, after being out in the air, you will sleep soundly, 
 and to-morrow you will be a new man," with a faint smile. 
 "Believe me, I am not ungrateful. Master Francis, and I 
 will diligently seek occasion to repay both your gallant de- 
 
84 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 fense of the other day and your future service." She gave 
 me her hand to kiss, and I bent over it. "Now," she 
 continued, "do homage to my baby, and then I shall con- 
 sider that you are really one of us, and pledged to our 
 cause." 
 
 I kissed the tiny fist held out to me, a soft pink thing 
 looking like some dainty sea-shell. Master Bertie cordially 
 grasped my hand. And so under the oil-lamp in the neat 
 cabin of that old Dutch boat, somewhere on the Waal 
 between Gorcum and Nimuegen, we plighted our troth to 
 one another, and in a sense I became one of them. 
 
 I went to my berth cheered and encouraged by their 
 kindness. But the interview, satisfactory as it was, had set 
 up no little excitement in my brain, and it was long before I 
 slept. When I did I had a strange dream. I dreamed that 
 I was sitting in the hall at Coton, and that Petronilla was 
 standing on the dais looking fixedly at me with gentle, sor- 
 rowful eyes. I wanted to go to her, but I could not move; 
 every dreamer knows the sensation. I tried to call to her, 
 to ask her what was the matter, and why she so looked at 
 me. But I could utter no sound. And still she continued 
 to fix me with the same sad, reproachful eyes, in which I 
 read a warning, yet could not ask its meaning. 
 
 I struggled so hard that at last the spell was in a degree 
 broken. Following the direction of her eyes I looked down 
 at myself, and saw fastened to the breast of my doublet the 
 knot of blue velvet which she had made for my sword-hilt, 
 and which I had ever since carried in my bosom. More, I 
 saw, with a singular feeling of anger and sorrow, that a hand 
 which came over my shoulder was tugging hard at the rib- 
 bon in the attempt to remove it. 
 
 This gave me horrible concern, yet at the moment I could 
 not move nor do anything to prevent it. At last, making a 
 stupendous effort, I awoke, my last experience, dreaming, 
 being of the strange hand working at my breast. My first 
 waking idea was the same, so that I threw out my arms, and 
 cried aloud, and sat up. "Ugh!" I exclaimed, trembling 
 in the intensity of my relief, as I looked about and wel- 
 comed the now familiar surroundings. "It was only a 
 dream. It was " 
 
 I stopped abruptly, my eyes falling on a form lurking in 
 
A HOUSE OF PEACE. 85 
 
 the doorway. I could see it only dimly by the light of a 
 hanging lamp, which smoked and burned redly overhead. 
 Yet I could see it. It was real, substantial — a waking fig- 
 ure; nevertheless, a faint touch of superstitious terror still 
 clung to me. "Speak, please!" I asked. "Who is it?" 
 
 "It is only I," answered a soft voice, well known to me 
 — Mistress Anne's. **I came in to see how you were," she 
 continued, advancing a little, "and whether you were 
 sleeping. I am afraid I awoke you. But you seemed," 
 she added, "to be having such painful dreams that perhaps 
 it was as well I did." 
 
 I was fumbling in my breast while she spoke ; and cer- 
 tainly, whether in my sleep I had undone the fastenings or 
 had loosened them intentionally before I lay down (though 
 I could not remember doing so), my doublet and shirt were 
 open at the breast. The velvet knot was safe, however, in 
 that tiny inner pocket beside the letter, and I breathed 
 again. "lam very glad you did awake me!" I replied, 
 looking gratefully at her. "I was having a horrible dream. 
 But how good it was of you to think of me — and when you 
 are not well yourself, too." 
 
 "Oh, I am better," she murmured, her eyes, which glis- 
 tened in the light, fixed steadily on me. "Much better. 
 Now go to sleep again, and happier dreams to you. After 
 to-night," she added pleasantly, "I shall no longer consider 
 you as an invalid, nor intrude upon you." 
 
 And she was gone before I could reiterate my thanks. 
 The door fell to, and I was alone, full of kindly feelings 
 toward her, and of thankfulness that my horrible vision had 
 no foundation. "Thank Heaven!" I murmured more than 
 once, as I lay down; "it was only a dream." 
 
 Next day we reached Nimuegen, where we stayed a short 
 time. Leaving that place in the afternoon, twenty-four 
 hours' journeying, partly by river, partly, if I remember 
 rightly, by canal, brought us to the neighborhood of Arn- 
 heim on the Rhine. It was the ist of March, but the open- 
 ing month belied its reputation. There was a brightness, 
 a softness in the air, and a consequent feeling as of spring 
 which wo-ild better have befitted the middle of April. All 
 day we remained on deck enjoying the kindliness of nature, 
 which was especially grateful to me, in whom the sap of 
 
86 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDD^. 
 
 health war, beginning lo spring again; and we were stih. 
 there when one of those gorgeous sunsets which are peculiar 
 to that country began to fling its hues across our path. 
 We turned a jutting promontory, the boat began to fall off, 
 and the captain came up, his errand to tell us that our jour- 
 ney was done. 
 
 We went eagerly forward at the news, and saw in a kind 
 of bay, formed by a lake-like expansion of the river, a little 
 island green and low, its banks trimly set with a single row 
 of poplars. It was perhaps a quarter of a mile every way, 
 and a channel one-fourth as wide separated it from the 
 nearer shore of the river; to which, however, a long narrow 
 bridge of planks laid on trestles gave access. On the outer 
 side of the island, facing the river's course, stood a low 
 white house, before which a sloping green terrace, also bor- 
 dered with poplars, led down to a tiny pier. Behind and 
 around the house were meadows as trim and neat as a child's 
 toys, over which the eye roved with pleasure until it reached 
 the landward side of the island, and there detected, nestling 
 among gardens, a tiny village of half a dozen cottages. It 
 was a scene of enchanting peace and quietude. As we 
 slowly plowed our way up to the landing-place, I saw the 
 rabbits stand to gaze at us, and then with a flick of their 
 heels dart off to their holes. I marked the cattle moving 
 homeward in a string, and heard the wild fowl rise in creek 
 and pool with a whir of wings. I turned with a full heart 
 to my neighbor. "Is it not lovely?" I cried with enthusi- 
 asm. "Is it not a peaceful place — a very Garden of 
 Eden?" 
 
 I looked to see her fall into raptures such as women are 
 commonly more prone to than men. But all women are 
 not the same. Mistress Anne was looking, indeed, when I 
 turned and surprised her, at the scene which had so moved 
 me, but the expression of her face was sad and bitter and 
 utterly melancholy. The weariness and fatigue I had often 
 seen lurking in her eyes had invaded all her features. She 
 looked five years older; no longer a girl, but a grav-faced, 
 hopeless woman, whom the sight of this peaceful haven 
 rather smote to the heart than filled with anticipations of 
 safety and repose. 
 
 It was but for a moment I saw her so. Then she dashed 
 her hand across her eyes — though J[ saw no tears in them — 
 
A HOUSE OF PEACE, ^ 
 
 and with a pettish exclamation turned away. "Poor girl!" 
 I thought. "She, too, is homesick. No doubt this reminds 
 her of some place at home, or of some person." I thought 
 this the more likely, as Master Bertie came from Lincoln- 
 shire, which he said had many of the features of this strange 
 land. And it was conceivable enough that she should know 
 Lincolnshire too, being related to his wife. 
 
 I soon forgot the matter in the excitement of landing. 
 A few minutes of bustle and it was over. The boat put out 
 again ; and we four were left face to face with two strangers, 
 an elderly man and a girl, who had come down to the pier to 
 meet us. The former, stout, bluff, and red-faced, with a 
 thick gray beard and a gold chain about his neck, had the 
 air of a man of position. He greeted us warmly. His 
 companion, who hung behind him, somewhat shyly, was as 
 pretty a girl as one could find in a month. A second look 
 assured me of something more — that she formed an excel- 
 lent foil to the piquant brightness and keen vivacity, the 
 dark hair and nervous features of Mistress Anne. For the 
 Dutch girl was fair and plump and of perfect complexion. 
 Her hair was very light, almost flaxen indeed, and her eyes 
 were softly and limpidly blue; grave, innocent, wondering 
 eyes they were, I remember. I guessed rightly that she was 
 the elderly man's daughter. Later I learned that she was 
 his only child, and that her name was Dymphna. 
 
 He was a Master Lindstrom, a merchant of standing in 
 Arnheim. He had visited England and spoke English fairly, 
 and being under some obligations, it appeared, to the 
 Duchess Katherine, was to be our host. 
 
 We all walked up the little avenue together, Master Lind- 
 strom talking as he went to husband or wife, while his 
 daughter and Mistress Anne came next, gazing each 
 at each in silence, as women when they first meet will 
 gaze, taking stock, I suppose, of a rival's weapons. I 
 walked last, wondering why they had nothing to say to one 
 another. 
 
 As we entered the house the mystery was explained. 
 "She speaks no English,*' said Mistress Anne, with a touch 
 of scorns 
 
 "And we no Dutch,** I answered, smiling. "Here in 
 Holland I am afraid that she will have somewhat the best 
 of us. Try her with Spanish." 
 
88 THE STORV OP FRANCIS CLUDDE, 
 
 ''Spanish! I know none." 
 
 "Well, I do, a little." 
 
 "What, you know Spanish?" Mistress Anne's tone of 
 surprise amounted almost to incredulity, and it flattered me, 
 boy that I was. I dare say it would have flattered many an 
 older head than mine. "You know Spanish? Where did 
 you learn it?" she continued sharply. 
 
 "At home," 
 
 "At home! Where is that?" And she eyed me still 
 more closely. "Where is your home. Master Carey? You 
 have never told me." 
 
 But I had said already more than I intended, and I shook 
 my head. "I mean," I explained awkwardly, "that I 
 learned it in a home I once had. Now my home is here. 
 At any rate I have no other." 
 
 The Dutch girl, standing patiently beside us, had looked 
 first at one face and then at the other as we talked. We 
 were all by this time in a long, low parlor, warmed by a 
 pretty closed fireplace covered with glazed tiles. On the 
 shelves of a great armoire, or dresser, at one end of the room 
 appeared a fine show of silver plate. At the other end stood 
 a tall linen-press of walnut-wood, handsomely carved; and 
 even the gratings of the windows and the handles of the 
 doors were of hammered iron-work. There were no rushes 
 on the floor, which was made of small pieces of wood deli- 
 cately joined and set together and brightly polished. But 
 everything in sight was clean and trim to a degree which 
 would have shamed our great house at Coton, where the 
 rushes sometimes lay for a week unchanged. With each 
 glance round I felt a livelier satisfaction. I turned to Mis- 
 tress Dymphna. 
 
 "Senorita!" I said, mustering my noblest accent. "Beso 
 los pies de usted! Habla-usted Castillano?" 
 
 Mistress Anne stared, while the effect on the girl whom I 
 addressed was greater than I had looked for, but certainly 
 of a different kind. She started and drew back, an expres- 
 sion of oifended dignity and of something like anger ruffling 
 her placid face. Did she not understand? Yes, for after a 
 moment's hesitation, and with a heightened color, she an- 
 swered, "Si, Sefior." 
 
 Her constrained manner was not promising, but I was 
 going on to open a conversation if I could — for it looked 
 
A HOUSE OF PEACE, 89 
 
 little grateful of lis to stand there speechless and staring — 
 when Mistress Anne interposed. "What did you say to 
 her? What was it?" she asked eagerly. 
 
 **I asked her if she spoke Spanish. That was all," I 
 replied, my eyes on Dymphna's face, which still betrayed 
 trouble of some kind, "except that I paid her the usual 
 formal compliment. But what is she saying to her father?" 
 
 It was like the Christmas game of cross-questions. The 
 girl and I had spoken in Spanish. I translated what we had 
 said into English for Mistress Anne, and Mistress Dym- 
 phna turned it into Dutch for her father ; an anxious 
 look on her face which needed no translation. 
 
 "What is it?" asked Master Bertie, observing that some- 
 thing was wrong. 
 
 "It is nothing — nothing!" replied the merchant apolo- 
 getically, though, as he spoke, his eyes dwelt on me curiously. 
 'Tt is only that I did not know that you had a Spaniard in 
 your company." 
 
 "A Spaniard?" Master Bertie answered. "We have 
 none. This," pointing to me, "is our very good friend and 
 faithful follower. Master Carey — an Englishman." 
 
 "To whom," added the Duchess, smiling gravely, "I am 
 greatly indebted." 
 
 I hurriedly explained the mistake, and brought at once a 
 smile of relief to the Mynheer's face. "Ah! pardon me, I 
 beseech you," he said. "My daughter was in error." 
 And he added something in Dutch which caused Mistress 
 Dymphna to blush. "You know," he continued — "I may 
 speak freely to you, since our enemies are in the main the 
 same — you know that our Spanish rulers are not very popu- 
 lar with us, and grow less popular every day, especially 
 with those who are of the reformed faith. We have learned 
 some of us to speak their language, but we love them none 
 the better for that." 
 
 "I can sympathize with you, indeed," cried the Duchess 
 impulsively. "God grant that our country may never be in 
 the same plight : though it looks as if this Spanish marriage 
 were like to put us in it. It is Spain ! Spain ! Spain ! and 
 nothing else nowadays!" 
 
 "Nevertheless, the Emperor is a great and puissant mon- 
 arch," rejoined the Arnheimer thoughtfully; "and could 
 he rule us himself, we might do well. But his dominions 
 
90 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE, 
 
 are so large, he knows little of us. And worse, he is dying, 
 or as good as dying. He can scarcely sit his horse, and 
 rumor says that before the year is out he will resign the 
 throne. Then we hear little good of his successor, your 
 queen's husband, and look to hear less. I fear that 
 there is a dark time before us, and God only knows the 
 issue. ' ' 
 
 '*And alone will rule it," Master Bertie rejoined piously. 
 
 This saying was in a way the keynote to the life, we 
 found our host living on his island estate. Peace, but peace 
 with constant fear for an assailant, and religion for a sup- 
 porter. Several times a week Master Lindstrom would go 
 to Arnheim to superintend his business, and always after his 
 return he would shake his head, and speak gravely, and 
 Dymphna would lose her color for an hour or two. Things 
 were going badly. The reformers were being more and 
 more hardly dealt with. The Spaniards were growing more 
 despotic. That was his constant report. And then I 
 would see him, as he walked with us in orchard or garden, 
 or sat beside the stove, cast wistful glances at the comfort 
 and plenty round him. I knew that he was asking himself 
 how long they would last. If they escaped the clutches of 
 a tyrannical government, would they be safe in the tunes 
 that were coming from the violence of an ill-paid soldiery? 
 The answer was doubtful, or rather it was too certain. 
 
 I sometimes wondered how he could patiently foresee such 
 possibilities, and take no steps, whatever the risk, to pre- 
 vent them. At first I thought his patience sprang from the 
 Dutch character. Later I traced its deeper roots to a sim- 
 plicity of faith and a deep religious feeling, which either did 
 not at that time exist in England, or existed only among 
 people with whom I had never come into contact. Here 
 they seemed common enough and real enough. These 
 folks' faith sustained them. It was a part of their lives; a 
 bulwark against the fear that otherwise would have over- 
 whelmed them. And to an extent, too, which then sur- 
 prised me, I found, as time went on, that the Duchess and 
 Master Bertie shared this enthusiasm, although with them it 
 took a less obtrusive form. 
 
 I was led at the time to think a good deal about this ; 
 and just a word I may say of myself, and of those days 
 spent on the Rhine island— that whereas before I had taken 
 
A HOUSE OF PEACE, 91 
 
 but a lukewarm interest in religious questions, and, while 
 clinging instinctively to the teaching of my childhood, had 
 conformed with a light heart rather than annoy my uncle, 
 I came to think somewhat differently now; differently and 
 more seriously. And so I have continued to think since, 
 though I have never become a bigot ; a fact I owe, perhaps, 
 to Mistress Dymphna, in whose tender heart there was room 
 for charity as well as faith. For she was my teacher. 
 
 Of necessity, since no other of our party could commu- 
 nicate with her, I became more or less the Dutch girl's 
 companion. I would often, of an evening, join her on a 
 wooden bench which stood under an elm on a little spit of 
 grass looking toward the city, and at some distance from 
 the house. Here, when the weather was warm, she would 
 watch for her father's return ; and here one day, while talk- 
 ing with her, I had the opportunity of witnessing a sight 
 unknown in England, but which year by year was to become 
 more common in the Netherlands, more heavily fraught with 
 menace in Netherland eyes. 
 
 We happened to be so deeply engaged in watching the 
 upper end of the reach at the time in question, where we ex- 
 pected each moment to see Master Lindstrom's boat round 
 the point, that we saw nothing of a boat coming the other 
 way, until the flapping of its sails, as it tacked, drew our 
 eyes toward it. Even then in the boat itself I saw nothing 
 strange, but in its passengers I did. They were swarthy, 
 mustachioed men, who in the hundred poses they assumed, 
 as they lounged on deck or leaned over the side, never lost 
 a peculiar air of bravado. As they drew nearer to us 
 the sound of their loud voices, their oaths and laughter 
 reached us plainly, and seemed to jar on the evening still- 
 ness. Their bold, fierce eyes, raking the banks unceasingly, 
 reached us at last. The girl by my side uttered a cry of 
 alarm, and rose as if to retreat. But she sat down again, for 
 behind us was an open stretch of turf, and to escape unseen 
 was impossible. Already a score of eyes had marked her 
 beauty, and as the boat drew abreast of us, I had to listen to 
 the ribald jests and laughter of those on board. My ears 
 tingled and my cheeks burned. But I could do nothing. 
 I could only glare at them, and grind my teeth.' 
 
 "Who are they?" I muttered. "The cowardly knaves!" 
 
 "Oh, hush! hush I" the girl pleaded. She had retreated 
 
92 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 behind me. And indeed I need not have put my ques- 
 tion, for though I had never seen the Spanish soldiery, I had 
 heard enough about them to recognize them now. In the 
 year 1555 their reputation was at its height. Their fathers 
 had overcome the Moors after a contest of centuries, and 
 they themselves had overrun Italy and lowered the pride of 
 France. As a result they had many military virtues and 
 all the military vices. Proud, bloodthirsty, and licentious 
 everywhere, it may be imagined that in the subject Nether- 
 lands, with their pay always in arrear, they were, indeed, 
 people to be feared. It was seldom that even their com- 
 manders dared to check their excesses. 
 
 Yet, when the first flush of my anger had subsided, I 
 looked after them, odd as it may seem, with mingled feel- 
 ings. With all their faults they were few against many, 
 a conquering race in a foreign land. They could boast of 
 blood and descent. They were proud to call themselves 
 the soldiers and gentlemen of Europe. I was against them, 
 yet I admired them with a boy's admiration for the strong 
 and reckless. 
 
 Of course I said nothing of this to my companion. In- 
 deed, when she spoke to me I did not hear her. My 
 thoughts had flown far from the burgher's daughter sitting 
 by me, and were with my grandmother's people. I saw, in 
 imagination, the uplands of Old Castile, as I had often 
 heard them described, hot in summer and bleak in winter. 
 I pictured the dark, frowning walls of Toledo, with its hun- 
 dred Moorish trophies, the castles that crowned the hills 
 around, the gray olive groves, and the box-clad slopes. I 
 saw Palencia, where my grandmother, Petronilla de Vargas, 
 was born ; Palencia, dry and brown and sun-baked, lying 
 squat and low on its plain, the eaves of its cathedral a 
 man's height from the ground. All this I saw. I suppose 
 the Spanish blood in me awoke and asserted itself at sight 
 of those other Spaniards. And then — then I forgot it all as 
 I heard behind me an alien voice, and I turned and found 
 Dymphna had stolen from me and was talking to a stranger. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 PLAYING WITH FIRE. 
 
 HE was a young man, and a Dutchman, but not a Dutch- 
 man of the stout, burly type which I had most common- 
 ly seen in the country. He had, it is true, the usual fair 
 hair and blue eyes, and he was rather short than tall; but 
 his figure was thin and meager, and he had a pointed nose 
 and chin, and a scanty fair beard. I took him to be near- 
 sighted : at a second glance I saw that he was angry. He 
 was talking fast to Dymphna — of course in Dutch — and my 
 first impulse, in face of his excited gestures and queer ap- 
 pearance, was to laugh. But I had a notion what his rela- 
 tionship to the girl was, and I smothered this, and instead 
 asked, as soon as I could get a word in, whether I should 
 leave them. 
 
 "Oh, no!" Dymphna answered, blushing slightly, and 
 turning to me with a troubled glance. I believe she had 
 clean forgotten my presence. "This is Master Jan Van 
 Tree, a good friend of ours. And this," she continued, 
 still in Spanish, but speaking to him, "is Master Carey, one 
 of my father's guests." 
 
 We bowed, he formally, for he had not recovered his 
 temper, and I — I dare say I still had my Spanish ancestors 
 in my head — with condescension. We disliked one another 
 at sight, I think. I dubbed him a mean little fellow, 
 a trader, a peddler; and, however he classed me, it was not 
 favorably. So it was no particular desire to please him 
 which led me to say with outward solicitude, "I fear you 
 are annoyed at something. Master Van Tree?" 
 
 "I am!" he said bluntly, meeting me half-way. 
 
 "And am I to know the cause?" I asked, "or is it a 
 secret?" 
 
 "It is no secret!" he retorted. "Mistress Lindstrom 
 should have been more careful. She should not have ex- 
 posed herself to the chance of being seen by those miserable 
 foreigners." 
 
 "The foreigners — in the boat?" I said dryly. 
 
 "Yes, of course — in the boat," he answered. He was 
 obliged to say that, but he glared at me across her as he 
 
94 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 spoke. We had turned and were walking back to the house, 
 the poplars casting long shadows across our path. 
 
 "They were rude," I observed carelessly, my chin very 
 high. "But there is no particular harm done that I can 
 see, Master Van Tree." 
 
 "Perhaps not, as far as you can see," he retorted in great 
 excitement. "But perhaps also you are not very far- 
 sighted. You may not see it now, yet harm will follow." 
 
 "Possibly," I said, and I was going to follow up this 
 seemingly candid admission by something very boorish, 
 when Mistress Dymphna struck in nervously. 
 
 "My father is anxious," she explained, speaking to me, 
 "that I should have as little to do with our Spanish govern- 
 ors as possible. Master Carey. It always vexes him to hear 
 that I have fallen in their way, and that is why my friend 
 feels annoyed. It was not, of course, your fault, since you 
 did not know of this. It was I," she continued hurriedly, 
 "who should not have ventured to the elm tree without see- 
 ing that the coast was clear." 
 
 I knew that she was timidly trying, her color coming and 
 going, to catch my eye; to appease me as the greater stran- 
 ger, and to keep the peace between her ill-matched com- 
 panions, who, indeed, stalked along eying one another 
 much as a wolf-hound and a badger-dog might regard each 
 other across a choice bone. But the young Dutchman's 
 sudden appearance had put me out. I was not in love with 
 her, yet I liked to talk to her, and I grudged her to him, he 
 seemed so mean a fellow. And so — churl that I was — in 
 answer to her speech I let drop some sneer about the great 
 fear of the Spaniards which seemed to prevail in these parts. 
 
 " You are not afraid of them, then?" Van Tree said, with 
 a smile. 
 
 "No, I am not," I answered, my lip curling also. 
 
 "Ah!" with much meaning. "Perhaps you do not know 
 them very well." 
 
 "Perhaps not," I replied. "Still, my grandmother was 
 a Spaniard." 
 
 "So I should have thought," he retorted swiftly. 
 
 So swiftly that I felt the words as I should have felt a 
 blow. "What do you mean.?" I blurted out, halting before 
 him, with my cheek crimson. In vain were all Dymphna's 
 appealing glances, all her signs of distress. ' 'I will have 
 
PLA YING WITH FIRE. 95 
 
 you explain, Master Van Tree, what you mean by that?" 
 I repeated fiercely. 
 
 "I mean what I said," he answered, confronting me 
 stubbornly, and shaking off Dyfnphna's hand. His blue 
 eyes twinkled with rage, his thin beard bristled ; he was the 
 color of a turkey-cock's comb. At home we should have 
 thought him a comical little figure ; but he did not seem so 
 absurd here. For one thing, he looked spiteful enough for 
 anything; and for another, though I topped him by a head 
 and shoulders, I could not flatter myself that he was afraid 
 of me. On the contrary, I felt that in the presence of his 
 mistress, small and short-sighted as he was, he would have 
 faced a lion without winking. 
 
 His courage was not to be put to the proof. I was still 
 glaring at him, seeking some retort which should provoke 
 him beyond endurance, when a hand was laid on my shoul- 
 der, and I turned to find that Master Bertie and the 
 Duchess had joined us, 
 
 "So here are the truants," the former said pleasantly, 
 speaking in English, and showing no consciousness what- 
 ever of the crisis in the middle of which he had come up, 
 though he must have discerned in our defiant attitudes, and 
 in Dymphna's troubled face, that something was wrong. 
 "You know who this is. Master Francis," he continued 
 heartily. "Or have you not been introduced to Master 
 Van Tree, the betrothed of our host's daughter?" 
 
 "Mistress Dymphna has done me that honor," I said 
 stiffly, recovering myself in appearance, while at heart sore 
 and angry with everybody. "But I fear the Dutch gentle- 
 rnan has not thanked her for the introduction, since he 
 learned that my grandmother was Spanish." 
 
 " Your grandmother, do you mean?" cried the Duchess, 
 much astonished. 
 
 "Yes, madam." 
 
 "Well, to be sure!" she exclaimed, lifting up her hands 
 and appealing whimsically to the others. "This boy is full 
 of starts and surprises. You never know what he will pro- 
 duce next. The other day it was a warrant! To-day it is 
 a grandmother, and a temper!" 
 
 I could not be angry with her; and perhaps I was not 
 sorry now that my quarrel with the young Dutchman had 
 stopped where it had. I affected, as well as I could, to join 
 
9^ THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE, 
 
 in the laugh at my expense, and took advantage of the 
 arrival of our host — who at this moment came up the slope 
 from the landing-place, his hands outstretched and a smile 
 of greeting on his kindly face — to slip away unnoticed, and 
 make amends to my humor by switching off the heads of 
 the withes by the river. 
 
 But naturally the scene left a degree of ill-feeling behind 
 it ; and for the first time, during the two months we had 
 spent under Master Lindstrom's roof, the party who sat 
 down to supper were under some constraint. I felt that 
 the young Dutchman had had the best of the bout in the 
 garden; and I talked loudly and foolishly in the boyish 
 attempt to assert myself, and to set myself right at least 
 in my own estimation. Master Van Tree meanwhile sat 
 silent, eying me from time to time in no friendly fashion. 
 Dymphna seemed nervous and frightened, and the Duch- 
 ess and her husband exchanged troubled glances. Only 
 our host and Mistress Anne, who was in particularly 
 good spirits, were unaffected by the prevailing chill. 
 
 Mistress Anne, indeed, in her ignorance, made matters 
 worse. She had begun to pick up some Dutch, and was 
 fond of airing her knowledge and practicing fresh sentences 
 at meal-times. By some ill-luck she contrived this evening 
 — particularly after, finding no one to contradict me, I had 
 fallen into comparative silence— to frame her sentences so 
 as to cause as much embarrassment as possible to all of us. 
 "Where did you walk with Dymphna this morning?" was 
 the question put to me. "You are fond of the water; 
 Englishmen are fond of the water," she said to Dymphna. 
 "Dymphna is tall; Master Francis is tall. I sit by you 
 to-night; the Dutch lady sat by you last night," and so on, 
 and so on, with prattle which seemed to amuse our host 
 exceedingly — he was never tired of correcting her mistakes 
 — but which put the rest of us out of countenance, bringing 
 the tears to poor Dymphna's eyes — she did not know where 
 to look — and making her lover glower at me as though he 
 would eat me. 
 
 It was in vain that the Duchess made spasmodic rushes 
 into conversation, and in the intervals nodded and frowned 
 at the delinquent. Mistress Anne in her innocence saw 
 nothing. She went on until Van Tree could stand it no 
 
PLA YING WITH FIRE, 97 
 
 longer, and with a half-smothered threat, which was per- 
 fectly intelligible to me, rose roughly from the table, and 
 went to the door as if to look out at the night. 
 
 "What is the matter?" Mistress Anne said, wonderingly, 
 in English. Her eyes seemed at length to be opened to the 
 fact that something was amiss with us. 
 
 Before I could answer, the Duchess, who had risen, came 
 behind her. "You little fool!" she whispered fiercely, "if 
 fool you are. You deserve to be whipped!" 
 
 "Why, what have I done?" murmured the girl, really 
 frightened now, and appealing to me. 
 
 "Done!" whispered the Duchess; and I think she 
 pinched her, for my neighbor winced. "More harm than 
 you guess, you minx! And for you. Master Francis, a 
 word with you. . Come with me to my room, please." 
 
 I went with her, half-minded to be angry, and half- 
 inclined to feel ashamed of myself. She did not give me 
 time, however, to consider which attitude I should take up, 
 for the moment the door of her room was closed behind us, 
 she turned upon me, the color high in her cheeks. "Now, 
 young man," she said in a tone of ringing contempt, "do 
 you really think that that girl is in love with you?" 
 
 "What girl?" I asked sheepishly. The unexpected ques- 
 tion and her tone put me out of countenance. 
 
 "What girl? What girl?" she replied impatiently. 
 "Don't play with me, boy! You know whom I mean. 
 Dymphna Lindstrom!" 
 
 "Oh, I thought you 'meant Mistress Anne," I said, some- 
 what impertinently. 
 
 Her face fell in an extraordinary fashion, as if the sug- 
 gestion were not pleasant to her. But she answered on the 
 instant: "Well ! The vanity of the lad ! Do you think all 
 the girls are in love with you? Because you have been 
 sitting with a pretty face on each side of you, do you think 
 you have only to throw the handkerchief, this way or that? 
 If you do, open your eyes, and you will find it is not so. 
 My kinswoman can take care of herself, so we will leave her 
 out of the 'discussion, please. And for this pink and white 
 Dutch girl," my lady continued viciously, "let me tell you 
 that she thinks more of Van Tree's little finger than of your 
 whole body." 
 
 I shrugged my shoulders, but still I was mortified. A 
 
98 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 young man may not be in love with a girl, yet it displeases 
 him to hear that she is indifferent to him. 
 
 The Duchess noticed the movement. "Don't do that," 
 she cried in impatient scorn. "You do not see much in 
 Master Van Tree, perhaps? I thought not. Therefore 
 you think a girl must be of the same mind as yourself. 
 Well," with a fierce little nod, "you will learn some day 
 that it is not so, that women are not quite what men think 
 them; and particularly, Master Francis, that six feet of 
 manhood, and a pretty face on top of it, do not always have 
 their way. But there, I did not bring you here to tell you 
 that. I want to know whether you are aware what you are 
 doing?" 
 
 I muttered something to the effect that I did not know I 
 was doing any harm. 
 
 "You do not call it harm, then," the Duchess retorted 
 with energy, "to endanger the safety of every one of us? 
 Cannot you see that if you insult and offend this young 
 man — which you are doing out of pure wanton mischief, 
 for you are not in love with the girl — he may ruin us?" 
 
 "Ruin us?" I repeated incredulously. 
 
 "Yes, ruin us!" she cried. "Here we are, living more 
 or less in hiding through the kindness of Master Lindstrom 
 — living in peace and quietness. But do you suppose that 
 inquiries are not being made for us? Whyj I would bet a 
 dozen gold angels that Master Clarence is in the Nether- 
 lands, at this moment, tracking us." 
 
 I was startled by this idea, and she saw I was. "We can 
 trust Master Lindstrom, were it only for his own sake," she 
 continued more quietly, satisfied perhaps with the effect she 
 had produced. "And this young man, who is the son of one 
 of the principal men of Arnheim, is also disposed to look 
 kindly on us, as I fancy it is his nature to look. But if you 
 make mischief between Dymphna and him " 
 
 "I have not," I said. 
 
 "Then do not," she replied sharply. "Look to it for 
 the future. And more, do not let him fancy it possible. 
 Jealousy is as easily awakened as it is hardly put to sleep. 
 A word from this young man to the Spanish authorities, 
 and we should be hauled back to England in a trice, if 
 worse did not befall us here. Now, you will be care- 
 ful?" 
 
PLA YING WITH FIRE. 99 
 
 "I will," I said, conscience-stricken and a little cowed. 
 
 "That is better," she replied smiling. "I think you 
 will. Now go." 
 
 I went down again with some food for thought^ — with 
 some good intentions, too. But I was to find — the discovery 
 is made by many — that good resolutions commonly come too 
 late. When I went downstairs I found my host and Mas- 
 ter Bertie alone in the parlor. The girls had disappeared, 
 so had Van Tree, and I saw at once that something had hap- 
 pened. Master Bertie was standing gazing at the stove 
 very thoughtfully, and the Dutchman was walking up and 
 down the room with an almost comical expression of annoy- 
 ance and trouble on his pleasant face. 
 
 "Where are the young ladies?" I asked. 
 
 "Upstairs," said Master Bertie, not looking at me. 
 
 "And — and Van Tree?" I asked mechanically. Some- 
 how I anticipated the answer. 
 
 "Gone!" said the Englishman curtly. 
 
 "Ay, gone, the foolish lad!" the Dutchman struck in, 
 tugging at his beard. "What has come to him? He is 
 not wont to show temper. I have never known him and 
 Dymphna have a cross word before. What has come to 
 the lad, I say, to go off in a passion at this time of night? 
 And no one knows whither he has gone, or when he will 
 come back again!" 
 
 He seemed as he spoke hardly conscious of my presence ; 
 but Master Bertie turned and looked at me, and I hung my 
 head, and very shortly afterward, I slunk out. The thought 
 of what I might have brought upon us all by my petulance 
 and vanity made me feel sick. I crept up to bed nervous 
 and fearful of the morrow, listening to every noise without, 
 and praying inwardly that my alarm might not be justified. 
 
 When the morrow came I went downstairs as anxious to 
 see Van Tree in the flesh as I had been yesterday disap- 
 pointed by his appearance. But no Van Tree was there to 
 be seen. Nothing had been heard of him. Dymphna 
 moved restlessly about, her cheeks pale, her eyes downcast, 
 and if I had ever flattered myself that I was anything to the 
 girl, I was undeceived now. The Duchess shot angry 
 glances at me from time to time. Master Bertie kept look- 
 ing anxiously at the door. Every one seemed to fear and 
 
IDO THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 to expect something. But none of them feared and ex- 
 pected it as I did. 
 
 "He must have gone home; he must have gone to Arn- 
 heim," said our host, trying to hide his vexation. "He 
 will be back in a day or two. Young men will be young 
 men." 
 
 But I found that the Duchess did not share the belief 
 that Van Tree had gone home; for in the course of the 
 morning she took occasion, when we were alone, to charge 
 me to be careful not to come into collision with him. 
 
 "How can I, now he has gone?" I said meekly, feeling 
 I was in disgrace. 
 
 "He has not gone far," replied the Duchess meaningly. 
 "Depend upon it, he will not go far 'out of sight unless 
 there is more harm done than I think, or he is very different 
 from English lovers. But if you come across him, I pray 
 you to keep clear of him. Master Francis." 
 
 I nodded assent. 
 
 But of what weight are resolutions, with fate in the other 
 scale! It was some hours after this, toward two o'clock 
 indeed, when Mistress Anne came to me, looking flurried 
 and vexed. "Have you seen Dymphna?" she asked 
 abruptly. 
 
 "No," I answered. "Why?" 
 
 "Because she is not in the house," the girl answered, 
 speaking quickly, "nor in the garden; and the last time I 
 saw her she was crossing the island toward the footbridge. 
 I think she has gone that way to be on the lookout — you 
 can guess for whom [with a smile]. But I am fearful lest 
 she shall meet some one else. Master Francis ; she is wear- 
 ing her gold chain, and one of the maids says that she saw 
 two of the Spanish garrison on the road near the end of the 
 footbridge this morning. That is the way by land to Arn- 
 heim, you know." 
 
 "That is bad," I said. "What is to be done?" 
 
 "You must go and look for her," Anne suggested. "She 
 should not be alone." 
 
 "Let her father go, or Master Bertie," I answered. 
 
 "Her father has gone down the river — to Arnheim, I ex- 
 pect; and Master Bertie is fishing in a boat somewhere. It 
 will take time to find him. Why cannot you go? If she 
 has crossed the footbridge she will not be far away." 
 
PLAYING WITH FIRg, \] \ %qi 
 
 She seemed so anxious as she spoke for the Dutch girl's 
 safety, that she infected me with her fears, and I let myself 
 be persuaded. After all there might be danger, and I did 
 not see what else was to be done. Indeed, Mistress Anne 
 did not leave me until she had seen me clear of the or- 
 chard and half across the meadows toward the footbridge. 
 "Mind you bring her back," she cried after me. "Do not 
 let her come alone!" And those were her last words. 
 
 After we had separated I did think for a moment that it 
 was a pity I had not asked her to come with me. But the 
 thought occurred too late, and I strode on toward the head of 
 the bridge, resolving that, as soon as I had sighted Dymphna, 
 I would keep away from her and content myself with 
 watching over her from a distance. As I passed by the little 
 cluster of cottages on the landward side of the island, I 
 glanced sharply about me, for I thought it not unlikely that 
 Master Van Tree might be lurking in the neighborhood. 
 But I saw nothing either of her or him. All was quiet, the 
 air full of spring sunshine and warmth and hope and the 
 blossoms of fruit trees; and with an indefinable pleasure, a 
 feeling of escape from control and restraint, I crossed the 
 long footbridge, and set foot, almost for the first time since 
 our arrival — for at Master Lindstrom's desire we had kept 
 very close — on the river bank. 
 
 To the right a fair road or causeway along the waterside 
 led to Arnheim. At the point where I stood, this road on 
 its way from the city took a turn at right angles, running 
 straight away from the river to avoid a wide track of swamp 
 and mere which lay on my left — a quaking marsh many 
 miles round, overgrown with tall rushes and sedges, which 
 formed the head of the bay in which our island lay. I 
 looked up the long, straight road to Arnheim, and saw only 
 a group of travelers moving slowly along it, their backs 
 toward me. The road before me was bare of passengers. 
 Where, then, was Dymphna, if she had crossed the bridge? 
 In the last resort I scanned the green expanse of rushes and 
 willows, which stretched, with intervals of open water, as 
 far as the eye could reach on my left. It was all rustling 
 and shimmering in the light breeze, but my eye picked out 
 one or two raised dykes which penetrated it here and there, 
 and served at once as pathways to islets in the mere and as 
 
lo'^ THE r>fOkY O'F -FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 breastworks against further encroachments of the river. 
 Presently, on one of these, of which the course was fairly- 
 defined by a line of willows, I made out the flutter of a 
 woman's hood. And I remembered that the day before I 
 had heard Dymphna express a wish to go to the marsh for 
 some herb which grew there. 
 
 "Right!" I said, seating myself with much satisfaction 
 on the last post of the bridge. "She is safe enough there! 
 And I will go no nearer. It is only on the road she is 
 likely to be in danger from our Spanish gallants!" 
 
 My eyes, released from duty, wandered idly over the 
 landscape for a while, but presently returned to the dyke 
 across the mere. I could not now see Dymphna. The 
 willows hid her, and I waited for her to reappear. She did 
 not, but some one else did ; for by and by, on the same 
 path and crossing an interval between the willows, there 
 came into sight a man's form. 
 
 "Ho! ho!" I said, following it with my eyes. "So I 
 may go home! Master Van Tree is on the track. And 
 now I hope they will make it up!" I added pettishly. 
 
 Another second and I started up with a low cry. The 
 sunlight had caught a part of the man's dress, a shining 
 something which flashed back a point of intense light. The, 
 something I guessed at once was a corselet, and it needed 
 scarce another thought to apprise me that Dymphna's fol- 
 lower was not Van Tree at all, but a Spanish soldier ! 
 
 I lost no time; yet it took me a minute — a minute of 
 trembling haste and anxiety — to discover the path from the 
 causeway on to the dyke. When once I had stumbled on 
 to the latter I found I had lost sight of both figures ; but I 
 ran along at the top of my speed, calculating that the two, 
 who could not be far apart, the man being the nearer to me, 
 were about a quarter of a mile or rather more from the road. 
 I had gone one-half of this distance perhaps when a shrill 
 scream in front caused me to redouble my efforts. I 
 expected to find the ruffian in the act of robbing the girl, 
 and clutched my cudgel — for, alas! I had left my sword at 
 home — more tightly in my grasp, so that it was an immense 
 relief to me when, on turning an angle in the dyke, I saw her 
 running toward me. Her face, still white with fear, how- 
 ever, and her hair streaming loosely behind her, told how 
 
PLA YING WITH FIRE, I03 
 
 narrow had been her escape — if escape it could be called. 
 For about ten feet behind her, the hood he had plucked off 
 still in his grasp, came Master Spaniard, hot-foot and pant- 
 ing, but gaining on her now with every stride. 
 
 He was a tall fellow, gayly dressed, swarthy, mustachioed, 
 and fierce-eyed. His corselet and sword-belt shone and 
 jingled as he ran and swore ; but he had dropped his feath- 
 ered bonnet in the slight struggle which had evidently taken 
 place when she got by him ; and it lay a black spot in the 
 middle of the grassy avenue behind him. The sun — it was 
 about three hours after noon — was at my back, and shining 
 directly into his eyes, and I marked this as I raised my 
 cudgel and jumped aside to let the girl pass; for she in her 
 blind fear would have run against me. 
 
 It was almost the same with him. He did not see me 
 until I was within a few paces of him, and even then I think 
 he noticed my presence merely as that of an unwelcome 
 spectator. He fancied I should step aside; and he cursed 
 me, calling me a Dutch dog for getting in his way. 
 
 The next moment — he had not drawn his sword nor made 
 any attempt to draw it — we came together violently, and I 
 had my hand on his throat. We swayed as we whirled 
 round one another in the first shock of the collision. A 
 cry of astonishment escaped him — astonishment at my 
 hardihood. He tried, his eyes glaring into mine, and his hot 
 breath on my cheek, to get at his dagger. But it was too 
 late. I brought down my staff, with all the strength of an 
 arm nerved at the moment by rage and despair, upon his 
 bare head. 
 
 He went down like a stone, and the blood bubbled from 
 his lips. I stood over him watching him. He stretched 
 himself out and turned with a convulsive movement on his 
 face. His hands clawed the grass. His leg moved once, 
 twice, a third time faintly. Then he lay still. 
 
 There was a lark singing just over my head, and its clear 
 notes seemed, during the long, long minute while I stood 
 bending over him in an awful fascination, to be the only 
 sounds in nature. I looked so long at him in that dreadful 
 stillness and absorption, I dared not at last look up lest I 
 should see I knew not what. Yet when a touch fell on my 
 arm I did not start. 
 
I04 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 "You have killed him!" the girl whispered, shuddering. 
 
 "Yes, I have killed him," I answered mechanically. 
 
 I could not take my eyes off him. It was not as if I had 
 done this thing after a long conflict, or in a melee with 
 others fighting round me, or on the battle-field. I should 
 have felt no horror then such as I felt now, standing over 
 him in the sunshine with the lark's song in my ears. It had 
 happened so quickly, and the waste about us was so still ; 
 and I had never killed a man before, nor seen a man 
 die. 
 
 "Oh, come away!" Dymphna wailed suddenly. "Come 
 away!" 
 
 I turned then, and the sight of the girl's wan face and 
 strained eyes recalled me in some degree to myself. I saw 
 she was ill ; and hastily I gave her my arm, and partly car- 
 ried, partly supported, her back to the road. The way 
 seemed long and I looked behind me often. But we 
 reached the causeway at last, and there in the open I felt 
 some relief. Yet even then, stopping to cast a backward 
 glance at the marsh, I shuddered anew, espying a bright 
 white spark gleaming amid the green of the rushes. It was 
 the dead man's corselet. But if it had been his eye I could 
 scarcely have shrunk from it in greater dread. 
 
 It will be imagined that we were not long in crossing the 
 island. Naturally I was full of what had happened, and 
 never gave a thought to Van Tree's jealousy, or the inci- 
 dents of his short visit. I had indeed forgotten- his exist- 
 ence until we reached the porch. There entering rapidly, 
 with Dymphna clinging to my arm, I was so oblivious of 
 other matters that when the young Dutchman rose suddenly 
 from the seat on one side of the door, and at the same mo- 
 ment the Duchess rose from the bench on the other, I did 
 not understand in the first instant of surprise what was the 
 matter, though I let Dymphna's hand fall from my arm. 
 The dark scowling face of the one, however, and the anger 
 and chagrin written on the features of the other, as they 
 both glared at us, brought all back to me in a flash. But it 
 was too late. Before I could utter a word the girl's lover 
 pushed by me with a fierce gesture and fiercer cry, and dis- 
 appeared round a corner of the house, 
 
 "Was ever such folly!" cried the Duchess, stamping her 
 
PLA YING WITH FIRE. 105 
 
 foot, and standing before us, her face crimson. "Or such 
 fools! You idiot! You " 
 
 "Hush, madam," I said sternly — had I really grown 
 older in doing the deed? "something has happened." 
 
 And Dymphna, with a low cry of "The Spaniard! The 
 Spaniard ! " tottered up to her and fainted in her arms. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE FACE IN THE PORCH. 
 
 ''T^HIS is a serious matter," said Master Bertie thought- 
 X fully, as we sat in conclave an hour later round the 
 table in the parlor. Mistress Anne was attending to 
 Dymphna upstairs, and Van Tree had not returned again ; 
 so that we had been unable to tell him of the morning's 
 adventure. But the rest of us were there. *Tt consider- 
 ably adds to the danger of our position," Bertie continued. 
 
 "Of course it does," his wife said promptly. "But 
 Master Lindstrom here can best judge of that, and of what 
 course it will be safest to take." 
 
 'Tt depends," our host answered slowly, "upon whether 
 the dead man be discovered before night. You see if the 
 body be not found ' ' 
 
 "Well?" said my lady impatiently, as he paused. 
 
 "Then we must some of us go after dark and bury him," 
 he decided. "And perhaps, though he will be missed 
 at the next roll-call in the city, his death may not be 
 proved, or traced to this neighborhood. In that case the 
 storm will blow over, and things be no worse than before." 
 
 **I fear there is no likelihood of that," I said; "for I am 
 told he had a companion. One of the maids noticed them 
 lurking about the end of the bridge more than once this 
 morning." 
 
 Our host's face fell. 
 
 "That is bad," he said, looking at me in evident con- 
 sternation. "Who told you?" 
 
 "Mistress Anne. And one of the maids told her. It 
 was that which led me to follow your daughter." 
 
 The old man got up for about the fortieth time, and 
 shook my hand, while the tears stood in his eyes and his lip 
 
THE FACE IN THE PORCH. 107 
 
 trembled. "Heaven bless you, Master Carey!" he said. 
 "But for you, my girl might not have escaped." 
 
 He could not finish. His emotion choked him, and he 
 sat down again. The event of the morning — his daughter's 
 danger, and my share in averting it — had touched him as 
 nothing else could have touched him. I met the Duchess's 
 eyes and they too were soft and shining, wearing an expres- 
 sion very different from that which had greeted me on my 
 return with Dymphna. 
 
 "Ah, well! she is safe," Master Lindstrom resumed, 
 when he had regained his composure. "Thanks to Heaven 
 and your friend, madam ! Small matter now if house and 
 lands go!" 
 
 "Still, let us hope they will not," Master Bertie said. 
 "Do you think these miscreants were watching the island 
 on our account? That some information had been given 
 as to our presence, and they were sent to learn what they 
 could?" 
 
 "No, no!" the Dutchman answered confidently. "It 
 was the sight of the girl and her gewgaws yesterday brought 
 them — the villains! There is nothing safe from them and 
 nothing sacred to them. They saw her as they passed up 
 in the boat, you remember." 
 
 "But then, supposing the worst to come to the worst?" 
 
 "We must escape across the frontier to Wesel, in the 
 Duchy of Cleves," replied Lindstrom in a matter-of-fact 
 tone, as if he had long considered and settled the point. 
 "The distance is not great, and in Wesel we may find shel- 
 ter, at any rate for a time. Even there, if pressure be 
 brought to bear upon the Government to give us up, I 
 would not trust it. Yet for a time it may do." 
 
 "And you would leave all this?" the Duchess said in 
 wonder, her eyes traveling round the room, so clean and 
 warm and comfortable, and settling at length upon the great 
 armoire of plate, which happened to be opposite to her. 
 "You would leave all this at a moment's notice?" 
 
 "Yes, madam, all we could not carry with us," he 
 answered simply. ' 'Honor and life, these come first. And 
 I thank Heaven that I live here within reach of a foreign 
 soil, and not in the interior, where escape would be hope- 
 less," 
 
 "But if the true facts were known," the Duchess urged, 
 
lo8 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 "would you still be in danger? Would not the magistrates 
 protect you? The Schout and Schepen as you call them? 
 They are Dutchmen." 
 
 "Against a Spanish governor and a Spanish garrison?" 
 he replied with emphasis. "Ay, they would protect me — 
 as one sheep protects another against the wolves. No ! I 
 dare not risk it. Were I in prison, what would become of 
 Dymphna?" 
 
 "Master Van Tree?" 
 
 "He has the will to shelter her, no doubt. And his 
 father has influence ; but such as mine — a broken reed to 
 trust to. Then Dymphna is not all. Once in prison, what- 
 ever the charge, there would be questioning about religion ; 
 perhaps," with a faint smile, "questioning aboutmy guests. " 
 
 "I suppose you know best," said the Duchess, with a 
 sigh. "But I hope the worst will not come to the worst." 
 
 "Amen to that!" he answered quite cheerfully. 
 
 Indeed, it was strange that we seemed to feel more sorrow 
 at the prospect of leaving this haven of a few weeks, than our 
 host of quitting the home of a lifetime. But the necessity 
 had come upon us suddenly, while he had contemplated it 
 for years. So much fear and humiliation had mingled with 
 his enjoyment of his choicest possessions that this long- 
 expected moment brought with it a feeling akin to relief. 
 
 For myself I had a present trouble that outweighed any 
 calamity of to-morrow. Perforce, since I alone knew the 
 spot where the man lay, I must be one of the burying party. 
 My nerves had not recovered from the blow which the sight 
 of the Spaniard lying dead at my feet had dealt them so 
 short a time before, and I shrank with a natural repulsion 
 from the task before me. Yet there was no escaping it, no 
 chance of escaping it, I saw. 
 
 None the less, throughout the silent meal to which we 
 four sat down together, neither the girls nor Van Tree ap- 
 pearing, were my thoughts taken up with the business which 
 was to follow. I heard our host, who was to go with me, 
 explaining that there was a waterway right up to the dyke, 
 and that we would go by boat ; and heard him with apathy. 
 What matter how we went, if such were the object of our 
 journey? I wondered how the man's face would look when 
 we came to turn him over, and pictured it in all ghastliest 
 shapes. I wondered whether I should ever forget the 
 
THE FACE IN THE PORCH. 1 09 
 
 strange spasmodic twitching of his leg, the gurgle — half 
 oath, half cry — which had come with the blood from his 
 throat. When Lindstrom said the moon was up and bade 
 me come with him to the boat, I went mechanically. No 
 one seemed to suspect me of fear. I suppose they thought 
 that, as I had not feared to kill him, I should not fear him 
 dead. And in the general silence and moodiness I escaped 
 notice. 
 
 "It is a good night for the purpose," the Dutchman said, 
 looking about when we were outside. "It is light enough 
 for us, yet not so light that we run much risk of being seen." 
 
 I assented, shivering. The moon was almost at the full, 
 and the weather was dry, but scud after scud of thin clouds, 
 sweeping across the breezy sky, obscured the light from 
 time to time, and left nothing certain. We loosed the small- 
 est boat in silence, and getting in, pulled gently round the 
 lower end of the island, making for the fringe of rushes 
 which marked the line of division between river and fen. 
 We could hear the frogs croaking in the marsh, and the 
 water lapping the banks, and gurgling among the tree-roots, 
 and making a hundred strange noises to which daylight ears 
 are deaf. Yet as long as I was in the open water I felt bold 
 enough. I kept my tremors for the moment when we 
 should brush through the rustling belt of reeds, and the 
 willows should whisper about our heads, and the rank vege- 
 tation, the mysterious darkness of the mere should shut us in. 
 
 For a time I was to be spared this. Master Lindstrom 
 suddenly stopped rowing. "We have forgotten to bring a 
 stone, lad," he said in a low voice. 
 
 "A stone?" I answered, turning. I was pulling the stroke 
 oar, and my back was toward him. "Do we want a stone?" 
 
 "To sink the body," he replied. "We cannot bury it in 
 the marsh, and if we could it were trouble thrown away. 
 We must have a stone." 
 
 "What is to be done?" I asked, leaning on my oar and 
 shivering, as much in impatience as nervousness. "Must 
 we go back?" 
 
 "No, we are not far from the causeway now," he an- 
 swered, with Dutch coolness. "There are some big stones, 
 I fancy, by the end of the bridge. If not, there are some 
 lying among the cottages just across the bridge. Your eyes 
 
no THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 are younger than mine, so you had better go. I will pull 
 on, and land you." 
 
 I assented, and the boat's course being changed a point 
 or two, three minutes' rowing laid her bows on the mud, 
 some fifty yards from the landward bend of the bridge, and 
 just in the shadow of the causeway. I sprang ashore and 
 clambered up. "Hist!" he cried, warning me as I was 
 about to start on my errand. "Go about it quietly. Master 
 Francis. The people will probably be in bed. But be 
 secret." 
 
 I nodded and moved off, as warily as he could desire. I 
 spent a minute or two peering about the causeway, but I 
 found nothing that would serve our purpose. There was no 
 course left then but to cross the planks, and seek what I 
 wanted in the hamlet. Remembering how the timbers had 
 creaked and clattered when I went over them in the day- 
 light, I stole across on tiptoe. I fancied I had seen a pile 
 of stones near one of the posts at that end, but I could not 
 find them now, and after groping about a while — for this 
 part was at the moment in darkness — I crept cautiously past 
 the first hovel, peering to right and left as I went. I did 
 not like to confess to myself that I was afraid to be alone in 
 the dark, but that was nearly the truth. I was feverishly 
 anxious to find what I wanted and return to my companion. 
 
 Suddenly I paused and held my breath. A slight sound 
 had fallen on my ears, nervously ready to catch the slightest. 
 I paused and listened. Yes, there it was again ; a whisper- 
 ing of cautious voices close by me, within a few feet of me. 
 I could see no one. But a moment's thought told me that 
 the speakers were hidden by the farther corner of the cot- 
 tage abreast of which I stood. The sound of human 
 voices, the assurance of living companionship, steadied my 
 nerves, and to some extent rid me of my folly. I took a 
 step to one side, so as to be more completely in the shadow 
 cast by the reed-thatched eaves, and then softly advanced 
 until I commanded a view of the whisperers. 
 
 They were two, a man and a woman. And the woman was 
 of all people Dymphna! She had her back to me, but 
 she stood in the moonlight, and I knew her hood in a mo- 
 ment. The man — surely the man was Van Tree then, if The 
 woman was Dymphna? I stared. I felt sure it must be 
 Van Tree. It was wonderful enough that Dymphna should 
 
THE FACE IN THE PORCH. Ill 
 
 SO far have regained nerve and composure as to rise and 
 come out to meet him. But in that case her conduct, 
 though strange, was explicable. If not, however, if the 
 man were not Van Tree 
 
 Well, he certainly was not. Stare as I might, rub my eyes 
 as I might, I could not alter the man's figure, which was 
 of the tallest, whereas I have said tHat the young Dutchman 
 was short. This man's face, too, though it was obscured 
 as he bent over the girl by his cloak, which was pulled high 
 up about his throat, was swarthy ; swarthy and beardless, I 
 made out. More, his cap had a feather, and even as he 
 stood still I thought I read the soldier in his attitude. 
 The soldier and the Spaniard ! 
 
 What did it mean? On what strange combination had 
 I lit? Dymphna and a Spaniard! Impossible. Yet a 
 thousand doubts and thoughts ran riot in my brain, a thou- 
 sand conjectures jostled one another to get uppermost. 
 What was I to do? What ought I to do? Go nearer to 
 them, as near as' possible, and listen and learn the truth? 
 Or steal back the way I had come, and fetch Master Lind- 
 strom? But first, was it certain that the girl was there of 
 her own free will? Yes, the question was answered as soon 
 as put. The man laid his hand gently on her shoulder. 
 She did not draw back. 
 
 Confident of this, and consequently of Dymphna's bodily 
 safety, I hesitated, and was beginning to consider whether 
 the best course might not be to withdraw and say nothing, 
 leaving the question of future proceedings to be decided 
 after I had spoken to her on the morrow, when a movement 
 diverted my thoughts. The man at last raised his head. 
 The moonlight fell cold and bright on his face, displaying 
 every feature as clearly as if it had been day. And though 
 I had only once seen his face before, I knew it again. 
 
 And knew him ! In a second I was back in England, look- 
 ing on a far different scene. I saw the Thames, its ebb 
 tide rippling in the sunshine as it ripples past Greenwich, 
 and a small boat gliding over it, and a man in the bow of 
 the boat, a man with a grim lip and a sinister eye. Yes, 
 the tall soldier talking to Dymphna in the moonlight, his 
 cap the cap of a Spanish guard, was Master Clarence ! the 
 Duchess's chief enemy! 
 
112 THE STOR Y OF FRANCIS CL UDDE. 
 
 I stayed my foot. With a strange settling into resolve 
 of all my doubts I felt if my sword, which happily I had 
 brought with me, was loose in its sheath, and leaned for- 
 ward scanning him. So he had tracked us! He was here! 
 With wonderful vividness I pictured all the dangers which 
 menaced the Duchess, Master Bertie, the Lindstroms, my- 
 self, through his discovery of us, all the evils which would 
 befall us if the villain went away with his tale. Forgetting 
 Dymphna's presence, I set my teeth hard together. He 
 should not escape me this time. 
 
 But man can only propose. As I took a step forward, I 
 trod on a round piece of wood which turned under my foot, 
 and I stumbled. My eye left the pair for a second. When 
 it returned to them they had taken the alarm. Dymphna 
 had started away, and I saw her figure retreating swiftly in 
 the direction of the house. The man poised himself a mo- 
 ment irresolute opposite to me ; then dashed aside and dis- 
 appeared behind the cottage. 
 
 I was after him on the instant, my sword out, and caught 
 sight of his cloak as he whisked round a corner. He 
 dodged me twice round the next cottage, the one nearer the 
 river. Then he broke away and made for the bridge, his 
 object evidently to get off the island. But he seemed at 
 last to see that I was too quick for him — as I certainly was 
 — and should catch him half way across the narrow plank- 
 ing; and changing his mind again he doubled nimbly back 
 and rushed into the open porch of a cottage, and I heard 
 his sword ring out. I had him at bay. 
 
 At bay indeed! But ready as I was, and resolute to cap- 
 ture or kill him, I paused. I hesitated to run in on him. 
 The darkness of the porch hid him, while I must attack 
 with the moonlight shining on me. I peered in cautiously. 
 "Come out!" I cried. "Come out, you coward!" 
 Then I heard him move, and for a moment I thought he 
 was coming, and I stood a-tiptoe waiting for his rush. But 
 he only laughed a derisive laugh of triumph. He had the 
 odds, and I saw he would keep them. 
 
 I took another cautious step toward him, and shading my 
 eyes with my left hand, tried to make him out. As I did 
 so, gradually his face took dim form and shape, confronting 
 mine in the darkness. I stared yet more intently. The 
 face became more clear. Nay, with a sudden leap into 
 
THE FACE IN THE PORCH. 113 
 
 vividness, as it were, it grew white against the dark back- 
 ground — white and whiter. It seemed to be thrust out 
 nearer and nearer, until it almost touched mine. It — his 
 face? No, it was not his face ! For one awful moment a 
 terror, which seemed to still my heart, glued me to the 
 ground where I stood, as it flashed upon my brain that it 
 was another face that grinned at me so close to mine, that 
 it was another face I was looking on ; the livid, bloodstained 
 face and stony eyes of the man I had killed! 
 
 With a wild scream I turned and fled. By instinct, for 
 terror had deprived me of reason, I hied to the bridge, and 
 keeping, I knew not how, my footing upon the loose clatter- 
 ing planks, made one desperate rush across it. The shim- 
 mering water below, in which I saw that face a thousand 
 times reflected, the breeze, which seemed the dead man's 
 hand clutching me, lent wings to my flight. I sprang at a 
 bound from the bridge to the bank, from the bank to the 
 boat, and overturning, yet never seeing, my startled com- 
 panion, shoved off from the shore with all my might — and 
 fell a-crying. 
 
 A very learned man, physician to the Queen's Majesty 
 has since told me, when I related this strange story to him, 
 that probably that burst of tears saved my reason. It so 
 far restored me at any rate that I presently knew where I 
 was — cowering in the bottom of the boat, with my eyes cov- 
 ered ; and understood that Master Lindstrom was leaning 
 over me in a terrible state of mind, imploring me in mingled 
 Dutch and English to tell him what had happened. "I 
 have seen him!" was all I could say at first, and I scarcely 
 dared remove my hands from my eyes. "I have seen 
 him!" I begged my host to row away from the shore, and 
 after a time was able to tell him what the matter was, he 
 sitting the while with his arm round my shoulder. 
 
 ' 'You are sure that it was the Spaniard?" he said kindly, 
 after he had thought a minute. 
 
 "Quite sure," I answered shuddering, yet with less vio- 
 lence. "How could I be mistaken? If you had seen 
 him " 
 
 "And you are sure — did you feel his heart this morning? 
 Whether it was beating?" 
 
 "His heart?" Something in his voice gave me courage 
 to look up, though I still shunned the water, lest that dread- 
 
1 14 THE STOR Y OP FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 ful visage should rise from the depths. "No, I did not 
 touch him." 
 
 "And you tell me that he fell on his face. Did you turn 
 him over?" 
 
 "No." I saw his drift now. I was sitting erect. My 
 brain began to work again. "No," I admitted; "I did 
 not." 
 
 "Then how " asked the Dutchman roughly — "how do 
 
 you know that he was dead, young sir? Tell me that." 
 
 When I explained, "Bah!" he cried. "There is nothing 
 in that! You jumped to a conclusion. I thought a Span- 
 iard's head was harder to break. As for the blood coming 
 from his mouth, perhaps he bit his tongue, or did any one 
 of a hundred things — except die. Master Francis. That 
 you may be sure is just what he did not do." 
 
 "You think so?" I said gratefully. I began to look 
 about me, yet still with a tremor in my limbs, and an in- 
 clination to start at shadows. 
 
 "Think?" he rejoined, with a heartiness which brought 
 conviction home tome; "lam sure of it. You may de- 
 pend upon it that Master Clarence, or the man you take for 
 Master Clarence — who no doubt was the other soldier seen 
 with the scoundrel this morning — found him hurt late in the 
 evening. Then, seeing him in that state, he put him in the 
 porch for shelter, either because he could not get him to 
 Arnheim at once, or because he did not wish to give the 
 alarm before he had made his arrangements for netting 
 your party." 
 
 "That is possible!" I allowed, with a sigh of relief. 
 "But what of Master Clarence?" 
 
 "Well," the old man said; "let us get home first. We 
 will talk of him afterward." 
 
 I felt he had more in his mind than appeared, and I 
 obeyed; growing ashamed now of my panic, and looking 
 forward with no very pleasant feelings to hearing the story 
 narrated. But when we reached the house, and found 
 Master Bertie and the Duchess in the parlor waiting for us 
 — they rose startled at sight of my face — he bade me leave 
 that out, but tell the rest of the story. 
 
 I complied, describing how I had seen Dymphna meet 
 Clarence, and what I had observed to pass between them. 
 The astonishment of my hearers may be imagined "The 
 
THE FACE IN THE PORCH 
 
 "S 
 
 point is very simple," said our host coolly, when I had, in the 
 the face of many exclamations and some incredulity, com- 
 pleted the tale; "it is just this! The woman certainly was 
 not Dymphna. In the first place, she would not be out at 
 night. In the second place, what could she know of your 
 Clarence, an Englishman and a stranger? In the third 
 place, I will warrant she has been in her room all the even- 
 ing. Then if Master Francis was mistaken in the woman, 
 may he not have been mistaken in the man? That is the 
 point." 
 
 "No," I said boldly. "I only saw her back. I saw his 
 face." 
 
 "Certainly, that is something," Master Lindstrom ad- 
 mitted reluctantly. 
 
 "But how many times had you seen him before?" put in 
 my lady very pertinently. "Only once. ' * 
 
 In answer to that I could do no more than give further 
 assurance of my certainty on the point. "It was the man I 
 saw in the boat at Greenwich," I declared positively. 
 "Why should I imagine it?" 
 
 "All the same, I trust you have," she rejoined. "For, if 
 it was indeed that arch scoundrel, we are undone." 
 
 "Imagination plays us queer tricks sometimes," Master 
 Lindstrom said, with a smile of much meaning. **But 
 come, lad, I will ask Dymphna, though I think it useless to 
 do so. For whether you are right or wrong as to your 
 friend, I will answer for it you are wrong as to my daugh- 
 ter." 
 
 He was rising to go from them for the purpose, when 
 Mistress Anne opened the door and came in. She looked 
 somewhat startled at finding us all in conclave. "I thought 
 I heard your voices," she explained timidly, standing be- 
 tween us and the door. "I could not sleep." 
 
 She looked indeed as if that were so. Her eyes were 
 very bright, and there was a bright spot of crimson in each 
 cheek. "What is it?" she went on abrputly, looking hard 
 at me and shutting her lips tightly. There was so much to 
 explain that no one had taken it in hand to begin. 
 
 "It is just this," the Duchess said, opening her mouth 
 with a snap. "Have you been with Dymphna all the time?" 
 
 "Yes, of course," was the prompt ans>ver. 
 
 "What is she doing?" 
 
ii6 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLIJDDE, 
 
 "Doing?" Mistress Anne repeated in surprise. "She is 
 asleep." 
 
 "Has she been out since nightfall?" the Duchess con- 
 tinued. "Out of her room? Or out of the house?" 
 
 "Out? Certainly not. Before she fell asleep she was in 
 no state to go out, as you know, though I hope she will be 
 all right when she awakes. Who says she has been out?" 
 Anne added sharply. She looked at me with a challenge 
 in her eyes, as much as to say, "Is it you?" 
 
 "I am satisfied," I said, "that I was mistaken as to Mis- 
 tress Dymphna. But I am just as sure as before that I saw 
 Clarence." 
 
 "Clarence?" Mistress Anne repeated, starting violently, 
 and the color for an instant fleeing from her cheeks. She 
 sat down on the nearest seat. 
 
 "You need not be afraid, Anne," my lady said smiling. 
 She had a wonderfully high courage herself. "I think Mas- 
 ter Francis was mistaken, though he is so certain about it." 
 
 "But where— where did he see him?" the girl asked. 
 She still trembled. 
 
 Once more I had to tell the tale ; Mistress Anne, as was 
 natural, listening to it with the liveliest emotions. And 
 this time so much of the ghost story had to be introduced — 
 for she pressed me closely as to where I had left Clarence, 
 and why I had let him go — that my assurances got less 
 credence than ever. 
 
 "I think I see how it is," she said, with a saucy scorn 
 that hurt me not a little. "Master Carey's nerves are in 
 much the same state to-night as Dymphna's. He thought 
 he saw a ghost, and he did not. He thought he saw 
 Dymphna, and he did not. And he thought he saw Master 
 Clarence, and he did not." 
 
 "Not so fast, child!" cried the Duchess sharply, seeing 
 me wince. "Your tongue runs too freely. No one has 
 had better proofs of Master Carey's courage — for which I 
 will answer myself — than we have!" 
 
 "Then he should not say things about Dymphna!" the 
 young lady retorted, her foot tapping the floor, and the red 
 spots back in her cheeks. "Such rubbish I never heard!" 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 A FOUL BLOW. 
 
 THEY none of them believed me, it seemed; and smart- 
 ing under Mistress Anne's ridicule, hurt by even the 
 Duchess's kindly incredulity, what could I do? Only 
 assert what I had asserted already, that it was undoubtedly 
 Clarence, and that before twenty-four hours elapsed they 
 would have proof of my words. 
 
 At mention of this possibility Master Bertie looked up. 
 He had left the main part in the discussion to others, but 
 now he intervened. "One moment!" he said. "Take it 
 that the lad is right, Master Lindstrom. Is there any pre- 
 caution we can adopt, any back door, so to speak, we can 
 keep open, in case of an attempt to arrest us being made? 
 What would be the line of our retreat to Wesel?" 
 
 "The river," replied the Dutchman promptly. 
 
 "And the boats are all at the landing-stage?" 
 
 "They are, and for that reason they are useless in an 
 emergency," our host answered thoughtfully. "Knowing 
 the place, any one sent to surprise and arrest us would 
 secure them first, and the bridge. Then they would have 
 us in a trap. It might be well to take a boat round, and 
 moor it in the little creek in the farther orchard," he added, 
 rising. "It is a good idea, at any rate. I will go and 
 do it." 
 
 He went out, leaving us four — the Duchess, her husband, 
 Anne, and myself — sitting round the lamp. 
 
 "If Master Carey is so certain that it was Clarence," my 
 lady began, "I think he ought to " 
 
 "Yes, Kate?" her husband said. She had paused and 
 seemed to be listening. 
 
 "Ought to open that letter he has!" she continued im- 
 petuously. "I have no doubt it is a letter to Clarence. 
 Now the rogue has come on the scene again, the lad's scru- 
 ples ought not to stand in the way. They are all nonsense. 
 The letter may throw some light on the Bishop's schemes 
 and Clarence's presence here; and it should be read. 
 That is what I think." 
 
 "What do you say, Carey?" her husba'nd asked, as I 
 kept silence. "Is not that reasonable?" 
 
iig THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 Sitting with my elbows on the table, I twisted and un- 
 twisted the fingers of my clasped hands, gazing at them the 
 while as though inspiration might come of them. What 
 was I to do? I knew that the three pairs of eyes were upon 
 me, and the knowledge distracted- me, and prevented me 
 really thinking, though I seemed to be thinking so hard. 
 "Well," I burst out at last, "the circumstances are cer- 
 tainly altered. I see no reason why I should not " 
 
 Crash ! 
 
 I stopped, uttering an exclamation, and we all sprang to 
 our feet. "Oh, what a pity!" the Duchess cried, clasping 
 her hands. "You clumsy, clumsy girl! What have you 
 done?" 
 
 Mistress Anne's sleeve as she turned had swept from the 
 table a Florentine jug, one of Master Lindstrom's greatest 
 treasures, and it lay in a dozen fragments on the floor. We 
 stood and looked at it, the Duchess in anger. Master Bertie 
 and I in comic dismay. The girl's lip trembled, and she 
 turned quite white as she contemplated the ruin she had 
 caused. 
 
 "Well, you have done it now!" the Duchess said piti- 
 lessly. What woman could ever overlook clumsiness in 
 another woman! "It only remains to pick up the pieces, 
 miss. If a man had done it — but there, pick up the pieces. 
 You will have to make your tale good to Master Lindstrom 
 afterward." 
 
 I went down on my knees and helped Anne, the annoy- 
 ance her incredulity had caused me forgotten. She was so 
 shaken that I heard the bits of ware in her hand clatter 
 together. When we had picked up all, even to the smallest 
 piece, I rose, and the Duchess returned to the former sub- 
 ject. "You will open this letter, then?" she said; "I see 
 you will. Then the sooner the better. Have you got it 
 about you?" 
 
 "No, it is in my bedroom," I answered. "I hid it away 
 there, and I must fetch it. But do you think," I con- 
 tinued, pausing as I opened the door for Mistress Anne to 
 go out with her double handful of fragments, "it is abso- 
 lutely necessary to read it, my lady?" 
 
 "Most certainly," she answered, gravely nodding with 
 each syllable, "I think so. I will be responsible." And 
 Master Bertie nodded also. 
 
A FOUL BLOW. 119 
 
 **So be it,** I said reluctantly. And I was about to leave 
 the room to fetch the letter — my bedroom being in a differ- 
 ent part of the house, only connected with the main build- 
 ing by a covered passage — when our host returned. He 
 told us that he had removed a boat, and I stayed a while to 
 hear if he had anything more to report, and then, finding 
 he had not, went out to go to my room, shutting the door 
 behind me. 
 
 The passage I have mentioned, which was merely formed 
 of rough planks, was very dark. At the nearer end was the 
 foot of the staircase leading to the upper rooms. Farther 
 along was a door in the side opening into the garden. Go- 
 ing straight out of the lighted room, I had almost to grope 
 my way, feeling the walls with my hands. When I had 
 about reached the middle I paused. It struck me that the 
 door into the garden must be open, for I felt a cold draught 
 of air strike my brow, and saw, or fancied I saw, a slice of 
 night sky and the branch of a tree waving against it. I 
 took a step forward, slightly shivering in the night air as I 
 did so, and had stretched out my hand with the intention of 
 closing the door, when a dark form rose suddenly close to 
 me, I saw a knife gleam in the starlight, and the next mo- 
 ment I reeled back into the darknesss of the passage, a sharp 
 pain in my breast. 
 
 I knew at once what had happened to me, and leaned a 
 moment against the planking with a sick, faint feeling, say- 
 ing to myself, "I have it this time!" The attack had been 
 so sudden and unexpected, I had been taken so completely 
 off my guard, that I had made no attempt either to strike or 
 to clutch my assailant, and I suppose only the darkness of 
 the passage saved me from another blow. But was one 
 needed? The hand which I had raised instinctively to 
 shield my throat was wet with the warm blood trickling fast 
 down my breast. I staggered back to the door of the par- 
 lor, groped blindly for the latch, seemed to be an age find- 
 ing it, found it at last, and walked in. 
 
 The Duchess sprang up at sight of me. "What," she 
 cried, backing from me, "what has happened?" 
 
 "I have been stabbed," I said, and I sat down. 
 
 It amused me afterward to recall what they all did. The 
 Dutchman stared, my lady screamed loudly, Master Bertie 
 
I20 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 whipped out his sword ; he could make up his mind quickly- 
 enough at times, 
 
 **I think he has gone," I said faintly. 
 
 The words brought the Duchess to her knees by my chair. 
 She tore open my doublet, through which the blood was 
 oozing fast. I made no doubt that I was a dead man, for I 
 had never been wounded in this way before, and the blood 
 scared me. I remember my prevailing idea was a kind 
 of stunned pity for myself. Perhaps later — I hope so — I 
 should have come to think of Petronilla and my uncle and 
 other people. But before this stage was reached, the 
 Duchess reassured me, "Courage, lad!" she cried heartily. 
 "It is all right, Dick. The villain struck him on the 
 breastbone an inch too low, and has just ripped up a scrap 
 of skin. It has blooded him for the spring, that is all. A 
 bit of plaster " 
 
 "And a drink of strong waters," suggested the Dutch- 
 man soberly — his thoughts were always to the point when 
 they came. 
 
 . "Yes, that too," quoth my lady, "and he will be all 
 right." 
 
 I thought so myself when I had emptied the cup they 
 offered me. I had been a good deal shaken by the events 
 of the day. The sight of blood had further upset me. I 
 really think it possible I might have died of this slight hurt 
 and my imagination, if I had been left to myself. But tlie 
 Duchess's assurance and the draught of schnapps, which 
 seemed to send new blood through my veins, made me feel 
 ashamed of myself. If the Duchess would have let me, I 
 would at once have gone to search the premises ; as it was, 
 she made me sit still while she ran to and fro for hot water 
 and plaster, and the men searched the lower rooms and 
 secured the door afresh. 
 
 "And so you could see nothing of him?" our host asked, 
 when he and Master Bertie returned, weapons in hand. 
 "Nothing of his figure or face?" 
 
 "Nothing, save that he was short," I answered; "shorter 
 than I am, at any rate, and I fancy a good deal." 
 
 "A good deal shorter than you are?" my lady said un- 
 easily; "that is no clew. In this country nine people out 
 of ten are that. Clarenc'*^ now, is not." 
 
A FOUL BLOW. 121 
 
 *'No," I said; "he is about the same height. It was not 
 Clarence." 
 
 "Then who could it be?" she muttered, rising, and then 
 with a quick shudder sitting down again. "Heaven help us, 
 we seem to be in the midst of foes! What could be the 
 motive? And why should the villain have selected you? 
 Why pick you out?" 
 
 Thereupon a strange thing happened. Three pairs of 
 English eyes met, and signaled a common message eye to 
 eye. No word passed, but the message was "Van Tree!" 
 When we had glanced at one another we looked all of us 
 at our host — looked somewhat guiltily. He was deep in 
 thought, his eyes on the stove ; but he seemed to feel our 
 gaze upon him, and he looked up abruptly. "Master Van 
 Tree " he said, and stopped. 
 
 "You know him well?" the Duchess said, appealing to 
 him softly. We felt a kind of sorro\y for himj and some 
 delicacy, too, about accusing one of his countrymen of a 
 thing so cowardly. "Do you think it is possible," she con- 
 tinued with an effort — "possible that he can have done this, 
 Master Lindstrom?" 
 
 "I have known him from a boy," the merchant said, 
 looking up, a hand on either knee, and speaking with a 
 simplicity almost majestic, "and never knew him do a mean 
 thing, madam. I know no more than that." And he 
 looked round on us. 
 
 "That is a good deal; still, he went off in a fit of jeal- 
 ousy when Master Carey brought Dymphna home. We 
 must remember that." 
 
 "Yes, I would he knew the rights of that matter," said 
 the Dutchman heartily. 
 
 "And he has been hanging about the place all day," my 
 lady persisted. 
 
 "Yes," Master Lindstrom rejoined patiently; "yet I do 
 not think he did this." 
 
 "Then who did?" she said, somewhat nettled. 
 
 That was the question. I had my opinion, as I saw Mas- 
 ter Bertie and the Duchess had. I did not doubt it was 
 Van Tree. Yet a thought struck me. "It might be well," 
 I suggested, "that some one should ask Mistress Anne 
 whether the door was open when she left the room. She 
 passed out just in front of me." 
 
122 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 "But she does not go by the door," my lady objected. 
 
 "No, she would turn at once and go upstairs," I agreed. 
 "But she could see the door from the foot of the stairs — if 
 she looked that way, I mean." 
 
 The Duchess assented, and went out of the room to put 
 the question. We three, left together, sat staring at the 
 dull flame of the lamp, and were for the most part silent, 
 Master Bertie only remarking that it was after midnight. 
 The suspicion he and I entertained of Van Tree's guilt 
 seemed to raise a barrier between us and our host. My 
 wound, slight as it was, smarted and burned, and my head 
 ached. After midnight, was it? What a day it had been! 
 
 When the Duchess came back, as she did in a few min- 
 utes, both Anne and Dymphna came with her. The girls 
 had risen hastily, and were shivering with cold and alarm. 
 Their eyes were bright, their manner was excited. They 
 were full of sympathy and horror and wonder, as was 
 natural ; of nervous fear for themselves, too. But my lady 
 cut short their exclamations. "Anne says she did not 
 notice the door," she said. 
 
 "No," the girl answered, trembling visibly as she spoke. 
 "I went up straight to bed. But who could it be? Did 
 you see nothing of him as he struck you? Not a feature? 
 Not an outline?" 
 
 "No," I murmured. 
 
 "Did he not say a word?" she continued, with strange 
 insistence. "Was he tall or short?" Her dark eyes dwell- 
 ing on mine seemed to probe my thoughts, as though they 
 challenged me to keep anything back from her. "Was it 
 the man you hurt this morning?" she suggested. 
 
 "No," I answered reluctantly. "This man was short." 
 
 "Short, was he? Was it Master Van Tree, then?" 
 
 We, who felt also certain that it was Van Tree, started, 
 nevertheless, at hearing the charge put into words before 
 Dymphna. I wondered, and I think the others did, too, 
 at Mistress Anne's harshness. Even my lady, so blunt and 
 outspoken by nature, had shrunk from trying to question 
 the Dutch girl about her lover. We looked at Dymphna, 
 wondering how she would take it. 
 
 We had forgotten that she could not understand English. 
 But this did not serve her ; for without a pause Mistress 
 Anne turned to her, and unfalteringly said something in her 
 
A FOUL BLOW. 123 
 
 scanty Dutch which came to the same thing. A word or two 
 of questioning and explanation followed. Then the mean- 
 ing of the accusation dawned at last on Dymphna's mind. 
 I looked for an outburst of tears or protestations. Instead, 
 with a glance of wonder and great scorn, with a single indig- 
 nant widening of her beautiful eyes, she replied by a curt 
 Dutch sentence. 
 
 "What does she say?" my lady exclaimed eagerly. 
 
 "She says," replied Master Lindstrom, who was looking 
 on gravely, "that it is a base lie, madam." 
 
 On that we became spectators. It seemed to me, and I 
 think to all of us, that the two girls stood apart from us in 
 a circle of light by themselves ; confronting one another 
 with sharp glances as though a curtain had been raised from 
 between them, and they saw one another in their true colors 
 and recognized some natural antagonism, or, it might be, 
 some rivalry each in the other. I think I was not peculiar 
 in feeling this, for we all kept silence for a space as though 
 expecting something to follow. In the middle of this' silence 
 there came a low rapping at the door. 
 
 One uttered a faint shriek; another stood as if turned to 
 stone. The Duchess cried for her child. The rest of us 
 looked at one another. Midnight was past. Who could be 
 abroad, who could want us at this hour? As a rule we 
 should have been in bed and asleep long ago. We had no 
 neighbors save the cotters on the far side of the island. We 
 knew of no one likely to arrive at this time with any good 
 intent. 
 
 *T will open," said Master Lindstrom. But he looked 
 doubtfully at the women-folk as he said it. 
 
 "One minute," whispered the Duchess. "That table is 
 solid and heavy. Could you not " 
 
 "Put it across the door?" concluded her husband. "Yes, 
 we will." And it was done at once, the two men — my lady 
 would not let me help — so arranging it that it prevented the 
 door being opened to its full width. 
 
 "That will stop a rush," said Master Bertie with satisfac- 
 tion. 
 
 It did strengthen the position, yet it was a nervous mo- 
 ment when our host prepared to lower the bar. "Who is 
 there?" h<e cried loudly. 
 
 We waited, listening and looking at one another, the fear 
 
124 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 of arrest and the horrors of the Inquisition looming large in 
 the minds of some of us at least. The answer, when it 
 came, did not reassure us. It was uttered in a voice so low 
 and muffled that we gained no information, and rather 
 augured treachery the more. I remember noticing how 
 each took the crisis; how Mistress Anne's face was set 
 hard, and her breath came in jerks; how Dymphna, pale 
 and trembling, seemed yet to have eyes only for her father; 
 how the Duchess faced the entrance like a queen at bay. 
 All this I took in at a glance. Then my gaze returned to 
 Master Lindstrom, as he dropped the bar with a jerk. The 
 door was pushed open at once as far as it would go. A 
 draught of cold air came in, and with it Van Tree. He 
 shut the door behind him. 
 
 Never were six people so taken aback as we were. But 
 the newcomer, whose face was flushed with haste and ex- 
 citement, observed nothing. Apparently he saw nothing 
 unexpected even in our presence downstairs at that hour, 
 nothing hostile or questioning in the half circle of aston- 
 ished faces turned toward him. On the contrary, he seemed 
 pleased. "Ah!" he exclaimed gutturally. *Tt is well! 
 You are up ! You have taken the alarm ! " 
 
 It was to me he spoke, and I was so surprised by that, 
 and by his sudden appearance, so dumfounded by his easy 
 address and the absence of all self-consciousness on his 
 part, so struck by a change in him, that I stared in silence. 
 I could not believe that this was the same half-shy, half- 
 fierce young man who had flung away a few hours before in 
 a passion of jealousy. My theory that he was the assassin 
 seemed on a sudden extravagant, though here he was on 
 the spot. When Master Lindstrom asked, "Alarm! What 
 alarm?" I listened for his answer as I should have listened 
 for the answer of a friend and ally, without hesitation, with- 
 out distrust. For in truth the man was transfigured; 
 changed by the rise of something to the surface which 
 ordinarily lay hid in him. Before, he had seemed churlish, 
 awkward, a boor. But in this hour of our need and of his 
 opportunity he showed himself as he was. Action and pur- 
 pose lifted him above his outward seeming. I caught the 
 generous sparkle in his eye, and trusted him. 
 
 "What!" he said, keeping his voice low, "You do not 
 
A FOUL BLOW. 1 25 
 
 know? They are coming to arrest you. Their plan is to 
 surround the house before daybreak. Already there is a 
 boat lying in the river watching the landing-stage." 
 
 "Whom are they coming to arrest?" I asked. The oth- 
 ers were silent, looking at this strange messenger with 
 mingled feelings. 
 
 "All, I fear," he replied. "You, too, Master Lind- 
 strom. Some one has traced your English friends hither 
 and informed against you. I know not on what ground you 
 are included, but I fear the worst. There is not a moment 
 to be lost if you would escape by the bridge, before the 
 troop who are on the way to guard it arrives." 
 
 "The landing-stage, you say, is already watched?" our 
 host asked, his phlegmatic coolness showing at its best. 
 His eyes roved round the room, and he tugged, as was his 
 habit when deep in thought, at his beard. I felt sure that 
 he was calculating which of his possessions he could remove. 
 
 "Yes," Van Tree answered. "My father got wind of the 
 plan in Arnheim. An English envoy arrived there yester- 
 day on his way to Cleves or some part of Germany. It is 
 rumored that he has come out of his road to inquire after 
 certain English fugitives whom his Government are anxious 
 to seize. But come, we have no time to lose! Let us go!" 
 
 "Do you come too?" Master Lindstrom said, pausing in 
 the act of turning away. He spoke in Dutch, but by some 
 inspiration born of sympathy I understood both his ques- 
 tion and the answer. 
 
 "Yes, I come. Where Dymphna goes I go, and where 
 she stops I stop, though it be at Madrid itself," the young 
 man answered gallantly. His eyes kindled, and he seemed 
 to grow taller and to gain majesty. The barrier of race, 
 which had hindered me from viewing him fairly before, fell 
 in a trice. I felt now only a kindly sorrow that he had done 
 this noble thing, and not I. I went to him and grasped his 
 hand; and though I said nothing, he seemed, after a single 
 start of surprise, to understand me fully. He understood 
 me even better, if that were possible, an hour later, when 
 Dymphna had told him of her adventure with the Span- 
 iard, and he came to me to thank me. 
 
 Ordered myself to be idle, I found all busy round me, 
 busy with a stealthy diligence. Master Lindstrom was 
 packing his plate. Dymphna, pale, but with soft, happy 
 
1 26 THE STOR V OF FRANCIS CL UDDE. 
 
 eyes — for had she not cause to be proud? — ^was preparing 
 food and thick clothing. The Duchess had fetched her 
 child and was dressing it for the journey. Master Bertie 
 was collecting small matters, and looking to our arms. In 
 one or other of these occupations — I can guess in which — 
 Van Tree was giving his aid. And so, since the Duchess 
 would not let me do anything, it chanced that presently I 
 found myself left alone for a few minutes with Anne. 
 
 I was not watching her. I was gnawing my nails in a 
 fit of vdespondency, reflecting that I was nothing but a 
 hindrance and a drawback to my friends, since whenever 
 a move had to be made I was sure to be invalided, when I 
 became aware, through some mysterious sense, that my 
 companion, who was kneeling on the floor behind me, pack- 
 ing, had desisted from her work and was gazing fixedly at 
 me. 1 turned. Yes, she was looking at me ; her eyes, in 
 which a smoldering fire seemed to burn, contrasting vividly 
 with her pale face and contracted brows. When she saw 
 that I had turned — of which at first she did not seem aware 
 — she rose and came to me, and laid a hand on my shoulder 
 and leaned over me. A feeling that was very like fright fell 
 upon me, her manner was so strange. "What is it?" I 
 stammered, as she still pored on me in silence, still main- 
 tained her attitude. "What is the matter, Anne?" 
 
 "Are you quite a fool?" she whispered, her voice almost 
 a hiss, her hot breath on my cheek. "Have you no sense 
 left, that you trust that man?" 
 
 For a moment I failed to understand her. "What 
 man?" I said. "Oh, Van Tree! " 
 
 "Ay, Van Tree! Who else? Will you go straight into 
 the trap he has laid for you?" She moistened her lips with 
 her tongue, as though they were parched. "You are all 
 mad! Mad, I think! Don't you see," she continued, 
 stooping over me again and whispering hurriedly, her wild 
 eyes close to mine, "that he is jealous of you?" 
 
 "He was," I said uneasily. "That is all right now." 
 
 "He was? He is!" she retorted. "He went away wild 
 with you. He comes back smiling and holding out his hand. 
 Do you trust him? Don't you see — don't you see," she 
 cried, rocking me to and fro with her hand in her excite- 
 ment, "that he is fooling you? He is leading us all into a 
 trap that has been laid carefully enough. What is this tale 
 
A FOUL BLOW. 127 
 
 of an English envoy on his way to Germany? Rubbish! 
 Rubbish, I tell you." 
 
 "But Clarence " 
 
 "Bah! It was all your fancy!" she cried fiercely, her 
 eyes for the moment flitting to the door, then returning to 
 my face. "How should he find us here? Or what has Clar- 
 ence to do with an English envoy?" 
 
 *'I do not know," I said. She had not in the least per- 
 suaded me. In a rare moment I had seen into Van Tree's 
 soul and trusted him implicitly. "Please take care," I 
 added, wincing under her hand. "You hurt me!" 
 
 She sprang back with a sudden change of countenance as 
 if I had struck her, and for a moment cowered away from 
 me, her former passion still apparent fighting for the mas- 
 tery in her face. I set down her condition to terror at the 
 plight we were all in, or to vexation that no one would take 
 her view. The next moment I went farther. I thought her 
 mad, when she turned abruptly from me and, flying to the 
 door by which Van Tree had entered, began with trembling 
 fingers to release the pin which confined the bar. 
 
 "Stop! stop! you will ruin all!" I cried in horror. 
 "They can see that door from the river, and if they see the 
 light, they will know we are up and have taken the alarm ; 
 and they may make a dash to secure us. Stop, Anne! 
 Stop!" I cried. But the girl was deaf. She tugged des- 
 perately at the pin, and had already loosened the bar when 
 I caught her by the arms, and, pushing her away, set my 
 back against the door. "Don't be foolish ! " I said gently. 
 "You have lost your head. You must let us men settle 
 these things, Anne." 
 
 She was indeed beside herself, for she faced me during 
 a second or two as though she would spring upon me and 
 tear me from the door. Her hands worked, her eyes 
 gleamed, her strong white teeth showed themselves. I 
 shuddered. I had never pictured her looking like that. 
 Then, as steps sounded on the stairs and cheerful voices — 
 cheerful they seemed to me as they broke in on that strange 
 scene — drew nearer, she turned, and walking deliberately 
 to a seat, fell to weeping hysterically. 
 
 "What are you doing to that door?" cried the Duchess 
 sharply, as she entered with the others. I was securing the 
 bar again. 
 
128 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE, 
 
 * * Nothing, ' ' I said stolidly. * ' I am seeing that it is fast. ' ' 
 
 "And hoity toity, miss ! ' ' she continued, turning to Anne. 
 "What has come over you, I would like to know? Stop 
 crying, girl; what is the matter with you? Will you shame 
 us all before this Dutch maid? Here, carry these things to 
 the back door." 
 
 Anne somehow stifled her sobs and rose. Seeming by a 
 great effort to recover composure, she went out, keeping 
 her face to the last averted from me. 
 
 We all followed, variously laden, Master Lindstrom and 
 Van Tree, who carried between them the plate-chest, being 
 the last to leave. There was not one of us^ — even of us 
 who had only known the house a few weeks — who did not 
 heave a sigh as we passed out of the warm lamp-lit parlor, 
 which, littered as it was with the debris of packing, looked 
 still pleasant and comfortable in comparison with the dark- 
 ness outside and the uncertain future before us. What, 
 then, must have been the pain of parting to those who had 
 never known any other home? Yet they took it bravely. 
 To Dymphna, Van Tree's return had brought great happi- 
 ness. To Master Lindstrom, any ending to a long series of 
 anxieties and humiliations was welcome. To Van Tree — 
 well, he had Dymphna with him, and his side of the plate- 
 chest was heavy, and gave him ample employment. 
 
 We passed out silently through the back door, leaving the 
 young Dutchman to lock it behind us, and flitted, a line of 
 gliding shadows, through the orchard. It was two o'clock, 
 the sky was overcast, a slight drizzle was falling. Once 
 an alarm was given that we were being followed ; and we 
 huddled together, and stood breathless, a clump of dark 
 figures gazing affrightedly at the tree trunks which sur- 
 rounded us, and which seemed — at least to the women's 
 eyes — to be moving, and to be men closing in on us. But 
 the alarm was groundless, and with no greater mishap than 
 a few stumbles when we came to the slippery edge of the 
 creek, we reached the boat, and one by one, admirably 
 ordered by our host, got in and took our seats. Van Tree 
 and Master Lindstrom pushed us off; then they swung 
 themselves in and paddled warily along, close under the 
 bank, where the shadows of the poplars fell across us, and our 
 figures blended darkly with the line of rushes on the shore. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 anne's petition. 
 
 WE coasted along in this silent fashion, nearly as far as 
 the hamlet and bridge, following, but farther inshore, 
 the course which Master Lindstrom and I had taken when 
 on our way to bury the Spaniard. A certain point gained, 
 at a signal from our host we struck out into the open, and 
 rowed swiftly toward the edge of the marsh. This was the 
 critical moment ; but, so far as we could learn, our passage 
 was unnoticed. We reached the fringe of rushes; with a 
 prolonged hissing sound the boat pushed through them ; a 
 flight of water-fowl rose, whirring and clapping about us, 
 and we floated out into a dim misty lake, whose shores and 
 surface stretched away on every side, alike dark, shifting, 
 and uncertain. 
 
 Across this the Dutchman steered us, bringing us pres- 
 ently to a narrow opening, through which we glided into a 
 second and smaller mere. At the farther end of this one 
 the way seemed barred by a black, impenetrable wall of 
 rushes, which rose far above our heads. But the tall stems 
 bent slowly with many a whispered protest before our silent 
 onset, and we slid into a deep water-lane, here narrow, 
 there widening into a pool, in one place dark, in another 
 reflecting the gray night sky. Down this we sped swiftly, 
 the sullen plash of the oars and the walls of rushes always 
 with us. For ourselves, we crouched still and silent, .shiv- 
 ering and listening for sounds of pursuit; now starting at 
 the splash of a frog, again shuddering at the cry of a night- 
 bird. The Duchess, her child, and I were in the bows. 
 Master Lindstrom, his daughter, and Mistress Anne in the 
 stern. They had made me comfortable with the baggage 
 and some warm coverings, and would insist on treating me as 
 helpless. Even when the others began to talk in whispers, 
 the Duchess enjoined silence on me, and bade me sleep. 
 Presently I did so, my last impression one of unending 
 water-ways and shoreless, shadowy lakes. 
 
 When I awoke the sun was high and the scene was 
 changed indeed. We lay on the bosom of a broad river, 
 our boat seeming now to stand still as the sail flapped idly, 
 
I30 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 now to heel over and shoot forward as the light breeze 
 struck us. The shores -abreast of us were still low and 
 reedy, but ahead the slopes of green wooded hills rose 
 gently from the stream. Master Bertie was steering, and, 
 seeing me lift my head, greeted me with a smile. The 
 girls in the stern were covered up and asleep. Amidships, 
 too. Master Lindstrom and Van Tree had curled themselves 
 up between the thwarts, and were slumbering peacefully. 
 I turned to look for the Duchess, and found her sitting wide 
 awake at my elbow, her eyes on her husband. 
 
 "Well," she said smiling, "do you feel better now? 
 You have had a good sleep." 
 
 "How long have I been asleep, please?" I asked, bewil- 
 dered by the sunshine, by the shining river and the green 
 hills, by the fresh morning air, by the change in every- 
 thing ; and answering in a question, as people freshly 
 aroused do nine times out of ten. "Where are we?" 
 
 "You have been asleep nearly six hours, and we are on 
 the Rhine, near Emmerich," she answered, smiling. She 
 was pale, and the long hours of watching had drawn dark 
 circles round her eyes. But the old undaunted courage 
 shone in them still, and her smile was as sweet as ever. 
 
 "Have we passed the frontier?" I asked eagerly. 
 
 "Well, nearly," she answered. "But how does your 
 wound feel?" 
 
 "Rather stiff and sore," I said ruefully, after making an 
 experiment by moving my body to and fro. "And I am 
 very thirsty, but I could steer." 
 
 "$o you shall," she said. "Only first eat something. 
 We broke our fast before the others lay down. There is 
 bread and meat behind you, and some hollands and water 
 in the bottle." 
 
 I seized the latter and drank greedily. Then, finding 
 myself hungry now I came to think about it, I fell upon the 
 eatables. 
 
 "You will do now, I think," she said, when she had 
 watched me for some time. 
 
 I laughed for answer, pleased that the long dark night, its 
 gloom and treachery were past. But its memories remained 
 and presently I said, "If Van Tree did not try to kill me — 
 and I am perfectly sure he did not " 
 
 "So am I," she said. "We were all wrong." 
 
ANNE 'S PE TITION. 1 3 1 
 
 "Then," I continued, looking at her gravely, "who did? 
 that is the question. And why?" 
 
 "You are sure that it was nOt the Spaniard whom you 
 hurt in defense of Dymphna?" my lady asked. 
 
 "Quite sure." 
 
 "And sure that it was not Clarence?" she persisted. 
 
 "Quite sure. It was a short man," I explained again, 
 "and dressed in a cloak. That is all I can tell about him." 
 
 "It might be some one employed by Clarence," she sug- 
 gested, her face gloomy, her brows knit. 
 
 "True, I had not thought of that," I answered. "And 
 it reminds me. I have heard so much of Clarence " 
 
 "And seen some little — even that little more than was 
 good for you." 
 
 "Yes, he has had the better of me, on both occasions," 
 I allowed. "But I was going to ask you," I continued, 
 "to tell me something about him. He was your steward, I 
 know. But how did he come to you? How was it you 
 trusted him?" 
 
 "We are all fools at times," she answered grimly. "We 
 wanted to have persons of our own faith about us, and he 
 was highly commended to us by Protestants abroad, as 
 having seen service in the cause. He applied to us just at 
 the right moment, too. And at the first we felt a great lik- 
 ing for him. He was so clever in arranging things, he kept 
 such excellent order among the servants; he was so ready, 
 so willing, so plausible! Oh!" she added bitterly, "he 
 had ways that enabled him to twist nine women out of ten 
 round his fingers! Richard was fond of him ; I liked him ; 
 we had talked more than once of how we might advance his 
 interests. And then, like a thunderbolt on a clear day, the 
 knowledge of his double-dealing fell upon us. We learned 
 that he had been seen talking with a known agent of Gar- 
 diner, and this at a time when the Bishop was planning our 
 ruin. We had him watched, and just when the net had all 
 but closed round us we discovered that he had been through- 
 out in Gardiner's pay." 
 
 "Ah!" I said viciously. "The oddest thing to me is 
 the way he has twice escaped me when I had him at the 
 sword's point!" 
 
 "The third time may bring other fortune. Master Fran- 
 cis," she answered smiling. "Yet be wary with him. He 
 
13^ THE SrORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDB. 
 
 is a good swordsman, as my husband, who sometimes 
 fenced with him, will tell you." 
 
 "He can be no common man," I said. 
 
 "He is not. He is well-bred, and has seen service. He 
 is at once bold and cunning. He has a tongue would win 
 most women, and a hardihood that would chain them to 
 him. Women love bold men," my lady added naively. 
 And she smiled on me — yet humorously — so that I blushed. 
 
 There was silence for a moment. The sail flapped, then 
 filled again. How delicious this morning after that night, 
 this bright expanse after the dark, sluggish channels ! Far 
 away in front a great barge, high-laden with a mighty stack 
 of rushes, crept along beside the bank, the horse that drew 
 it covered by a kind of knitted rug. When my lady spoke 
 next, it was abruptly. "Is it Anne?" she asked. 
 
 I knew quite well what she meant, and blushed again. I 
 shook my head. 
 
 "I think it was going to be," she said sagely, "only Mis- 
 tress Dymphna came upon the scene. You have heard the 
 story of the donkey halting betwen two bundles of hay. 
 Master Francis? And in the multitude of sweethearts there 
 is safety." 
 
 "I do not think that was my case," I said. Instinctively 
 my hand went to my breast, in which Petronilla's velvet 
 sword-knot lay safe and warm. The Duchess saw the gest- 
 ure and instantly bent forward and mimicked it. "Ha! 
 ha!" she cried, leaning back with her hands clasped about 
 her knees, and her eyes shining with fun and amusement. 
 "Now I understand. You have left her at home; now, do 
 not deny it, or I will tell the others. Be frank and I will 
 keep your secret, on my honor." 
 
 "She is my cousin," I said, my cheeks hot. 
 
 "And her name?" 
 
 "Petronilla." 
 
 "Petronilla?" my lady repeated shrewdly. "That was 
 the name of your Spanish grandmother, then?" 
 
 "Yes, madam." 
 
 "Petronilla? Petronilla?" she repeated, stroking her 
 cheek with her hand. "She would be before my time, 
 would she not? Yet there used to be several Petronillas 
 about the court in Queen Catherine of Aragon's days, I 
 remember. There was Petronilla de Vargas for one. But 
 
ANNE 'S PE TITION. 133 
 
 there, I guess at random. Why do you not tell me more 
 about yourself, Master Francis? Do you not know me well 
 enough now?" 
 
 "There is nothing to tell, madam," I said in a low voice. 
 
 "Your family? You come, I am sure, of a good house." 
 
 "I did, but it is nothing to me now. I am cut off from 
 it, I am building my house afresh. And," I added bit- 
 terly, "I have not made much way with it yet." 
 
 She broke, greatly to my surprise, into a long peal of 
 laughter. "Oh, you vain boy!" she cried. "You valiant 
 castle-builder! How long have you been about the work? 
 Three months? Do you think a house is to be built in a 
 day? Three months, indeed? Quite a lifetime ! " 
 
 Was it three months? It seemed to me to be fully three 
 years. I seemed to have grown more than three years 
 older since that February morning when I had crossed 
 Arden Forest with the first light, and looked down on 
 Wootton Wawen sleeping in its vale, and roused the herons 
 fishing in the bottoms. 
 
 "Come, tell me all about it!" she said abruptly. "What 
 did you do to be cut off?" 
 
 "I cannot tell you," I answered. 
 
 A shade of annoyance clouded her countenance. But it 
 passed away almost on the instant. "Very well," she said, 
 with a little nod of disdain and a pretty grimace. "So be 
 it. Have your own way. But I prophesy you will come to 
 me with your tale some day." 
 
 I went then and took Master Bertie's place at the tiller; 
 and, he lying down, I had the boat to myself until noon, 
 and drew no little pleasure from the placid picture which 
 the moving banks and the wide river presented. About 
 noon there was a general uprising; and, coming immedi- 
 ately afterward to a little island lying close to one bank, we 
 all landed to stretch our legs and refresh ourselves after the 
 confinement on board. 
 
 **We are over the border now and close to Emmerich," 
 said Master Lindstrom, "though the mere line of frontier 
 will avail us little if the Spanish soldiers can by hook or 
 crook lay hands on us! Therefore, we must lose no time 
 in getting within the walls of some town. We should be 
 fairly secure for a few days either in Wesel or Santon." 
 
134 THE STORY OF TRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 **I thought Wesel was the point we were making for," 
 Master Bertie said in some surprise. 
 
 "It was Wesel I mentioned the other day," the Dutch- 
 man admitted frankly. "And it is the bigger town and the 
 stronger. But I have more friends in Santon. To Wesel 
 the road from Emmerich runs along the right bank. To 
 Santon we go by a cross-country road, starting from the 
 left bank opposite Emmerich, a road longer and more 
 tedious. But we are much less likely to be followed that 
 way than along the Wesel road, and on second thoughts I 
 incline to Santon." 
 
 "But why adopt either road? Why not go on by river?" 
 I asked. 
 
 "Because we should be overtaken. The wind is falling, 
 and the boat," our late host explained, more truly than 
 politely, "with the women in it is heavy." 
 
 "I understand," I said. "And you feel sure we shall be 
 pursued?" 
 
 For answer he pointed with a smile to his plate-chest. 
 "Quite sure," he added. "With that before them they 
 will think nothing of the frontier. I fancy tliat for you, if 
 the English Government be in earnest, there will be no 
 absolutely safe place short of the free city of Frankfort. 
 Unless indeed you have interest with the Duke of Cleves." 
 
 "Ah!" said the Duchess. And she looked at her hus- 
 band. 
 
 " Ah ! " said Master Bertie, and he looked very blankly at 
 his wife. So that I did not derive much comfort from that 
 suggestion. 
 
 "Then it is Santon, is it?" said my lady. 
 
 "That first, at any rate. Then, if they follow us along 
 the Wesel road, we shall still give them the slip." 
 
 So it was settled, neither Van Tree nor the girls hav- 
 ing taken any part in the discussion. The former and 
 Dymphna were talking aside, and Mistress Anne was sitting 
 low down on the bank, with her feet almost in the water, 
 immersed to all appearance in her own thoughts. There 
 was a little bustle as we rose to get into the boat, which we 
 had drawn up on the landward side of the island so as to be 
 invisible from the main channel ; and in the middle of this 
 I was standing with one foot in the boat and one on shore, 
 taking from Anne various articles which we had landed for 
 
ANNE 'S PE TITtON. 1 35 
 
 rearrangement, when she whispered to me that she wanted 
 to speak to me alone. 
 
 "I want to tell you something," she said, raising her eyes 
 to my face, and then averting them. ^ "Follow me this 
 way." 
 
 She strolled, as if accidentally, twenty or thirty paces along 
 the bank; and in a minute I joined her. I found her gaz- 
 ing down the river in the direction from which we had 
 come. "What is it?" I said anxiously. "You do not see 
 anything, do you?" For there had been a hint of bad news 
 in her voice. 
 
 She dropped the hand with which she had been shading 
 her eyes and turned to me. "Master Francis, you will not 
 think me very foolish?" she said. Then I perceived that 
 her lip was quivering and that there were tears in her eyes. 
 They were very beautiful eyes when, as now, they grew 
 soft, and appeal took the place of challenge. 
 
 "What is it?" I replied, speaking cheerfully to reassure 
 her. She had scarcely got over her terror of last night. 
 She trembled as she stood. 
 
 "It is about Santon," she answered with a miserable little 
 catch in her voice. "I am so afraid of going there! Master 
 Lindstrom says it is a rough, long road, and when we are 
 there we are not a bit farther from those wretches than at 
 Wesel, and — and " 
 
 "There, there!" I said. She was on the point of burst- 
 ing into tears, and was clearly much overwrought. "You are 
 making the worst of it. If it were not for Master Lind- 
 strom I should be inclined to choose Wesel myself. But he 
 ought to know best." 
 
 "But that is not all," she said, clasping her hands and 
 looking up at me with her face grown full of solemn awe; 
 "I have had a dream." 
 
 "Well, but dreams " I objected. 
 
 "You do not believe in dreams?" she said, dropping her 
 head sorrowfully. 
 
 "No, no; I do not say that," I admitted, naturally 
 startled. "But what was your dream?" 
 
 "I thought we took the road to Santon. And mind," 
 she added earnestly, "this was before Master Lindstrom 
 had uttered a word about going that way, or any other way 
 save to Wesel. I dreamt that we followed the road through 
 
136 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 such a dreadful flat country, a country all woods and deso- 
 late moorland, under a gray sky, and in torrents of rain, 
 to " 
 
 "Well, well?" I said, with a passing shiver at the picture. 
 She described it with a rapt, absent air, which made me 
 creep — as if even now she were seeing something un- 
 canny. 
 
 "And then I thought that in the middle of these woods, 
 about half-way to Santon, they overtook us, and there was a 
 great fight." 
 
 "There would be sure to be that!" I muttered, with 
 shut teeth. 
 
 "And I thought you were killed, and we women were 
 dragged back! There, I cannot tell you the rest!" she 
 added wildly. "But try, try to get them to go the old way. 
 If not, I know evil will come of it. Promise me to try?" 
 
 "I will tell them your dream," I said. 
 
 "No, no!" she exclaimed still more vehemently. "They 
 would only laugh. Madam does not believe in dreams. 
 But they will listen to you if you say you think the other 
 way better. Promise me you will! Promise me!" she 
 pleaded, her hands clasping my arm, and her tearful eyes 
 looking up to mine. 
 
 "Well," I agreed reluctantly, "I will try. After all, the 
 shortest way may be the best. But if I do," I said kindly, 
 "you must promise me in return not to be alarmed any 
 longer, Anne." 
 
 "I will try," she said gratefully; "I will indeed, Francis." 
 
 We were summoned at that minute, for the boat was 
 waiting for us. The Duchess scanned us rather curiously 
 as we ran up — we were the last. But Anne kept her word, 
 and concealed her fears so bravely that, as she jumped in 
 from the bank, her air of gayety almost deceived me, and 
 would have misled the sharpest-sighted person who had not 
 been present at our interview, so admirably was it assumed. 
 
 We calculated that our pursuers would not follow us down 
 the river for some hours. They would first have to search 
 the island, and the watch which they had set on the land- 
 ing-stage would lead them to suspect rather that we had fled 
 by land. We hoped, therefore, to reach Emmerich unmo- 
 lested. There Master Lindstrom said we could get horses, 
 
ANNE 'S PE TITION. 1 3 7 
 
 and he thought we might be safe in Santon by the following 
 evening. 
 
 "If you really think we had better go to Santon," I said. 
 This was an hour or two after leaving the island, and when 
 we looked to sight Emmerich very soon, the hills which we 
 had seen in front all day, and which were grateful to eyes 
 sated with the monotony of Holland, being now pretty close 
 to us. 
 
 "I thought that we had settled that," replied the Dutch- 
 man promptly. 
 
 I felt they were all looking at me. "I look at it this 
 way," I said, reddening. "Wesel is not far from Emmerich 
 by the road. Should we not have an excellent chance of 
 reaching it before our pursuers come up?" 
 
 "You might reach it," Master Lindstrom said gravely. 
 "Though, again, you might not." 
 
 "And, Wesel once reached," I persisted, "there is less 
 fear of violence being attempted there than in Santon. It 
 is a larger town." 
 
 "True," he admitted. "But it is just this. Will you be 
 able to reach Wesel? It is the getting there — that is the 
 difficulty; the getting there before you are caught." 
 
 "If we have a good start, why should we not?" I urged; 
 and urged it the more persistently, the more I found them 
 opposed to it. Naturally there ensued a warm discussion. 
 At first they all sided against me, save of course Anne, and 
 she sat silent, though she was visibly agitated, as from min- 
 ute to minute I or they seemed likely to prevail. But pres- 
 ently when I grew warmer, and urged again and again the 
 strength of Wesel, my own party veered round, yet still with 
 doubt and misgiving. The Dutchman shrugged his shoul- 
 ders to the end and remained unpersuaded. But finally it 
 was decided that I should have my own way. We would 
 go to Wesel. 
 
 Every one knows how a man feels when he com-es vic- 
 torious out of such a battle. He begins on the instant to 
 regret his victory, and to see the possible evils which may 
 result from it ;. to repent the hot words he has used in the 
 strife and the declarations he has flung broadcast. That 
 dreadful phrase, "I told "you so!" rises like an avenging 
 fury before his fancy, and he quails. 
 
138 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 I felt all this the moment the thmg was settled. But I 
 was too young to back out and withdraw my words. I 
 hoped for the best, and resolved inwardly to get the party 
 mounted the moment we reached Emmerich. 
 
 I soon had the opportunity of proving this resolution to 
 be more easily made than carried out. About three o'clock 
 we reached the little town dominated, as we saw from afar, 
 by an ancient minster, and, preferring not to enter it, landed 
 at the steps of an inn a quarter of a mile short of the gates, 
 and marking a point where we might take the road to Wesel, 
 or, crossing the river, the road to Santon. Master Lind- 
 strom seemed well known, but there were difficulties about 
 the horses. • The German landlord listened to his story with 
 apparent sympathy — but no horses! We could'not under- 
 stand the tongue in which the two talked, but the Dutch- 
 man's questions, quick and animated for once, and the 
 landlord's slow replies, reminded me of the foggy morning 
 when in a similar plight we had urged the master of the 
 Lions Whelp to put to sea. And I feared a similar result. 
 
 "He says he cannot get so many horses to-night," said 
 Master Lindstrom with a long face. 
 
 "Offer him more money!" quoth the Duchess. 
 
 "If we cannot have horses until the morning, we may as 
 well go on in the boat," I urged. 
 
 "He says, too, that the water is out on the road," con- 
 tinued the Dutchman. 
 
 "Nonsense! Double the price!" cried my lady impa- 
 tiently. 
 
 I suppose that this turned the scale. The landlord 
 finally promised that in an hour four saddle-horses for Mas- 
 ter Bertie and the Duchess, Anne and myself, should be 
 ready, with a couple of pack-horses and a guide. Master 
 Lindstrom, his daughter, and Van Tree would start a little 
 later for Cleves, five miles on the road to Santon, if convey- 
 ance could be got. "And if not," our late host added, as 
 we said something about our unwillingness to leave him in 
 danger, "I shall be safe enough in the town, but I hope to 
 sleep in Cleves." 
 
 It was all settled very hastily. We felt — and I in particu- 
 lar, since my plan had been adopted — an unreasonable impa- 
 tience to be off. As we stood on the bank by the inn-door, 
 we had a straight reach of river a mile long in full view 
 
ANNE'S PETITION. 
 
 139 
 
 below us ; and now we were no longer moving ourselves, 
 ]but standing still, expected each minute to see the Spanish 
 boat, with its crew of desperadoes, sweep round the corner 
 before our eyes. Master Lindstrom assured us that if we 
 were once out of sight our pursuers would get no information 
 as to the road we had taken, either from the inn-keeper or his 
 neighbors. "There is no love lost between them and the 
 Spaniards," he said shrewdly. "And I know the people 
 here, and they know me. The burghers may not be very 
 keen to come to blows with the Spaniards or to resent their 
 foray. But the latter, on their part, will be careful not to 
 go too far or to make themselves obnoxious." 
 
 We took the opportunity of supping then, not knowing 
 when we might get food again. I happened to finish first, 
 and, hearing the horses' hoofs, went out and watched the 
 lads who were to be our guides fastening the baggage on the 
 sumpter beasts. I gave them a hand — not without a wince 
 or two, for the wound in my chest was painful — and while 
 doing so had a flash of remembrance. I went to the un- 
 glazed window of the kitchen in which the others sat, and 
 leaned my elbows on the sill. "I say!" I said, full of my 
 discovery, "there is something we have forgotten!" 
 
 "What?" asked the Duchess, rising and coming toward 
 me, while the others paused in their meal to listen. 
 
 "The letter to Mistress Clarence," I answered. "I was 
 going to get it when I was stabbed, you remember, and 
 afterward we forgot all about it. Now it is too late. It 
 has been left behind." 
 
 She did not answer then, but came out to me, and turned 
 with me to look at the horses. "This comes of your fool- 
 ish scruples, Master Francis ! " she said severely. "Where 
 was it?" 
 
 "I slipped it between the leathers of the old haversack 
 you gave me," I answered, "which I used to have for a 
 pillow. Van Tree brought my things down, but overlooked 
 the haversack, I suppose. At any rate, it is not here." 
 
 "Well, it is no good crying over spilt milk," she said. 
 
 She called the others out then, and there was no mistaking 
 Mistress Anne's pleasure at escaping the Santon road. She 
 was radiant, and vouchsafed me a very pretty glance of 
 thanks, in which her relief as well as her gratitude shone 
 
I40 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 clearly. By half-past four we had got, wearied as we were, 
 to horse, and with three hours of daylight before us hoped 
 to reach Wesel without mishap. But for most of us the 
 start was saddened by the parting — though we hoped it 
 would be only for a time — from our Dutch friends. We 
 remembered how good and stanch they had been to us. 
 We feared — though Master Lindstrom would not hear of it 
 — that we had brought misfortune upon them, and neither 
 the Duchess's brave eyes nor Dymphna's blue ones were 
 free from tears as they embraced. I wrung Van Tree's 
 hand as if I had known him for months instead of days, for 
 a common danger is a wondrous knitter of hearts; and he 
 only smiled — though Dymphna blushed — when I kissed her 
 cheek. A few broken words, a last cry of farewell, and we 
 four, with our two guides behind us, moved down the Wesel 
 road, the last I heard of our good friends being Master 
 Lindstrom 's charge, shouted after us, "to beware of the 
 water if it was out!" 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A WILLFUL man's WAY. 
 
 ONLY to feel that we were moving was a relief, though 
 our march was very slow. Master Bertie carried the 
 child slung in a cloak before him, and, thus burdened, 
 could not well go beyond a smooth amble, while the guides, 
 who were on foot, and the pack-horses, found this pace as 
 much as they could manage. A little while -and the exhil- 
 aration of the start died away. The fine morning was fol- 
 lowed by a wet evening, and before we had left Emmerich 
 three miles behind us Master Bertie and I had come to look 
 at one another meaningly. We were moving in a dreary, 
 silent procession through heavy rain, with the prospect of 
 the night closing in early. The road, too, grew more heavy 
 with each furlong, and presently began to be covered with 
 pools of water. We tritd to avoid this inconvenience by 
 resorting to the hill slopes on our left, but found the attempt 
 a waste of time, as a deep stream or backwater, bordered 
 by marshes, intervened. The narrow road, raised but little 
 above the level of the swiftly flowing river on our right, 
 turned out to be our only possible path ; and when Master 
 Bertie discerned this his face grew more and more grave. 
 
 We soon found, indeed, as we plodded along, that a sheet 
 of water, which palely reflected the evening light, was taking 
 the place of the road ; and through this we had to plash and 
 plash at a snail's pace, one of the guides on a pack-horse 
 leading the way, and Master Bertie in charge of his wife 
 coming next ; then, at some distance, for her horse did not 
 take kindly to the water, the younger woman followed in 
 my care. The other guide brought up the rear. In this 
 way, stopped constantly by the fears of the horses, which 
 were scared by the expanse of flood before them, we crept 
 wearily on until the moon rose. It brought, alas, an access 
 of light, but no comfort! The water seemed continually to 
 ^row deeper, the current on our right swifter; and each 
 
142 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 moment I dreaded the announcement that farther advance 
 was impossible. 
 
 It seemed to have come to that at last, for I saw the Duch- 
 ess and her husband stop and stand waiting for me, their 
 dark shadows projected far over the moonlit surface. 
 
 "What is to be done?" Master Bertie called out, as we 
 moved up to them. "The guide tells me that there is a 
 broken piece of road in front which will be impassable with 
 this depth of water." 
 
 I had expected to hear this ; yet I was so dumfoundered — 
 for, this being true, we were lost indeed — that for a time I 
 could not answer. No one had uttered a word of reproach, 
 but I knew what they must be thinking. I had brought 
 them to this. It was my foolish insistence had done it. 
 The poor beast under me shivered. I struck him with my 
 heels. "We must go forward!" I said desperately. "Or 
 what? What do you think? Go back?" 
 
 "Steady! steady, Master Knight Errant!" the Duchess 
 cried in her calm, brave voice. "I never knew you so bad 
 a counselor before ! " 
 
 "It is my fault that you are here," I said, looking dis- 
 mally around. 
 
 "Perhaps the other road is as bad," Master Bertie 
 replied. "At any rate, that is past and gone. The ques- 
 tion is, what are we to do now? To remain here is to die 
 of cold and misery. To go back .may be to ruil into the 
 enemy's arms. To go forward " 
 
 "Will be to be drowned!" Mistress Anne cried with a 
 pitiful sob. 
 
 I could not blame her. A more gloomy outlook than 
 ours, as we sat on our jaded horses in the middle of this 
 waste of waters, which appeared in the moonlight to be 
 boundless, could scarcely be imagined. The night was 
 cold for the time of year, and the keen wind pierced our 
 garments and benumbed our limbs. At any moment the 
 rain might begin afresh, and the moon be overcast. Of 
 ourselves, we could not take a step without danger, and our 
 guides had manifestly lost their heads and longed only to 
 return. 
 
 "Yet, I am for going forward," the Duchess urged. 
 "If there be but this one bad place we may pass it with 
 care." 
 
A WILLFUL MAN'S WAY. I43 
 
 "We may," her husband assented dubiously. "But sup- 
 pose when we have passed it we can go no farther. Sup- 
 pose the " 
 
 "It is no good supposing!" she retorted with some 
 sharpness. "Let us cross this place first, Richard, and we 
 will deal with the other when we come to it." 
 
 He nodded assent, and we moved slowly forward, com- 
 pelling the guides to go first. In this order we waded 
 some hundred yards through water, which grew deeper with 
 each step, until it rose nearly to our girths. Then the lads 
 stopped. 
 
 "Are we over?" said the Duchess eagerly. 
 
 For answer one of them pointed to the flood before him, 
 and peering forward I made out a current sweeping silently 
 and swiftly across our path — a current with an ominous rush 
 and swirl. 
 
 "Over?" grunted Master Bertie. "No, this is the place. 
 See, the road has given way, and the stream is pouring 
 through from the river. I expect it is getting worse every 
 minute as the banks crumble." 
 
 We all craned forward, looking at it. It was impossible 
 to say how deep the water was, or how far the deep part 
 might extend. And we had with us a child and two 
 women. 
 
 "We must go back!" said Master Bertie resolutely. 
 "There is no doubt about it. The flood is rising. If we 
 do not take care, we shall be cut off, and be able to go 
 neither backward nor forward. I cannot see a foot of dry 
 land, as it is, before or behind us." 
 
 He was right. Far and wide, wherever our eyes could 
 reach, the moonlight was reflected in a sheet of water. We 
 were nearly up to our girths in water. On one side was the 
 hurrying river, on the other were the treacherous depths of 
 the backwater. I asked the guide as well as I could 
 whether the road was good beyond. He answered that he 
 did not know. He and his companion were so terrified 
 that we only kept them beside us by threats. 
 
 "I fear we must go back," I said, assenting sorrowfully. 
 
 Even the Duchess agreed, and we were in the act of turn- 
 ing to retrace our steps with what spirit we might, when a 
 distant sound brought us all to a standstill again. The 
 wind was blowing from the quarter whence we had come — 
 
144 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 from Emmerich; and it brought to us the sound of voices. 
 We all stopped to listen. Yes, they were voices we heard — 
 loud, strident tones, mingled now with the sullen plash of 
 horses tramping through the water. I looked at the Duch- 
 ess. Her face was pale, but her courage did not fail her. 
 She understood in a trice that the danger we had so much 
 dreaded was upon us — that we were followed, and the fol- 
 lowers were at our heels; and she turned her horse round 
 again. Without a word she spurred it back toward the 
 deep part. I seized Anne's rein and followed, notwithstand- 
 ing that the poor girl in her terror would have resisted. Let- 
 ting the guides go as they pleased, we four in a moment 
 found ourselves abreast again, our horses craning over the 
 stream, while we, with whip and spur, urged them on. 
 
 In cold blood we should scarcely have done it. Indeed, 
 for a minute, as our steeds stumbled, and recovered them- 
 selves, and slid forward, only to draw back trembling — as 
 the water rose above our boots or was flung by our fellows 
 in our eyes, and all was flogging and scrambling and splash- 
 ing, it seemed as if we were to be caught in a trap despite 
 our resolve. But at last Master Bertie's horse took the 
 plunge. His wife's followed; and both, partly floundering 
 and partly swimming, set forward snorting the while in fear. 
 To my joy I saw them emerge safely not ten yards away, 
 and, shaking themselves, stand comparatively high out of 
 the water. 
 
 "Come!" cried my lady imperatively, as she turned in 
 her saddle with a gesture of defiance. "Come! It is all 
 right." 
 
 Come, indeed! I wanted nothing better, for I was 
 beside myself with passion. But, flog as I might, I could 
 not get Anne's brute to take the plunge. The girl herself 
 could give me no aid ; clinging to her saddle, pale and half- 
 fainting, she could only beg me to leave her, crying out 
 again and again in a terrified voice that she would be 
 drowned. With her cry there suddenly mingled another, 
 the hail of our pursuers as they sighted us. I could hear 
 them drawing nearer, and I grew desperate. Luckily they 
 could not make any speed in water so^eep, and time was 
 given me for one last furious effort. It succeeded. My 
 horse literally fell into the stream; it dragged Anne's after 
 it. How we kept our seats, how they their footing, I never 
 
A WILLFUL MAM'S WaY, 145 
 
 understood; but, somehow, splashing and stumbling and 
 blinded by the water dashed in our faces, we came out on 
 the other side, where the Duchess and her husband, too 
 faithful to us to save themselves, had watched the struggle 
 in an agony of suspense. I did but fling the girl's rein to 
 Master Bertie ; and then I wheeled my horse to the stream 
 again. I had made up my mind what I must do. "Go 
 on," I cried, waving my hand with a gesture of farewell. 
 "Go on! I can keep them here for a while." 
 
 "Nonsense!" I heard the Duchess cry, her voice high 
 and shrill. "It is " 
 
 "Go on!" I cried. "Go on! Do not lose a moment, or 
 it will be useless." 
 
 Master Bertie hesitated. But he too saw that this was the 
 only chance. The Spaniards were on the brink of the 
 stream now, and must, if they passed it, overtake us easily. 
 He hesitated, I have said, for a moment. Then he seized 
 his wife's rein and drew her on, and I heard the three 
 horses go splashing away through the flood. I threw a 
 glance at them over my shoulder, bethinking me that I had 
 not told the Duchess my story, and that Sir Anthony and 
 Petronilla would never — but, pish! What was I thinking 
 of? That was a thought for a woman. I had only to 
 harden my heart now, and set my teeth together. My task 
 was very simple indeed. I had just to keep these men — 
 there were four — here as long as I could, and if possible to 
 stop Clarence's pursuit altogether. 
 
 For I had made no mistake. The first man to come up 
 was Clarence — Clarence himself. He let fall a savage word 
 as his horse stopped suddenly with its fore feet spread out on 
 the edge of the stream, and his dark face grew darker as he 
 saw the swirling eddies, and me standing fronting him in 
 the moonlight with my sword out. He discerned at once, 
 I think, the strength of my position. Where I stood the 
 water was scarcely over my horse's fetlocks. Where he 
 stood it was over his horse's knees. And between us it 
 flowed nearly four feet deep. 
 
 He held a hasty parley with his companions. And then 
 he hailed me. "Will you surrender?" he cried in English. 
 "We will give you quarter." 
 
 "Surrender? To whom?" I said. "And why — why 
 should I surrender? Are you robbers and cutpurses?" 
 
14^ THE STORY OP FRAMCtS CLUDDt. 
 
 "Surrender in the name of the Emperor, you fool!" he 
 answered sternly and roughly. 
 
 "I know nothing about the Emperor!" I retorted. 
 "What Emperor?" 
 
 "In the Queen's name, then!" 
 
 "The Duke of Cleves is queen here!" I cried. "And as 
 the flood is rising," I added scornfully, "I would advise 
 you to go home again," 
 
 "You would advise, would you? Who are you?" he re- 
 plied, in a kind of wrathful curiosity. 
 
 I gave him no answer. I have often since reflected, with 
 a fuller knowledge of certain facts, that no stranger inter- 
 view ever took place than this short colloquy between us, 
 that no stranger fight ever was fought than that which 
 we contemplated as we stood there bathed in the May 
 moonlight, with the water all round us, and the cold 
 sky above. A strange fight indeed it would have been 
 between him and me, had it ever come to the sword's 
 point ! 
 
 But this was what happened. His last words had scarcely 
 rung out when my horse began to quiver under me and 
 sway backward and forward. I had just time to take the 
 alarm, when the poor beast sank down and rolled gently 
 over, leaving me bestriding its body, my feet in the water. 
 Whatever the cause of this, I had to disentangle myself, and 
 that quickly, for the four men opposite me, seeing me dis- 
 mounted, plunged with a cry of triumph into the water, and 
 began to flounder across. Without more ado I stepped 
 forward to keep the ford. 
 
 The foremost and nearest to me was Clarence, whose 
 horse began, half-way across, to swim. It was still scram- 
 bling to regain its footing when it came within my reach, 
 and I slashed it cruelly across the nostrils. It turned in an 
 instant on its side. I saw the rider's face gleam white in 
 the water; his stirrup shone a moment as the horse rolled 
 over, then in a second the two were gone down the stream. 
 It was done so easily, so quickly, it amazed me. One 
 gone! hurrah! I turned quickly to the others, who were 
 about landing. My blood was fired, and my yell of victory, 
 as I dashed at them, scared back two of the horses. De- 
 spite their riders' urging, they turned and scrambled out on 
 the side from which they had entered. Only one was left, 
 the farthest from me. He got across indeed. Yet he was 
 
A WILLFUL MAN'S WAY. I47 
 
 the most unlucky of all, for his horse stumbled on landing, 
 came down heavily on its head, and flung him at my very 
 feet. 
 
 It was no time for quarter — I had to think of my friends 
 — and while with one hand I seized the flying rein as the 
 horse scrambled trembling to its feet, with the other I 
 lunged twice at the rider as he half tried to rise, half tried 
 to grasp at me. The second time I ran him through, and 
 he screamed shrilly. In those days I was young and hot- 
 headed, and I answered only by a shout of defiance, as I 
 flung myself into the saddle and dashed away through the 
 water after my friends. 
 
 Vce victis ! I had done enough to check the pursuit, and 
 had yet escaped myself. If I could join the others again, 
 what a triumph it would be! I had no guide, but neither 
 had those in front of me; and luckily at this point a row of 
 pollard willows defined the line between the road and the 
 river. Keeping this on my right, I made good way. The 
 horse seemed strong under me, the water was shallow, and 
 appeared to be growing more so, and presently across the 
 waste of flood I discerned before me a dark, solitary tower, 
 the tower seemingly of a church, for it was topped by a 
 stumpy spire, which daylight would probably have shown to 
 be of wood. 
 
 There was a little dry ground round the church, a mere 
 patch in a sea of water, but my horse rang its hoofs on it 
 with every sign of joy, and arched its neck as it trotted up 
 to the neighborhood of the church, whinnying with pleas- 
 ure. From the back of the building, I was not surprised, 
 came an answering neigh. As I pulled up, a man, his 
 weapon in his hand, came from the porch, and a woman 
 followed him. I called to them gayly. "I fancied you 
 would be here the moment I saw the church!" I said, slid- 
 ing to the ground. 
 
 "Thank Heaven you are safe!" the Duchess answered, 
 and to my astonishment she flung her arms round my neck 
 and kissed me. "What has happened?" she asked, look- 
 ing in my eyes, her own full of tears. 
 
 "I think I have stopped them," I answered, turning sud- 
 denly shy, though, boylike, I had been longing a few min- 
 utes before to t^lk of my victory. "They tried to cross, 
 and- " 
 
 I had not sheathed my sword. Master Bertie caught my 
 
148 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDbE, 
 
 wrist, and, lifting the blade, looked at it. "So, so!" he 
 said nodding. "Are you hurt?" 
 
 "Not touched!" I answered. Before more was said he 
 compelled his wife to go back into the porch. The wind 
 blew keenly across the open ground, and we were all wet 
 and shivering. When we had fastened up the horse we fol- 
 lowed her. The door of the church was locked, it seemed, 
 and the porch afforded the best shelter to be had. Its 
 upper part was of open woodwork, and freely admitted the 
 wind; but wide eaves projected over these openings, and 
 over the door, so that at least it was dry within. By hud- 
 dling together on the floor against the windward side we got 
 some protection. I hastily told what had happened. 
 
 "So Clarence is gone!" My lady's voice as she said the 
 words trembled, but not in sorrow or pity as I judged. 
 Rather in relief. Her dread and hatred of the man were 
 strange and terrible, and so seemed to me then. Afterward, 
 I learned that something had passed between them which 
 made almost natural such feelings on her part, and made 
 natural also a bitter resentment on his. But of that no 
 more. "You are quite sure," she said — pressing me anx- 
 iously for confirmation — "that it was he!" 
 
 "Yes. But I am not sure that he is dead," I explained. 
 
 "You seem to bear a charmed life yourself," she said. 
 
 "Hush!" cried her husband quickly. "Do not say that 
 to the lad. It is unlucky. But do you think," he con- 
 tinued — the porch was in darkness, and we could scarcely 
 make out one another's faces — "that there is any further 
 chance of pursuit?" 
 
 "Not by that party to-night," I said grimly. "Nor I 
 think to-morrow." 
 
 "Good!" he answered. "For I can see nothing but 
 water ahead, and it would be madness to go on by night 
 without a guide. We must stay here until morning, what- 
 ever the risk." 
 
 He spoke gloomily — and with reason. Our position was 
 a miserable, almost a desperate one, even on the supposition 
 that pursuit had ceased. We had lost all our baggage, 
 food, wraps. We had no guides, and we were in the midst 
 of a flooded country, with two tender women and a baby, our 
 only shelter the porch of God's house. Mistress Anne, who 
 was crouching in the darkest corner next the church- seemed 
 
A WILLFUL MAN'S WAV, 149 
 
 to have collapsed entirely. I remembered afterward that I 
 did not once hear her speak that night. The Duchess tried 
 to maintain our spirits and her own ; but in the face of cold, 
 damp, and hunger, she could do little. Master Bertie and 
 I took it by turns to keep a kind of watch, but by morning 
 — it was a long night and a bitter one — we were worn out, 
 and slept despite our misery. We should have been sur- 
 prised and captured without a blow if the enemy had come 
 upon us then. 
 
 I awoke with a start to find the gray light of a raw misty 
 morning falling upon and showing up our wretched group. 
 The Duchess's head was hidden in her cloak; her hus- 
 band's had sunk on his breast ; but Mistress Anne — I looked 
 at her and shuddered. Had she sat so all night? Sat 
 staring with that stony face of pain, and those tearless 
 eyes on the moonlight, on the darkness which had been 
 before the dawn, on the cold first rays of mornhig? Stared 
 on all alike, and seen none? I shuddered and peered at 
 her, alarmed, doubtful, wondering, asking myself what 
 this was that had happened to her. Had fear and cold 
 killed her, or turned her brain? "Anne!" I said timidly. 
 "Anne!" 
 
 She did not answer nor turn ; nor did the fixed gaze of her 
 eyes waver. I thought she did not hear. "Anne!" I cried 
 again, so loudly that the Duchess stirred, and muttered 
 something in her sleep. But the girl showed no sign of 
 consciousness. I put out my hand and touched her. 
 
 She turned sharply and saw me, and in an instant drew 
 her skirt away with a gesture of such dread, loathing repul- 
 sion as froze me; while a violent shudder convulsed her 
 whole frame. Afterward she seemed unable to withdraw 
 her eyes from me, but sat in the same attitude, gazing at me 
 with a fixed look of horror, as one might gaze at a serpent, 
 while tremor after tremor shook her. 
 
 I was frightened and puzzled, and was still staring at her, 
 wondering what I had done, when a footstep fell on the 
 road outside and called away my attention. I turned from 
 her to see a man's figure looming dark in the doorway. He 
 looked at us — I suppose he had found the horses outside — 
 gazing in surprise at the queer group. I bade him good- 
 morning in Dutch, and he answered as well as his aston- 
 ishment would let him. He was a short, stout fellow, with 
 
I50 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 a big face, capable of expressing a good deal of astonish- 
 ment. He seemed to be a peasant or farmer, "What do 
 you here?" he continued, his guttural phrases tolerably 
 intelligible to me. 
 
 I explained as clearly as I could that we were on the way 
 to Wesel. Then I awoke the Duchess and her husband, 
 and stretching our chilled and aching limbs, we went out- 
 side, the man still gazing at us. Alas ! the day was not 
 much better than the night. We could see but a very little 
 way, a couple of hundred yards round us only. The rest 
 was mist — all mist. We appealed to the man for food and 
 shelter, and he nodded, and, obeying his signs rather than 
 his words, we' kicked up our starved beasts and plodded 
 out into the fog by his side. Anne mounted silently and 
 without objection, but it was plain that something strange 
 had happened to her. Her condition was unnatural. The 
 Duchess gazed at her very anxiously, and, getting no an- 
 swers, or very scanty ones, to her questions, shook her head 
 gravely. 
 
 But we were on the verge of one pleasure at least. When 
 we reached the hospitable kitchen of the farmhouse it was 
 joy indeed to stand before the great turf fire, and feel the 
 heat stealing into our half-frozen bodies ; to turn and warm 
 back and front, while the good wife set bread and hot milk 
 before us. How differently we three felt in half an hour! 
 How the Duchess's eyes shone once more! How easily 
 rose the laugh to our lips! Joy had indeed come with the 
 morning. To be warm and dry and well fed after being 
 cold and wet and hungry — what a thing this is! 
 
 But on one neither food nor warmth seemed to have any 
 effect. Mistress Anne did, indeed, in obedience to my 
 lady's sharp words, raise her bowl to her lips. But she set 
 it down quickly and sat looking in dull apathy at the glow- 
 ing peat. What had come over her? 
 
 Master Bertie went out with the farmer to attend to the 
 horses, and when he came back he had news. 
 
 "There is a lad here," he said in some excitement, "who 
 has just seen three foreigners ride past on the road, along 
 with two Germans on pack-horses; five in all. They must 
 be three of the party who followed us yesterday." 
 
A WILLFUL MAN'S WAV. 15 1 
 
 1 whistled. "Then Clarence got himself out," I said, 
 shrugging my shoulders. "Well! well!" 
 
 "I expect that is so," Master Bertie answered, the Duch- 
 ess remaining silent. "The question arises again, what is 
 to be done?" he continued. "We may follow them to 
 Wesel, but the good man says the floods are deep between 
 here and the town, and we shall have Clarence and his 
 party before us all the way — shall perhaps run straight into 
 their arms." 
 
 "But what else can we do?" I said. "It is impossible to 
 go back." 
 
 We held a long conference, and by much questioning of 
 our host learned that half a league away was a ferry-boat, 
 which could carry as many as two horses over the river at 
 a time. On the farther side we might hit a road leading to 
 Santon, three leagues distant. Should we go to San ton 
 after all? The farmer thought the roads on that side of the 
 river might not be flooded. We should then be in touch 
 once more with our Dutch friends and might profit by Mas- 
 ter Lindstrom's advice, on which I for one was now inclined 
 to set a higher value. 
 
 "The river is bank full. Are you sure the ferry-boat can 
 cross?" I asked. 
 
 Our host was not certain. And thereupon an unexpected 
 voice struck in. 
 
 "Oh, dear, do not let us run any more risks!" it said. It 
 was Mistress Anne's. She was herself again, trembling, 
 excited, bright-eyed; as different as possible from the Anne 
 of a few minutes before. A great change had come over 
 her. Perhaps the warmth had done it. 
 
 A third course was suggested, to stay quietly where we 
 were. The farmhouse stood at some little distance from 
 the road; and though it was rough — it was very rough, con- 
 sisting only of two rooms, in one of which a cow was stalled 
 — still it could furnish food and shelter. Why not stay 
 there? 
 
 But the Duchess wisely, I think, decided against this. 
 "It is unpleasant to go wandering again," she said with a 
 shiver. "But I shall not rest until we are within the walls 
 of a town. Master Lindstrom laid so much stress on that. 
 And I fancy that the party vz-ho overtook us last night are 
 
152 THE STORY OF PkANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 not the main body. Others will have gone to Wesel by 
 boat perhaps, or along the other bank. There they will 
 meet, and, learning we have not arrived, they will probably 
 return this way and search for us." 
 
 "Clarence " 
 
 "Yes, if we have Clarence to deal with," Master Bertie 
 assented gravely, "we cannot afford to lose a point. We 
 will try the ferry." 
 
 It was something gained to start dry and warm. But the 
 women's pale faces — for little by little the fatigue, the want 
 of rest, the fear, were telling even on the Duchess — were 
 sad to see. I was sore and stiff myself. The wound I had 
 received so mysteriously had bled afresh, probably during 
 last night's fight. We needed all our courage to put a 
 brave face on the matter, and bear up and go out again into 
 the air, which for the first week in May was cold and nip- 
 ping. Suspense and anxiety had told in various ways on all 
 of us. While I felt a fierce anger against those who were 
 driving us to these straits, Master Bertie was nervous and 
 excited, alarmed for his wife and child, and inclined to see 
 an enemy in every bush. 
 
 However, we cheered up a little when we reached the 
 ferry and found the boat could cross without much risk. 
 We had to go over in two detachments, and it was nearly 
 an hour past noon before we all stood on the farther bank 
 and bade farewell to the honest soul whose help had been 
 of so much importance to us. He told us we had three 
 leagues to go, and we hoped to be at rest in Santon by four 
 o'clock. 
 
 But the three leagues turned out to be more nearly five, 
 while the road was so founderous that we had again and 
 again to quit it. 
 
 The evening came on, the light waned, and still we were 
 feeling our way, so to speak — the women tired and on the 
 verge of tears; the men muddy to the waist, savage, and 
 impatient. It was eight o'clock, and dusk was well upon 
 us before we caught sight of the first lights of Santon, and 
 in fear lest the gates might be shut, pressed forward at such 
 speed as our horses could compass. 
 
 "Do you go on!" the Duchess adjured us. "Anne and 
 I will be safe enough behind you. Let me take the child, 
 and do you ride on. We cannot pass the night in the fields." 
 
A WILLFUL MAN'S WAY, 153 
 
 The importance of securing admission was so great that 
 Master Bertie and I agreed; and cantered on, soon out- 
 stripping our companions, and ahuost in the gloom losing 
 sight of them. Dark masses of woods, the last remnants, 
 apparently, of a forest, lay about the road we had to tra- 
 verse. We were passing one of these, scarcely three hun- 
 dred paces short of the town, and I was turning in the sad- 
 dle to see that the ladies were following safely, when I 
 heard Master Bertie, who was a bow-shot in front of me, 
 give a sudden cry. 
 
 I wheeled round hastily to learn the reason, and was just 
 in time to see three horsemen sweep into the road before 
 him from the cover of the trees. They were so close to him 
 — and they filled the road — that his horse carried him 
 amongst them almost before he could check it, or so it 
 seemed to me. I heard their loud challenge, saw his arm 
 wave, and guessed that his sword was out. 1 spurred des- 
 perately to join him, giving a wild shout of encouragement 
 as I did so. But before I could come up, or indeed cross 
 half the distance, the scuffle was over. One man fell head- 
 long from his saddle, one horse fled riderless down the road, 
 and at sight of this, or perhaps of me, the others turned tail 
 without more ado and made off, leaving Master Bertie in 
 possession of the field. The whole thing had passed in the 
 shadow' of the wood in less than half a minute. When I 
 drew rein by him he was sheathing his sword. "Is it Clar- 
 ence?" I cried eagerly. 
 
 "No, no; I did not see him. I think not," he an- 
 swered. He was breathing hard and was very much 
 excited. "They were poor swordsmen, for Spaniards," he 
 added — "very poor, I thought." 
 
 I jumped off my horse, and, kneeling beside the man, 
 turned him over. He was badly hurt, if not dying, cut 
 across the neck. He looked hard at him by such light as 
 there was, and did not recognize him as one of our assail- 
 ants of the night before. 
 
 "I do not think he is a Spaniard," I said slowly. Then 
 a certain suspicion occurred to my mind, and I stooped 
 lower over him. 
 
 "Not a Spaniard?" Master Bertie said stupidly. "How 
 is that?" 
 
 Before I answered I raised the man in my arms, and, 
 
154 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 carrying him carefully to the side of the road, set him with 
 his back to a tree. Then I got quickly on my horse. The 
 women were just coming up. "Master Bertie," I said in a 
 low voice, as I looked this way and that to see if the alarm 
 had spread, ' T am afraid there is a mistake. But say noth- 
 ing to them. It is one of the town-guard you have killed ! " 
 "One of the town-guard!" he cried, alight bursting in 
 on him, and the reins dropping from his hand. "What 
 shall we do? We are lost, man!" 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 AT BAY IN THE GATEHOUSE. 
 
 WHAT was to be done? That was the question, and a 
 terrible question it was. Behind us we had the inhos- 
 pitable country, dark and dreary, the night wind sweeping 
 over it. In front, where the lights twinkled and the smoke 
 of the town went up, we were like to meet with a savage 
 reception. And it was no time for weighing alternatives. 
 The choice had to be made, made in a moment ; I marvel 
 to this day at the quickness with which I made it for good 
 or ill. 
 
 "We must get into the town!" I cried imperatively. 
 "And before the alarm is given. It is hopeless to fly, Mas- 
 ter Bertie, and we cannot spend another night in the fields. 
 Quick, madam!" I continued to the Duchess, as she came 
 up. I did not wait to hear his opinion, for I saw he was 
 stunned by the catastrophe. "We have hurt one of the 
 town-guard through a mistake. We must get through the 
 gate before it is discovered!" 
 
 I seized her rein and flogged up her horse, and gave her 
 no time to ask questions, but urged on the party at a hand 
 gallop until the gate was reached. The attempt, I knew, 
 was desperate, for the two men who had escaped had ridden 
 straight for the town ; but I saw no other resource, and it 
 seemed to me to be better to surrender peaceably, if that 
 were possible, than to expose the women to another night 
 of such cold and hunger as the last. And fortune so far 
 favored us that when we reached the gate it was open. 
 Probably, the patrol having ridden through to get help, no 
 one had thought fit to close it; and, no one withstanding 
 us, we spurred our sobbing horses under the archway and 
 entered the street. 
 
 It was a curious entry, and a curious scene we came 
 upon. I remember now how strange it all looked. The 
 
IS6 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE, 
 
 houses, leaning forward in a dozen quaint forms, clear cut 
 against the pale evening sky, caused a darkness as of a 
 cavern in the narrow street below. Here and there in the 
 midst of this darkness hung a lantern, which, making the 
 gloom away from it seem deeper, lit up the things about it, 
 throwing into flaring prominence some barred window with 
 a scared face peering from it, some corner with a puddle, a 
 slinking dog, a broken flight of steps. Just within the gate 
 stood a brazier full of glowing coal, and beside it a halbert 
 rested against the wall. I divined that the watchman had 
 run into the town with the riders, and I drew rein in doubt, 
 listening and looking. I think if we had ridden straight on 
 then, all might have been well ; or, at least, we might have 
 been allowed to give ourselves up. 
 
 But we hesitated a moment, and were lost. No doubt, 
 though we saw but one, there were a score of people watch- 
 ing us, who took us for four men. Master Bertie and I being 
 in front; and these, judging from the boldness of our entry 
 that there were more behind, concluded that this was a foray 
 upon the town. At any rate, they took instant advantage 
 of our pause. With a swift whir an iron pot came hurtling 
 past me, and, missing the Duchess by a hand's-breadth, 
 went clanking under the gatehouse. That served for a sig- 
 nal. In a moment an alarm of hostile cries rose all round 
 us. An arrow whizzed between my horse's feet. Half a 
 dozen odd missiles, snatched up by hasty hands, came rain- 
 ing in on us out of the gloom. The town seemed to be 
 rising as one man. A bell began to ring, and a hundred 
 yards in front, where the street branched off to right and 
 left, the way seemed suddenly alive from wall to wall with 
 lights and voices and brandished arms, the gleam of steel, 
 and the babel of a furious crowd — a crowd making down 
 toward us with a purpose we needed no German to interpret. 
 
 It was a horrible moment; the more horrible that I had 
 not expected this fury, and was unnerved as well as taken 
 aback by it. Remembering that I had brought my com- 
 panions here,' and that two were women, one was a child, I 
 quailed. How could I protect them? There was no mis- 
 taking the stern meaning of those cries, of that rage so much 
 surpassing anything I had feared. Though I did not know 
 that the man we had struck down was ^ bridegroom, and 
 
AT BAY IN THE GATEHOUSE, 157 
 
 that there were those in the crowd in whose ears the young 
 wife's piercing scream still rang, I yet quailed before their 
 yells and curses. 
 
 As I glanced round for a place of refuge, my eyes lit on 
 an open doorway close to me, and close also to the brazier 
 and halbert. It was a low stone doorway, beetle-browed, 
 with a coat of arms carved over it. I saw in an instant that 
 it must lead to the tower above us — the gatehouse ; and I 
 sprang from my horse, a fresh yell from the houses hailing 
 the act. I saw that, if we were to gain a moment for parley- 
 ing, we must take refuge there. I do not know how I did 
 it, but somehow I Inade myself understood by the others 
 and got the women off their horses and dragged Mistress 
 Anne inside, where at once we both fell in the darkness 
 over the lower steps of a spiral staircase. This hindered 
 the Duchess, who was following, and I heard a scuffle tak- 
 ing place behind us. But in that confined space — the stair- 
 case was very narrow — I could give no help. I could only 
 stumble upward, dragging the fainting girl after me, until 
 we emerged through an open dporway at the top into a 
 room. What kind of room I did not notice then, only that 
 it was empty. Notice! It was no time for taking notice. 
 The bell was clanging louder and louder outside. The mob 
 were yelling like hounds in sight of their quarry. The 
 shouts, the confused cries, and threats, and questions deaf- 
 ened me. I turned to learn what was happening behind 
 me. The other two had not come up. 
 
 I felt my way down again, one hand on the central pillar, 
 my shoulder against the outside wall. The stair-foot was 
 faintly lit by the glow from outside, and on the bottom step 
 I came on some one, hurt or dead, just a dark mass at my 
 feet. It was Master Bertie. I gave a cry and leaped over 
 his body. The Duchess, brave wife, was standing before 
 him, the halbert which she had snatched up presented at 
 the doorway and the howling mob outside. 
 
 Fortunately the crowd had not yet learned how few we 
 were ; nor saw, I think, that it was but a woman who con- 
 fronted them. To rush into the low doorway and storm the 
 narrow winding staircase in the face of unknown numbers 
 was a task from which the bravest veterans might have 
 flinched, and the townsfolk, furious as they were, hung 
 back. I took advantage of the pause. I grasped the hal- 
 
158 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 bert myself and pushed the Duchess back. "Drag him 
 up!" I muttered. "If you cannot manage it, call Anne!" 
 
 But grief and hard necessity gave her strength, and, 
 despite the noise in front of me, I heard her toil panting up 
 with her burden. When I judged she had reached the 
 room above, I too turned and ran up after her, posting my- 
 self in the last angle just below the room. There I was 
 sheltered from missiles by the turn in the staircase, and was 
 further protected by the darkness. Now I could hold the 
 way with little risk, for only one could come up at a time, 
 and he would be a brave man who should storm the stairs 
 in my teeth. 
 
 All this, I remember, was done in a kind of desperate 
 frenzy, in haste and confusion, with no plan or final pur- 
 pose, but simply out of the instinct of self-preservation, 
 which led me to do, from moment to moment, what I could 
 to save our lives. I did not know whether there was 
 another staircase to the tower, nor whether there were 
 enemies above us; whether, indeed, enemies might not 
 swarm in on us from a dozen entrances. I had no time to 
 think of more than just this; that my staircase, of which I 
 did know, must be held. 
 
 I think I had stood there about a minute, breathing hard 
 and listening to the din outside, which came to my ears a 
 little softened by the thick walls round me — so much soft- 
 ened, at least, that I could hear my heart beating in the 
 midst of it — when the Duchess came back to the door 
 above. I could see her, there being a certain amount of 
 light in the room behind her, but she could not see me. 
 "What can I do?" she asked softly. 
 
 I answered by a question. "Is he alive?" I muttered. 
 
 "Yes; but hurt," she answered, struggling with a sob, 
 with a fluttering of the woman's heart she had repressed 
 so bravely. "Much hurt, I fear! Oh, why, why did we 
 come here?" 
 
 She did not mean it as a reproach, but I took it as one, and 
 braced myself more firmly to meet this crisis — to save her at 
 least if it should be any way possible. When she asked 
 again "Can I do anything?" I bade her take my pike and 
 stand where I was for a moment. Since no enemy had yet 
 made his appearance above, the strength of our position 
 seemed to hold out some hope, and it was the more essen- 
 
AT BAY IN THE GATEHOUSE. 15 9 
 
 tial that I should understand it and know exactly what our 
 chances were. 
 
 I sprang up the stairs into the room and looked round, 
 my eyes seeming to take in everything at once. It was a 
 big bare room, with signs of habitation only in one corner. 
 On the side toward the town was a long, low window, 
 through which — a score of the diamond panes were 
 broken already — the flare of the besiegers' torches fell lu- 
 ridly on the walls and vaulted roof. By the dull embers of 
 a wood fire, over which hung a huge black pot, Master Ber- 
 tie was lying on the boards, breathing loudly and painfully, 
 his head pillowed on the Duchess's kerchief. Beside him 
 sat Mistress Anne, her face hidden, the child wailing in her 
 lap. A glance round assured me that there was no other 
 staircase, and that on the side toward the country, the wall 
 was pierced with no window bigger than a loophole or an 
 arrow-slit; with no opening which even a boy could enter. 
 For the present, therefore, unless the top of the tower 
 should be escaladed from the adjacent houses — and I could 
 do nothing to provide against that — we had nothing to fear 
 except from the staircase and the window I have mentioned. 
 Every moment, however, a missile or a shot crashed through 
 the latter, adding the shiver of falling glass to the general 
 din. No wonder the child wailed and the girl sank over it 
 in abject terror. Those savage yells might well make a 
 woman blench. They carried more fear and dread to my 
 heart than did the real danger of our position, desperate as 
 it was. 
 
 And yet it was so desperate that, for a moment, I leant 
 against the wall dazed and hopeless, listening to the infernal 
 tumult without and within. Had Bertie been by my side 
 to share the responsibility and join in the risk, I could have 
 borne it better. I might have felt then some of the joy of 
 battle, and the stern pleasure of the one matched against the 
 many. But I was alone. How was I to save these women 
 and that poor child from the yelling crew outside? How 
 indeed? I did not know the enemy's language; I could 
 not communicate with him, could not explain, could not 
 even cry for quarter for the women. 
 
 A stone which glanced from one of the muUions and 
 
i6o THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 grazed my shoulder roused me from this fit of cowardice, 
 which, I trust and believe, had lasted for a few seconds only. 
 At the same moment an unusual volley of missiles tore 
 through the window as if discharged at a given signal. We 
 were under cover, and they did us no harm, rolling for the 
 most part noisily about the floor. But when the storm 
 ceased and a calm as sudden followed, I heard a dull, regu- 
 lar sound close to the window — a thud! thud! thud! — and 
 on the instant divined the plan and the danger. My cour- 
 age came back and with it my wits. I remembered an old 
 tale I had heard, and, dropping my sword where I stood, I 
 flew to the hearth, and unhooked the great pot. It was 
 heavy; half full of something — broth, most likely; but I 
 recked nothing of that, I bore it swiftly to the window, and 
 just as the foremost man on the ladder had driven in the 
 lead work before him with his ax, flung the whole of the 
 contents — they were not scalding, but they were very hot — 
 in his face. The fellow shrieked loudly, and, blinded and 
 taken by surprise, lost his hold and fell against his sup- 
 porter, and both tumbled down again more quickly than 
 they had come up. 
 
 Sternly triumphant, 1 poised the great pot itself in my 
 hands, thinking to fling it down upon the sea of savage up- 
 turned faces, of which I had a brief view, as the torches 
 flared now on one, now on another. But prudence pre- 
 vailed. If no more blood were shed it might still be possi- 
 ble to get some terms. I laid the pot down by the side of 
 the window as a wed;pon to be used only in the last resort. 
 
 Meanwhile the Duchess, posted in the dark, had heard 
 the noise of the window being driven in, and cried out piti- 
 fully to know what it was. "Stand firm!" I shouted 
 loudly. "Stand firm. We are safe as yet." 
 
 Even the uproar without seemed to abate a little as the first 
 fury of the mob died down. Probably their leaders were con- 
 certing fresh action. I went and knelt beside Master Ber- 
 tie and made a rough examination of his wound. He had 
 received a nasty blow on the back of the head, from which 
 the blood was still oozing, and he was insensible. His 
 face looked very long and thin and deathlike. But, so far 
 as I could ascertain, the bones were uninjured, and he was 
 now breathing more quietly. "I think he will recover," I 
 said, easing his clothes. 
 
AT BAY IN THE GATEHOUSE, l6i 
 
 Anne was crouching on the other side of him. As she 
 did not answer I looked up at her. Her lips were moving, 
 but the only word I caught was "Clarence!" I did not 
 wonder she was distraught ; I had work enough to keep my 
 own wits. But 1 wanted her help, and I repeated loudly, 
 "Anne! Anne!" trying to rouse her. 
 
 She looked past me shuddering. "Heaven forgive you!" 
 she muttered. "You have brought me to this! And now I 
 must die! I must die here. In the net they have set for 
 others is their own foot taken ! " 
 
 She was quite beside herself with terror. I saw that she 
 was not addressing me ; and I had not time to make sense 
 of her wanderings. I left her and went out to speak to the 
 Duchess. Poor woman ! even her brave spirit was giving 
 way. I felt her cold hands tremble as I took the halbert 
 from her. "Go into the room a while," I said softly. "He 
 is not seriously hurt, I am sure. I will guard this. If any 
 one appears at the window, scream." 
 
 She went gladly, and I took her place, having now to do 
 double duty. I had been there a few minutes only, listen- 
 ing, with my soul in my ears, to detect the first signs of 
 attack, either below me or in the room behind, when I dis- 
 tinguished a strange rustling sound on the staircase. It 
 appeared to come from a point a good deal below me, and 
 probably, whoever made it was just within the doorway. I 
 peered into the gloom, but could see no one as yet. 
 "Stand!" I cried in a tone of warning. "Who is that?" 
 
 The sound ceased abruptly, but it left me uneasy. Could 
 they be going to blow us up with gunpowder? No! I did 
 not think so. They would not care to ruin the gateway for 
 the sake of capturing so small a party. And the tower was 
 strong. It would not be easy to blow it up. 
 
 Yet in a short time the noise began again ; and my fears 
 returned with it. "Stand!" I cried savagely, "or take 
 care of yourself." 
 
 The answer was a flash of bright light — which for a sec- 
 ond showed the rough stone walls winding away at my feet 
 — a stunning report, and the pattering down of half a dozen 
 slugs from the roof. I laughed, my first start over. "You 
 will have to come a little higher up!" I cried tauntingly, as 
 I smelt the fumes. My eyes had become so accustomed to 
 the darkness that I felt sure I should detect an assailant, 
 
• 1 62 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 however warily he might make his approach. And my 
 halbert was seven feet long, so that I could reach as far as I 
 could see. I had had time, too, to grow cool. 
 
 After this there was comparative quiet for another space. 
 Every now and then a stone or, more rarely, the ball of an 
 arquebuse would come whizzing into the room above, But 
 I did not fear this. It was easy to keep under cover. And 
 their shouting no longer startled me. I began to see a 
 glimpse of hope. It was plain that the townsfolk were puz- 
 zled how to come at us without suffering great loss. They 
 were unaware of our numbers, and, as it proved, believed 
 that we had three uninjured men at least. The staircase 
 was impracticable as a point of assault, and the window, 
 being only three feet in height and twenty from the ground, 
 was not much better, if defended, as they expected it would 
 be, by a couple of desperate swordsmen. 
 
 I was not much astonished, therefore, when the rustling 
 sound, beginning again at the foot of the staircase, came 
 this time to no more formidable issue than a hail in Spanish. 
 "Will you surrender?" the envoy cried. 
 
 "No!" I said roundly. 
 
 "Who are you?" was the next question. 
 
 "We are English!" I answered. 
 
 He went then; and there for the time the negotiations 
 ended. But, seeing the dawn of hope, I was the more 
 afraid of any trap or surprise, and I cried to the Duchess to 
 be on her guard. For this reason, too, the suspense of the 
 next few niinutes was almost more trying than anything 
 which had gone before. But the minutes came at last to an 
 end. A voice below cried loudly in English, "Holloa! are 
 you friends?" 
 
 "Yes, yes," I replied joyfully, before the words had well 
 ceased to rebound from the walls. For the voice and 
 accent were Master Lindstrom's. A cry of relief from the 
 room behind me showed that there, too, the speaker was 
 recognized. The Duchess came running to the door, but 
 I begged her to go back and keep a good lookout. And she 
 obeyed. 
 
 "How come you here? How has it happened?" Master 
 Lindstrom asked, his voice, though he still remained below, 
 
AT BAV m THE GATEHOUSE. 163 
 
 betraying his perplexity and unhappiness. "Can I not do 
 something? This is terrible, indeed." 
 
 "You can come up, if you like," I answered, after a mo- 
 ment's thought. "But you must come alone. And I can- 
 not let even you, friend as you are, see our defenses." 
 
 As he came up I stepped back and drew the door of the 
 room toward me, so that, though a little light reached the 
 head of the stairs, he could not, standing there, see into the 
 room or discern our real weakness. I did not distrust him 
 — Heaven forbid! but he might have to tell all he saw to his 
 friends below, and I thought it well, for his sake as well as 
 our own, that he should be able to do this freely, and with- 
 out hurting us. As he joined me I held up a finger for 
 silence and listened keenly. But all was quiet below. 
 No one had followed him. Then I turned and warmly 
 grasped his hands, and we peered into one another's faces. 
 I saw he was deeply moved; that he was thinking of 
 Dymphna, and how I had saved her. He held my hands 
 as though he would never loose them. 
 
 "Well!" I said, as cheerfully as I could, "have you 
 brought us an offer of terms? But let me tell you first," 
 I continued, "how it happened." And I briefly explained 
 that we had mistaken the captain of the guard and his two 
 followers for Clarence and the two Spaniards. "Is he 
 dead?" I continued. 
 
 "No, he is still alive," Master Lindstrom answered 
 gravely. "But the townsfolk are furious, and the seizure 
 of the tower has still further exasperated them. Why did 
 you do it?" 
 
 "Because we should have been torn to pieces if we had 
 not done it," I answered dryly. "You think we are in a 
 strait place?" 
 
 "Do you not think so yourself?" he said, somewhat 
 astonished. 
 
 I laughed. "That is as may be," I answered with an 
 affectation of recklessness. "The staircase is narrow and 
 the window low. We shall sell our lives dearly, my friend. 
 Yet, for the sake of the women who are with us, we are 
 willing to surrender if the citizens offer us terms. After 
 all, it was an accident. Cannot you impress this on them?" 
 I added eagerly. 
 
164 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 He shook his head. "They will not hear reason," he 
 said. 
 
 "Then," I replied, "impress the other thing upon them. 
 Tell them that our swords are sharp and we are desperate." 
 
 "I will see what I can do," he answered slowly. "The 
 Duke of Cleves is expected here to-morrow, and the towns- 
 folk feel they would be disgraced forever if he should find 
 their gate held by a party of marauders, as they consider 
 you." 
 
 "The Duke of Cleves?" I repeated. "Perhaps he may 
 be better affected toward us." 
 
 "They will Overpower you before he comes," Master 
 Lindstrom answered despondently. "I would put no trust 
 in him if I were you. But I will go to them, and, believe 
 me, I will do all that man can do." 
 
 "Of that I am sure," I said warmly. And then, caution- 
 ing me to remain strictly on the defensive, he left me. 
 
 Before his footsteps had ceased to echo on the stairs the 
 door beside me opened, and Mistress Anne appeared at it. 
 I saw at once that his familiar voice had roused her from 
 the stupor of fear in which I had last seen her. Her eyes 
 were bright, her whole frame was thrilling with excitement, 
 hope, suspense. I began to understand her; to discern 
 beneath the disguise thrown over it in ordinary times by a 
 strong will, the nervous nature which was always confident 
 or despairing, which felt everything so keenly — everything, 
 that is, which touched itself. "Well?" she cried, "well?" 
 
 "Patience! patience!" I replied rather sharply. I could 
 not help comparing her conduct with that of the Duchess, 
 and blaming her, not for her timidity, but for the selfish- 
 ness which she had betrayed in her fear. I could fancy 
 Petronilla trembling and a coward, but not despairing nor 
 utterly cast down, nor useless when others needed her, nor 
 wrapped in her own terrors to the very exclusion of reason. 
 "Patience!" I said; "he is coming back. ' He and his 
 friends will do all they can for us. We must wait a while 
 and hope, and keep a good lookout." 
 
 She had her hand on the door, and by an abrupt move- 
 ment, she slipped out to me and closed it behind her. This 
 made the staircase so dark that I could no longer distin- 
 guish her face, but I judged from her tone that her iears 
 
AT BAY IN THE GATEHOUSE. 165 
 
 were regaining possession of her. "Clarence," she mut- 
 ted, her voice low and trembling. "Have you thought of 
 him? Could not he help us? He may have followed us 
 here, and may be here now. Now! And perhaps he does 
 not know in what danger we are." 
 
 "Clarence!" I said, astonished and almost angry. 
 "Clarence help us? Go back, girl, go back. You are 
 mad. He would be more likely to complete our ruin. Go 
 in and nurse the baby!" I added bitterly. 
 
 What could she mean, I asked myself, when she had gone 
 in. Was there anything in her suggestion? Would Clar- 
 ence follow us hither? If so, and if he should come in 
 time, would he have power to help us, using such mysterious 
 influence, Spanish or English, as he seemed to possess? 
 And if he could help us, would it be better to fall into his 
 hands than into those of the exasperated Santonese? I 
 thought the Duchess would say "No!" 
 
 So it mattered not what I answered myself. I hoped, 
 now Master Lindstrom had appeared, that the women would 
 be allowed to go free ; and it seemed to me that to surrender 
 to Clarence would be to hand over the Duchess to her en- 
 emy simply that the rest of us might escape. 
 
 Master Lindstrom returned while I was still considering 
 this, and, observing the same precautions as before, I bade 
 him join me. "Well?" I said, not so impetuously, I hope, 
 as Mistress Anne, yet I dare say with a good deal of eager- 
 ness. "Well, what do they say?" For he was slow to 
 speak. 
 
 "I have bad news," he answered gently. 
 
 "Ah!" I ejaculated, a lump which was due as much to 
 rage as to any other emotion rising in my throat. "So they 
 will give us no terms? Then so be it! Let them come 
 and take us." 
 
 "Nay," he hastened to answer. "It is not so bad as 
 that, lad. They are fathers and husbands themselves, and 
 not lanzknechts. They will suffer the women to go free, 
 and will even let me take charge of them if necessary." 
 
 "They will!" I exclaimed, overjoyed. I wondered why 
 on earth he had hesitated to tell me this. "Why, that is 
 the main point, friend." 
 
 "Yes," he said gravely, "perhaps so. More, the men 
 may go too, if the tower be surrendered within an hour. 
 
1 66 THE STORY OF FRAN-CIS CLUDDE. 
 
 With one exception, that is. The man who struck the blow 
 must be given up." 
 
 "The man who struck the blow!" I repeated slowly. 
 "Do you mean — you mean the man who cut the patrol 
 down?" 
 
 "Yes," he said. He was peering very closely at me, as 
 though he would learn from my face who it was. And I 
 stood thinking. This was as much as we could expect. I 
 divined, and most truly, that but for the honest Dutchman's 
 influence, promises, perhaps bribes, such terms would never 
 have been offered to us by the men who hours before had 
 driven us to hold as if we had been vermin. Yet give up 
 Master Bertie? "What," I said, "will be done to him? 
 The man who must be given up, I mean?" Master Lind- 
 strom shook his head. "It was an accident," I urged, my 
 eyes on his. 
 
 He grasped my hand firmly, and, turning away his face, 
 seemed for a while unable to speak. At last he whispered, 
 "He must suffer for the others, lad. I fear so. It is a 
 hard fate, a cruel fate. But I can do no more. They will 
 not hear me on this. It is true he will be first tried by the 
 magistrate, but there is no hope. They are very hard." 
 
 My heart sank. I stood irresolute, pondering on what 
 we ought to do, pondering on what I should say to the wife 
 who so loved the man who must die. What could I say? 
 Yet, somehow I must break the news. I asked Master 
 Lindstrom to wait where he was while I consulted the oth- 
 ers, adding, "You will answer for it that there will be no 
 attack while you are here, I suppose?" 
 
 "I will," he said. I knew I could trust him, and I went 
 in to the Duchess, closing the door behind me. A change 
 had come over the room since I had left it. The moon had 
 risen and was flinging its cold white light through the 
 twisted and shattered framework of the window, to fall in 
 three bright panels on the floor. The torches in the street 
 had for the most part burned out, or been extinguished. In 
 place of the red glare, the shouts and the crash of glass, the 
 atmosphere of battle and strife I had left, I found this 
 silvery light and a stillness made more apparent by the dis- 
 tant hum of many voices. 
 
 Mistress Anne was standing just within the threshold, her 
 face showing pale against the gloom, her hands clasped. 
 
AT BAY m THE GATEHOUSE. 1^7 
 
 The Duchess was kneeling by her husband, but she looked 
 up as I entered. 
 
 "They will let lis all go," I said bluntly; it was best to 
 tell the tale at once — "except the one who hurt the patrol, 
 that is." 
 
 It was strange how differently the two women received 
 the news ; while Mistress Anne flung her hands to her face 
 with a sobbing cry of thankfulness, and leaned against the 
 wall crying and shaking, my lady stood up straight and 
 still, breathing hard but saying nothing. I saw that she did 
 not need to ask what would be done to the one who was 
 excepted. She knew. "No," she murmured at last, her 
 hands pressed to her bosom, "we cannot doit! Oh, no, 
 no!" 
 
 "I fear we must," I said gently — calmly, too, I think. 
 Yet in saying it I was not quite myself. An odd sensation 
 was growing upon me in the stillness of the room. I began 
 on a sudden, I did not know why, to thrill with excitement, 
 to tremble with nervousness, such as would rather have 
 become one of the women than a man. My head grew hot, 
 my heart began to beat quickly. I caught myself looking 
 out, listening, waiting for something to happen, something 
 to be said. It was something more terrible, as it seemed to 
 me, than the din and crash of the worst moments of the as- 
 sault. What was it? What was it that was threatening my 
 being? An instant and I knew. 
 
 "Oh, no, never!" cried the Duchess again, her voice 
 quivering, her face full of keenest pain. "We will 
 not give you up. We will stand or fall together, 
 friend." 
 
 Give you up! Qf'xwQ you up! Ha! The veil was lifted 
 now, and I saw what the something with the cold breath 
 going before it was. I looked quietly from her to her hus- 
 band; and I asked — I fancy she thought my question 
 strangely irrelevant at that moment, "How is he? Is he 
 better?" 
 
 "Much better. He knew me for a moment," she an- 
 swered. "Then he seemed to sink away again. But his 
 eyes were quite clear." 
 
 I stood gazing down at his thin face, which had ever 
 looked so kindly into mine. TVIy fingers played idly with 
 
1 68 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 the knot of my sword. "He will live?" I asked abruptly, 
 harshly. 
 
 She started at the sudden question. But, brutal as it 
 must have sounded, she was looking at Yne in pity so great 
 and generous that it did not wound her. "Oh, yes," she 
 said, her eyes still clinging to me. "I think he will live, 
 thank Heaven!" 
 
 Thank Heaven! Ah, yes, thank Heaven! 
 
 I turned and went slowly toward the door. But before I 
 reached it she was at my side, nay, was on her knees by me, 
 clasping my hand, looking up to me with streaming eyes. 
 "What are you going to do?" she cried, reading, I suppose, 
 something in my face. 
 
 "I will see if Master Lindstrom cannot get better terms 
 for us," I answered. 
 
 She rose, still detaining me. "You are sure?" she said, 
 still eying me jealously. 
 
 "Quite sure," I answered, forcing a smile. "I will 
 come back and report to you." 
 
 She let me go then, and I went out and joined Lindstrom 
 on the staircase. 
 
 "Are you certain," 1 asked, speaking in a whisper, "that 
 they will — that the town will keep its word and let the 
 others go?" 
 
 "I am quite sure of it," he replied nodding. "They are 
 Germans, and hard and pitiless, but you may trust them. 
 So far I will answer for them." 
 
 "Then we accept," I said gravely. "I give myself up. 
 Let them take me." 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 BEFORE THE COURT. 
 
 1HAD not seen the first moonbeams pierce the broken 
 casement of the tower-room, but I was there to watch 
 the last tiny patch of silver glide aslant from wall to sill, and 
 sill to frame, and so pass out. Near the fire, which had 
 been made up, and now glowed and crackled bravely on the 
 hearthstone at my elbow, my three jailers had set a mattress 
 for me ; and on this I sat, my back to the wall and my face 
 to the window. The guards lounged on the other side of 
 the hearth round a lantern, playing at dice and drinking. 
 They were rough, hard men, whose features, as they leaned 
 over the table and the light played strongly on their faces, 
 blazoning them against a wall of shadow, were stern and 
 rugged enough. But they had not shown themselves un- 
 kindly. They had given me a share of their wine, and had 
 pointed to the window and shrugged their shoulders, as 
 much as to say that it was my own fault if I suffered from 
 the draught. Nay, from time to time, one of them would 
 turn from his game and look at me — in pity, I think — and 
 utter a curse that was meant for encouragement. 
 
 Even when the first excitement had passed away, I felt 
 none of the stupefaction which I have heard that men feel 
 in such a position. My brain was painfully active. In vain 
 I longed to sleep, if it were only that I might not be thought 
 to fear death. But the fact that I was to be tried first, 
 though the sentence was a certainty, distracted and troubled 
 me. My thoughts paced from thing to thing; now dwelling 
 on the Duchess and her husband, now flitting to Petronilla 
 and Sir Anthony, to the old place at home and the servants; 
 to strange petty things, long familiar — a tree in the chase at 
 Coton, an herb I had planted. Once a great lump rose in 
 my throat, and I had to turn away to hide the hot tears that 
 would rise at the thought that I must die in this mean Ger- 
 man town, in this unknown corner, and be buried and for- 
 
170 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 gotten ! And once, too, to torment me, there rose a doubt 
 in my mind whether Master Bertie would recover ; whether, 
 indeed, 1 had not thrown my life away for nothing. But it 
 was too late to think of that! And the doubt, which the 
 Evil One himself must have suggested, so terrible was it, 
 passed away quickly. 
 
 My thoughts raced, but the night crawled. We had sur- 
 rendered about ten, and the magistrates, less pitiful than 
 the jailers, had forbidden my friends to stay with me. An 
 hour or more after midnight, two of the men lay down and 
 the other sat humming a drinking-song, or at intervals rose 
 to yawn and stretch himself and look out of the window. 
 From time to time, the cry of the watchman going his rounds 
 came drearily to my ears, recalling to me the night I had 
 spent behind the hoarding in Moorgate Street, when the 
 adventure which was to end to-morrow — nay, to-day — in 
 a few hours — had lured me away. To-day? Was I to 
 die to-day? To perish with all my plans, hopes, love? It 
 seemed impossible. As I gazed at the window, whose 
 shape began to be printed on my brain, it seemed impossi- 
 ble. My soul so rose in rebellion against it, that the per- 
 spiration stood on my brow, and I had to clasp my hands 
 about my knees, and strain every muscle to keep in the cry 
 I would have uttered! a cry, not of fear, but of rage and 
 remonstrance and revolt, 
 
 I was glad to see the first streaks of dawn, to hear the 
 first cock-crowings, and, a few minutes later, the voices of 
 men in the street and on the stairs. The sounds of day and 
 life acted magically upon me. The horror of the night 
 passed off as does the horror of a dream. When a man, 
 heavily cloaked and with his head covered, came in, the 
 door being shut behind him by another hand, I looked up 
 at him bravely. The worst was past. 
 
 He replied by looking down at me for a few moments 
 without disclosing himself, the collar of his cloak being 
 raised so high that I could see nothing of his features. My 
 first notion that he must be Master Lindstrom passed away; 
 and, displeased by his silent scrutiny, and thinking him a 
 stranger,.! said sharply, "I hope you are satisfied, sir." 
 
 "Satisfied?" he replied, in a voice which made me staiv 
 so that the irons clanked on my feet, "Well, I think 1 
 should be — seeing you so, my friend!" 
 
BEFORE THE COURT. 171 
 
 It was Clarence! Of all men, Clarence! I knew his 
 voice, and he, seeing himself recognized, lowered his cloak. 
 I stared at him in stupefied silence, and he at me in a grim 
 curiosity. I was not prepared for the blunt abruptness with 
 which he continued — using almost the very words he had 
 used when face to face with me in the Hood: "Now tell me 
 who you are, and what brought you into this company?" 
 
 I gave him no answer. I still stared at him in silence. 
 
 "Come!" he continued, his hawk's eyes bent on my 
 face, "make a clean breast of it, and perhaps — who knows? 
 I may help you yet, lad. You have puzzled and foiled me, 
 and I want to understand you. Where did my^ lady pick 
 you up just when she wanted you? I had arranged for 
 every checker on the board except you. Who are you?" 
 
 This time I did answer him — by a question. "How 
 many times have we met?" I asked. 
 
 "Three," he said readily, "and the last time you nearly 
 rid the world of me. Now the luck is against you. It 
 generally is in the end against those who thwart me, my 
 friend." He chuckled at the conceit, and I read in his 
 face at once his love of intrigue and his vanity. "I come 
 uppermost, as always." 
 
 I only nodded. 
 
 "What do you want?" I asked. I felt a certain expec- 
 tation. He wanted something. 
 
 "First, to know who you are." 
 
 "I shall not tell you!" I answered. 
 
 He smiled dryly, sitting opposite to me. He had drawn 
 up a stool, and made himself comfortable. He was not an 
 uncomely man as he sat there playing with his dagger, a 
 dubious smile on his lean, dark face. Unwarned, I might 
 have been attracted by the masterful audacity, the intellect 
 as well as the force which I saw stamped on his features. 
 Being warned, I read cunning in his bold eyes, and cruelty 
 in the curl of his lip. "What do you want next?" I asked. 
 
 "I want to save your life," he replied lightly. 
 
 At that I started — I could not help it. 
 
 "Ha! ha!" he laughed, "I thought the stoicism did not 
 go quite down to the bottom, my lad. But there, it is true 
 enough, I have come to help you. I have come to save your 
 life if you will let me. ' ' 
 
 1 strove in vain to keep entire mastery over myself. The 
 
172 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE, 
 
 feelings to which he appealed were too strong for me. My 
 voice sounded strange, even in my own ears, as I said 
 hoarsely, "It is impossible! What can you do?" 
 
 ""What can I do?" he answered with a stern smile. 
 "Much! I have, boy, a dozen strings in my hands, and a 
 neck — a life at the end of each!" 
 
 He raised his hand, and extending the fingers, moved 
 them to and fro. 
 
 "See! see! A life, a death ! " he exclaimed. "And for 
 you, I can and will save your life — on one condition." 
 
 "On one condition?" I murmured. 
 
 "Ay, on one condition ; but it is a very easy one. I will 
 save your life on my part ; and you, on yours, must give me 
 a little assistance. Do you see? Then we shall be quits." 
 
 "I do not understand," I said dully. I did not. His 
 words had set my heart fluttering so that I could for the 
 moment take in only one idea — that here was a new hope 
 of life. 
 
 "It is very simple," he resumed, speaking slowly. "Cer- 
 tain plans of mine require that I should get your friend the 
 Duchess conveyed back to England. But for you I should 
 have succeeded before this. In what you have hindered 
 me, you can now help me. You have their confidence and 
 great influence with them. All I ask is that you will use 
 that influence so that they may be at a certain place at a 
 certain hour. I will contrive the rest. It shall never be 
 known, I promise you, that you " 
 
 "Betrayed them!" 
 
 "Well, gave me some information," he said lightly, pufiing 
 away my phrase. 
 
 "No. Betrayed them !" I persisted. 
 
 "Put it so, if you please," he replied, shrugging his 
 shoulders and raising his eyebrows. "What is in a word?" 
 
 "You are the tempter himself, I think!" I cried in bitter 
 rage — for it was bitter — bitter, indeed, to feel that new-born 
 hope die out. "But you come to me in vain. I defy 
 you!" 
 
 "Softly! softly!" he answered with calmness. 
 
 Yet I saw a little pulse beating in his cheek that seemed 
 to tell of some emotion kept in subjection. 
 
 "It frightens you at first," he said. "But listen. You 
 will do them no harm, and yourself good. I shall get them 
 
BEFORE THE COURT, 173 
 
 anyway, both the Duchess and her husband ; though, with- 
 out your aid, it will be more difficult. Why, help of that 
 kind is given every day. They need never know it. Even 
 
 now there is one of whom you little dream who has " 
 
 "Silence!" I cried fiercely. "I care not. I defy you!" 
 I could think of only one thing. I was wild wnth rage 
 and disappointment. His words had aggravated the pain 
 of every regret, every clinging to life I felt. 
 
 "Go!" I cried. "Go and leave me, you villain!" 
 "If I do leave you," he said, fixing his eyes on me, "it 
 will be, my friend — to death." 
 
 "Then so be it!" I answered wildly. "So be it! I will 
 keep my honor." 
 
 "Your honor!" The mask dropped from his face, and 
 he sneered as he rose from his seat. A darker scowl 
 changed and disfigured his brow, as he lost hope of gaining 
 me. "Your honor? Where will it be by to-night?" he 
 hissed, his eyes glowering down at me. "Where a week 
 hence, when you will be cast into a pit and forgotten? Your 
 honor, fool? What is the honor of a dead man? Pah! 
 But die, then^if you will have it so! Die, like the brainless 
 brute you are! And rot, and be forgotten!" he concluded 
 passionately. 
 
 They were terrible words ; more terrible I know now than 
 either he or I understood then. They so shook me that 
 when he was gone I crouched trembling on my pallet, hid- 
 ing my face in a fit of horror — taking no heed of my jailers 
 or of appearances. "Die and be forgotten! Die and be 
 forgotten!" The doom rang in my ears. 
 
 Something which seemed to me angelic roused me from 
 this misery. It was the sound of a kindly, familiar voice 
 speaking English. I looked up and found the Dutchman 
 bending over me with a face of infinite distress. With him, 
 but rather behind him, stood Van Tree, pale and vicious- 
 eyed, tugging his scanty chin-beard and gazing about him 
 like a dog seeking some one to fasten upon. "Poor lad! 
 poor lad!" the old man said, his voice shaking as he 
 looked at me. 
 
 I sprang to my feet, the irons rattling as I dashed my 
 hand across my eyes. 
 
 "It is all right!" I said hurriedly. "I had a — but never 
 
174 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 aiind that. It was like a dream. Only tell the Duchess to 
 look to herself," I continued, still rather vehemently. 
 "Clarence is here. Pie is in Santon. I have seen him." 
 
 "You have seen him?" both the Dutchmen cried at once. 
 
 "Ay!" I said, with a laugh that was three parts hysteri- 
 cal — indeed, I was still tingling all over with excitement. 
 "He has been here to offer me my life if I would help him 
 in his schemes. I told him he was the tempter, and defied 
 him. And he — he said I should die and be forgotten!" I 
 added, trembling, yet laughing wildly at the same time. 
 
 "I think he is the tempter!" said Master Lindstrom 
 solemnly, his face very grim. "And therefore a liar and 
 the father of lies! You may die, lad, to-day; perhaps you 
 must. But forgotten you shall not be, while we live, or 
 one of us lives, or one of the children who shall come 
 after us. He is a liar!" 
 
 I got my hands, with a struggle, from the old man, and 
 turning my back upon him, went and looked out of the win- 
 dow. The sun was rising. The tower of the great minster, 
 seen now for the first time, rose in stately brightness above 
 the red roofs and quaint gables and the rows of dormer win- 
 dows. Down in the streets the grayness and chill yet lin- 
 gered. But above was a very glory of light and warmth 
 and color — the rising of the May sun. When I turned 
 round I was myself again. The calm beauty of that sight 
 had stolen into my soul. "Is it time?" I said cheerfully. 
 For the crowd was gathering below, and there were voices 
 and feet on the stairs. 
 
 "I think it is," Master Lindstrom answered. "We have 
 obtained leave to go with you. You need fear no violence 
 in the streets, for the man who was hurt is still alive and 
 may recover. I have been with the magistrates this morn- 
 ing," he continued, .* 'and found them better disposed to you ; 
 but the Sub-dean has joint jurisdiction with them, as the 
 deputy of the Bishop of Arras, who is dean of the minster ; 
 and he is, for some reason, very bitter against you." 
 
 "The Bishop of Arras? Granville, do you mean?" I 
 asked I knew the name of the Emperor's shrewd and 
 powerful minister, by whose advice the Netherlands were 
 at this time ruled. 
 
 "The same. He, of course, is not here, but his deputy 
 is. Were it not for him But there, it is no good talking 
 
BEFORE THE COURT, 175 
 
 of that ! " the Dutchman said, breaking off and rubbing his 
 head in his chagrin. 
 
 One of the guards who had spent the night with me 
 brought me at this moment a bowl of broth with a piece of 
 bread in it. I could not eat the bread, but I drank the 
 broth and felt the better for it. Having in my pocket a 
 little money with which the Duchess had furnished me, I 
 put a silver piece in the bowl and handed it back to him. 
 The man seemed astonished, and muttered something in 
 German as he turned away. 
 
 "What did he say?" I asked the Dutchman. 
 
 "Oh, nothing, nothing," he answered. 
 
 "But what was it? It was something," I persisted, see- 
 ing him confused. 
 
 "He — well, he said he would have a mass said for you!" 
 Lindstrom answered in despair. "It will do no harm." 
 
 "No, why should it?" I replied mechanically. 
 
 We were in the street by this time. Master Lindstrom and 
 Van Tree walking beside me in the middle of a score of 
 soldiers, who seemed to my eyes fantastically dressed. I 
 remarked, as we passed out, a tall man clothed in red and 
 black, who was standing by the door as if waiting to fall in 
 behind me. He carried on his shoulder a long broad-bladed 
 sword, and I guessed who he was, seeing how Master Lind- 
 strom strove to intercept my view of him. But I was not 
 afraid of that. I had heard long ago — perhaps six months 
 in time, but it seemed long ago — how bravely Queen Jane 
 had died. And if a girl had not trembled, surely a man 
 should not. So I looked steadfastly at him, and took great 
 courage, and after that was able to gaze calmly on the peo- 
 ple, who pressed to stare at me, peeping over the soldiers' 
 shoulders, and clustering in every doorway and window to 
 see me go past. They were all silent, and it even seemed 
 to me that some — but this may have been my fancy — pitied 
 me. 
 
 I saw nothing of the Duchess, and might have wondered, 
 had not Master Lindstrom explained that he had contrived 
 to keep her in ignorance of the hour fixed for the proceed- 
 ings. Her husband was better, he said, and conscious; 
 but, for fear of exciting him, they were keeping the news 
 from him also. I remember I felt for a moment very sore 
 
176 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 at this, and then I tried to persuade myself that it was 
 right. 
 
 The distance through the streets was short, and ahnost 
 before I was aware of it I was in the court-house, the guard 
 had fallen back, and I was standing before three persons 
 who were seated behind a long table. Two of them were 
 grave, portly men wearing flat black caps and scarlet robes, 
 with gold chains about their necks. The third, dressed 
 as an ecclesiastic, wore a huge gem ring upon his thumb. 
 Behind them stood three attendants holding a sword, a 
 crosier, and a ducal cap upon a cushion ; and above and 
 behind all was a lofty stained window, whose rich hues, the 
 sun being low as yet, shot athwart the corbels of the roof. 
 At the end of the table sat a black-robed man with an ink- 
 horn and spectacles, a grave, still, down-looking man; and 
 the crowd being behind me, and preserving a dead silence, 
 and the attendants standing like statues, I seemed indeed to 
 be alone with these four at the table, and the great stained 
 window and the solemn hush. They talked to one another 
 in low tones for a minute, gazing at me the while. And I 
 fancied they were astonished to find me so young. 
 
 At length they all fell back into their chairs. "Do you 
 speak German?" the eldest burgher said, addressing me 
 gravely. He sat in the middle, with the Sub-dean on his 
 right. 
 
 "No; but I speak and understand Spanish," I answered 
 in that language, feeling chilled already by the stern for- 
 mality which like an iron hand was laying its grip upon me. 
 
 "Good! Your name?" replied the president. 
 
 "I am commonly called Francis Carey, and I am an Eng- 
 lishman." The Sub-dean — he was a pale, stout man, with 
 gloomy eyes — had hitherto been looking at me in evident 
 doubt. But at this he nodded assent, and, averting his 
 eyes from me, gazed meditatively at the roof of the hall, 
 considering apparently what he should have for breakfast. 
 
 "You are charged," said the president slowly, consulting 
 a document, "with having assaulted and wounded in the 
 highway last night one Heinrich Schroder, a citizen of this 
 town, acting at the time as Lieutenant of the Night Guard. 
 Do you admit this, prisoner, or do you require proof?" 
 
 "He was wounded," I answered steadily, "but by mis- 
 take, and in error. I supposed him to be one of three per- 
 
^EFOkk TUM COURT. i17 
 
 Sons who had unlawfully waylaid me and my party on the 
 previous night between Emmerich and Wesel." 
 
 The Sub-dean, still gazing at the roof, shook his head 
 with a faint smile. The other magistrates looked doubt- 
 fully at me, but made no comment, and my words seemed 
 to be wasted on the silence. The president consulted his 
 document again, and continued: "You are also charged 
 with having by force of arms, in time of peace, seized a 
 gate of this town, and maintained it, and declined to sur- 
 render it when called upon so to do. What do you say to 
 that?" 
 
 "It is true in part," I answered firmly. "I seized not 
 the gate, but part of the tower, in order to preserve my life 
 and to protect certain ladies traveling with me from the 
 violence of a crowd which, under a misapprehension, was 
 threatening to do us a mischief." 
 
 The priest again shook his head, and smiled faintly at the 
 carved roof. His colleagues were perhaps somewhat moved 
 in my favor, for a few words passed between them. How- 
 ever, in the end they shook their heads, and the president 
 mechanically asked me if I had anything further to 
 say. 
 
 "Nothing!" I replied bitterly. The ecclesiastic's cyni- 
 cal heedlessness, his air of one whose mind is made up, 
 seemed so cruel to me whose life was at stake, that I lost 
 patience. "Except what I have said," I continued — "that 
 for the wounding, it was done in error; and for the gate- 
 seizing, I would do it again to save the lives of those with 
 me. Only that and this: that I am a foreigner ignorant of 
 your language and customs, desiring only to pass peacefully 
 through your country." 
 
 "That is all?" the president asked impassively. 
 
 "All," I answered, yet with a strange tightening at my 
 throat. Was it all? AH I could say for my life? 
 
 I was waiting, sore and angry and desperate, to hear the 
 sentence, when there came an interruption. Master Lind- 
 strom, whose presence at my side I had forgotten, broke 
 suddenly into a torrent of impassioned words, and his urgent 
 voice, ringing through the court, seemed in a moment to 
 change its aspect — to infuse into it some degree of life and 
 sympathy. More than one guttural exclamation, which 
 seemed to mark approval, burst from the throng at the back 
 
1 7^ THE STOR y OP FRANCIS CL UDDE. 
 
 of the hall. In another moment, indeed, the Dutchman's 
 courage might have saved me. But there was one who 
 marked the danger. The Sub-dean, who had at first only- 
 glowered at the speaker in rude astonishment, now cut him 
 short with a harsh question. 
 
 "One moment, Master Dutchman!" he cried. "Are 
 you one of the heretics who call themselves Protestants?" 
 
 "I am. But I understand that there is here liberty 
 of conscience," our friend answered manfully, nothing 
 daunted in his fervor at finding the attack turned upon 
 himself. 
 
 "That depends upon the conscience," the priest an- 
 swered with a scowl. "We will have no Anabaptists here, 
 nor foreign praters to bring us into feud with our neighbors. 
 It is enough that such men as you are allowed to live. We 
 will not be bearded by you, so take warning! Take heed, 
 I say, Master Dutchman, and be silent!" he repeated, 
 leaning forward and clapping his hand upon the table. 
 
 I touched Master Lindstrom's sleeve — who would of 
 himself have persisted — and stayed him. *Tt is of no use," 
 I muttered. "That dog in a crochet has condemned me. 
 He will have his way!" 
 
 There was a short debate between the three judges, while 
 in the court you might have heard a pin drop. Master 
 Lindstrom had fallen back once more. I was alone again, 
 and the stained window seemed to be putting forth its mys- 
 tic influence to enfold me, when, looking up, I saw a tiny 
 shadow flit across the soft many-hued rays which streamed 
 from it athwart the roof. It passed again, once, twice, 
 thrice. I peered upward intently. It was a swallow flying 
 to and fro amid the carved work. 
 
 Yes, a swallow. And straightway I forgot the judges ; 
 forgot the crowd. The scene vanished and I was at Coton 
 End again, giving Martin Luther the nest for Petronilla — a 
 sign, as I meant it then, that I should return. I should 
 never return now. Yet my heart was on a sudden so soft- 
 ened that, instead of this reflection giving me pain, as one 
 would have expected, it only filled me with a great anxiety 
 to provide for the event. She must not wait and watch for 
 me day after day, perhaps year after year. I must see to it 
 somehow ; and I was thinking with such intentness of this^ 
 that it was only vaguely I heard the sentence pronounced. 
 
Before the court. 179 
 
 It might have been some other person who was to be be- 
 headed at the east gate an hour before noon. And so God 
 save the Duke! 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 IN THE duke's name. 
 
 I^HEY took me back to the room in the tower, it being 
 now nearly ten o'clock. Master Lindstrom would fain 
 have stayed with me constantly to the end, but having the 
 matter I have mentioned much in my mind, I begged him 
 to go and get me writing materials. When he returned Van 
 Tree was with him. With a particularity very curious at 
 that moment, I remarked that the latter was carrying some- 
 thing. 
 
 "Where did you get that?" I said sharply and at once. 
 
 "It is your haversack," he answered, setting it down 
 quietly. "I found the man who had taken possession of 
 your horse, and got it from him. I thought there might be 
 something in it you might like." 
 
 "It is my haversack," I assented. "But it was not on 
 my horse. I have not seen it since I left it in Master Lind- 
 strom 's -house by the river. I left it on the pallet in my 
 room there, and it was forgotten. I searched for it at 
 Emmerich, you remember." 
 
 "I only know," he replied, "that I discovered it behind 
 the saddle of the horse you were riding yesterday." 
 
 He thought that I had become confused and was a little 
 wrong-headed from excitement. Master Lindstrom also 
 felt troubled, as he told me afterward, at seeing me taken 
 up with a trifle at such a time. 
 
 But there was nothing wrong with my wits, as I promptly 
 showed them. 
 
 "The horse I was riding yesterday?" I continued. "Ah! 
 then, I understand. I was riding the horse which I took 
 from the Spanish trooper. The Spaniard must have an- 
 nexed the haversack when he and his companions searched 
 the house after our departure." 
 
 "That is it, no doubt," Master Lindstrom said. "And 
 in the hurry of yesterday's ride you failed to notice it." 
 
 It was a strange way of recovering one's property — ■ 
 
IN- TitE DUJCE'S NAME, iSl 
 
 strange that the enemy should have helped one to it. But 
 there are times — and this to me was one — when the strange 
 seems the ordinary and commonplace. I took the sack and 
 slipped my hand through a well-known slit in the lining. 
 Yes, the letter I had left there was there still — the letter to 
 Mistress Clarence. I drew it out. The corners of the lit- 
 tle packet were frayed, and the parchment was stained and 
 discolored, no doubt by the damp which had penetrated 
 to it. But the seal was whole. I placed it, as it was, in 
 Master Lindstrom's hands. 
 
 "Give it," I said, "to the Duchess afterward. It con- 
 cerns her. You have heard us talk about it. Bid her make 
 what use she pleases of it." 
 
 I turned away then and sat down, feeling a little flurried 
 and excited, as one about to start upon a journey might 
 feel ; not afraid nor exceedingly depressed, but braced up 
 to make a brave show and hide what sadness I did feel by 
 the knowledge that many eyes were upon me, and that more 
 would be watching me presently. At the far end of the 
 room a number of people had now gathered, and were con- 
 versing together. Among them were not only my jailers of 
 the night, but two or three officers, a priest who had come 
 to offer me his services, and some inquisitive gazers who 
 had obtained admission. Their curiosity, however, did 
 not distress me. On the contrary, I was glad to hear the 
 stir and murmur of life about me to the last. 
 
 I will not set down the letter I wrote to the Duchess, 
 though it were easy for me to do so, seeing that her son has 
 it now. It contains some things very proper to be said by a 
 dying man, of which I am not ashamed — God forbid ! but 
 which it would not be meet for me to repeat here. Enough 
 that I told her in a few words who I was, and entreated her, 
 in the name of whatever services I had rendered her, to let 
 Petronilla and Sir Anthony know how I had died. And I 
 added something which would, I thought, comfort her and 
 her husband — namely, that I was not afraid, or in any suf- 
 fering of mind or body. 
 
 The writing of this shook my composure a little. But 
 as I laid down the pen and looked up and found that the 
 time was come, I took courage in a marvelous manner. 
 The captain of the guard — I think that out of a compas- 
 sionate desire not to interrupt me they had allowed me 
 
l82 fBE SrORV OF FRANCIS CLUDDF. 
 
 some minutes of grace — came to me, leaving the group at 
 the other end, and told me gravely that I was waited for. 
 I rose at once and gave the letter to Master Lindstrom with 
 some messages in which Dymphna and Anne were not for- 
 gotten. And then, with a smile — for I felt under all those 
 eyes as if I were going into battle — I said: "Gentlemen, I 
 am ready if you are. It is a fine day to die. You know," 
 I added gayly, "in England we have a proverb, 'The better 
 the day, the better the deed ! * So it is well to have a good 
 day to have a good death, Sir Captain." 
 
 "A soldier's death, sir, is a good death;" he answered 
 gravely, speaking in Spanish and bowing. 
 
 Then he pointed to the door. 
 
 As I walked toward it, I paused momentarily by the win- 
 dow, and looked out on the crowd below. It filled the 
 sunlit street — save where a little raised platform strewn 
 with rushes protruded itself — with heads from wall to wall, 
 with faces all turned one way — toward me. It was a silent 
 crowd standing in hushed awe and expectation, the con- 
 sciousness of which for an instant sent a sudden chill to my 
 heart, blanching my cheek, and making my blood run slow 
 for a moment. The next I moved on to the door, and 
 bowing to the spectators as they stood aside, began to 
 descend the narrow staircase. 
 
 There were guards going down before me, and behind me 
 were Master Lindstrom and more guards. The Dutchman 
 reached forward in the gloom, and clasped my hand, hold- 
 ing it, as we went down, in a firm, strong grip. 
 
 "Never fear," I said to him cheerily, looking back. 
 "It is all right." 
 
 He answered in words which I will not write here ; not 
 wishing, as I have said, to make certain things common. 
 
 I suppose the doorway at the bottom was accidentally 
 blocked, for a few steps short of it we came to a standstill ; 
 and almost at the same moment I started, despite myself, 
 on hearing a sudden clamor and a roar of many voices 
 outside. 
 
 "What is it?" I asked the Dutchman. 
 
 "It is the Duke of Cleves arriving, I expect," he whis- 
 pered. "He comes in by the other gate." 
 
 A moment later we moved on and passed out into the 
 
IN- THE DUJtE'S NAME. i^3 
 
 light, the soldiers before me stepping on either side to give 
 me place. The sunshine for an instant dazzled me, and I 
 lowered my eyes. As I gradually raised them again I saw- 
 before me a short lane formed by two rows of spectators 
 kept back by guards ; and at the end of this, two or three 
 rough wooden steps leading to a platform on which were 
 standing a number of people. And above and beyond all 
 only the bright blue sky, the roofs and gables of the nearer 
 houses showing dark against it. 
 
 I advanced steadily along the path left for me, and would 
 have ascended the steps. But at the foot of them I came 
 to a standstill, and looked round for guidance. The per- 
 sons on the scaffold all had their backs turned to me, and 
 did not make way, while the shouting and uproar hindered 
 them from hearing that we had come out. Then it struck 
 me, seeing that the people at the windows were also gazing 
 away, and taking no heed of me, that the Duke was passing 
 the farther end of the street, and a sharp pang of angry pain 
 shot through me. I had come out to die, but that which 
 was all to me was so little to these people that they turned 
 away to see a fellow-mortal ride by! 
 
 Presently, as we stood there, in a pit, as it were, getting 
 no view, I felt Master Lindstrom's hand, which still clasped 
 mine, begin to shake; and turning to him, I found that his 
 face had changed to a deep red, and that his eyes were pro- 
 truding with a kind of convulsive eagerness which instantly 
 infected me. 
 
 "What is it?" I stammered. I began to tremble also. 
 The air rang, it seemed to me, with one word, which a thou- 
 sand tongues took up and reiterated. But it was a German 
 word, and I did not understand it. 
 
 "Wait! wait!" Master Lindstrom exclaimed. "Pray 
 God it be true!" 
 
 He seized my other hand and held it as though he would 
 protect me from something. At the same moment Van 
 Tree pushed past me, and, bounding up the steps, thrust his 
 way through the officials on the scaffold, causing more than 
 one fur-robed citizen near the edge to lose his balance and 
 come down as best he could on the shoulders of the guards. 
 
 "What is it?" I cried. "What is it?" I cried in impa- 
 tient wonder. 
 
 "Oh! my lad, my lad!" Master Lindstrom answered, his 
 
lB4 TitE STORV OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 face close to mine, and the tears running down his cheeks. 
 "It is cruel if it be not true! Cruel! They cry a par- 
 don!" 
 
 "A pardon?" I echoed. 
 
 "Ay, lad, a pardon. But it may not be true," he said, 
 putting his arm about my shoulder. "Do not make too 
 sure of it. It is only the mob cry it out." 
 
 My heart made a great bound, and seemed to stand still. 
 There was a loud surging in my brain, and a mist rose be- 
 fore my eyes and hid everything. The clamor' and shout-* 
 ing of the street passed away, and sounded vague and dis- 
 tant. The next instant, it is true, I was myself again, but 
 my knees were trembling under me, and I stood flaccid and 
 unnerved, leaning on my friend. 
 
 "Well?" I said faintly. 
 
 "Patience! patience a while, lad!" he answered. 
 
 But, thank Heaven! I had not long to wait. The words 
 were scarcely off his tongue, when another hand sought 
 mine and shook it wildly ; and I saw Van Tree before me, 
 his face radiant with joy, while a man whom he had 
 knocked down in his hasty leap from the scaffold was rising 
 beside me with a good-natured smile. As if at a signal, 
 every face now turned toward me. A dozen friendly hands 
 passed me up the steps amid a fresh outburst of cheering. 
 The throng on the scaffold opened somehow, and I found 
 myself in a second, as it seemed, face to face with the presi- 
 dent of the court. He smiled on me gravely and kindly — 
 what smiles there seemed to be on all those faces — and held 
 out a paper. 
 
 "In the name of the Duke!" he said, speaking in Span- 
 ish, in a clear, loud voice. "A pardon!" 
 
 I muttered something, I know not what ; nor did it mat- 
 ter, for it was lost in a burst of cheering. When this was 
 over and silence obtained, the magistrate continued, "You 
 are required, however, to attend the Duke at the court- 
 house. Whither we had better proceed at once." 
 
 "I am ready, sir," I muttered. 
 
 A road was made for us to descend, and, walking in a 
 kind of beautiful dream, I passed slowly up the street by the 
 side of the magistrate, the crowd everywhere willingly stand- 
 ing aside for us. I do not know whether all those thou- 
 
IN THE DUKE'S NAME, 185 
 
 sands of faces really looked joyfully and kindly on me as I 
 passed, or whether the deep thankfulness which choked me, 
 and brought the tears continually to my eyes, transfigured 
 them and gave them a generous charm not their own. But 
 this I do know : that the sunshine seemed brighter and the 
 air softer than ever before ; that the clouds trailing across 
 the blue expanse were things of beauty such as I had never 
 met before; that to draw breath was a joy, and to move, 
 delight ; and that only when the dark valley was left behind 
 did I comprehend its full gloom — by Heaven's mercy. So 
 may it be with all ! 
 
 At the door of the court-house, whither numbers of the 
 people had already run, the press was so great that we came 
 to a standstill, and were much buffeted about, though in all 
 good humor, before, even with the aid of the soldiers, we 
 could be got through the throng. When I at last emerged 
 I found myself again before the table, and saw — but only 
 dimly, for the light now fell through the stained window 
 directly on my head — a commanding figure standing behind 
 it. Then a strange thing happened. A woman passed 
 swiftly round the table, and came to me and flung her arms 
 round my neck and kissed me. It was the Duchess, and 
 for a moment she hung upon me, weeping before them all. 
 
 "Madam," I said softly, "then it is you who have done 
 this!" 
 
 "Ah!" she exclaimed, holding me off from her and look- 
 ing at me with eyes which glowed through her tears, "and 
 it was you who did that!" 
 
 She drew back from me then, and took me by the hand, 
 and turned impetuously to the Duke of Cleves, who stood 
 behind smiling at her in frank amusement. "This," she 
 said, "is the man who gave his life for my husband, and to 
 whom your highness has given it back." 
 
 "Let him tell his tale," the Duke answered gravely. 
 "And do you, my cousin, sit here beside me." 
 
 She left me and walked round the table, and he came for- 
 ward and placed her in his own chair amid a great hush of 
 wonder, for she was still meanly clad, and showed in a 
 hundred places the marks and stains of travel. Then he 
 stood by her with his hand on the back of the seat. He 
 was a tall, burly man, with bold, quick-glancing eyes, a 
 flushed face, and a loud manner ; a fierce, blusterous prince, 
 
1 86 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 as I have heard. He was plainly dressed in a leather hunt- 
 ing-suit, and wore huge gauntlets and brown boots, with a 
 broad-leaved hat pinned up on one side. Yet he looked a 
 prince. 
 
 Somehow I stammered out the tale of the surrender. 
 
 "But why? why? why, man?" he asked, when I had fin- 
 ished; "why did you let them think it was you who 
 wounded the burgher, if it was not?" 
 
 "Your highness," I answered, "I had received nothing 
 but good from her grace, I had eaten her bread and been 
 received into her service. Besides, it was through my 
 persuasion that we came by the road which led to this mis- 
 fortune instead of by another way. Therefore it seemed to 
 me right that I should suffer, who stood alone and could 
 be spared — and not her husband." 
 
 "It was a great deed!" cried the prince loudly. "I 
 would I had such a servant. Are you noble, lad?" 
 
 I colored high, but not in pain or mortification. The old 
 wound might reopen, but amid events such as those of this 
 morning it was a slight matter. "I come of a noble family, 
 may it please your highness," I answered modestly; "but 
 circumstances prevent me claiming kinship with it." 
 
 He was about, I think, to question me further, when the 
 Duchess looked up, and said something to him and he 
 something to her. She spoke again and he answered. 
 Then he nodded assent. "You would fain stand on your 
 own feet?" he cried to me. "Is that so?" 
 
 "It is, sire," I answered. 
 
 "Then so be it!" he replied loudly, looking round on 
 the throng with a frown. "I will ennoble you. You would 
 have died for your lord and friend, and therefore I give you 
 a rood of land in the common graveyard of Santon to hold 
 of me, and I name you Von Santonkirch. And I, William, 
 Duke of Cleves, Julich and Guelders, prince of the Em- 
 pire, declare you noble, and give you for your arms three 
 swords of justice; and the motto you may buy of a clerk! 
 Further, let this decree be enrolled in my Chancery. Are 
 you satisfied?" 
 
 As I dropped on my knees, my eyes sparkling, there was 
 a momentary disturbance behind me. It was caused by the 
 abrupt entrance of the Sub-dean, He took in part of the 
 
IN THE DUKE'S NAME. 187 
 
 the situation at a glance ; that is, he saw me kneeling be- 
 fore the Duke. But he could not see the Duchess of Suf- 
 folk, the Duke s figure being interposed. As he came for- 
 ward, the crowd making way for him, he cast an angry glance 
 at me, and scarcely smoothed his brow even to address the 
 prince. "I am glad that your highness has not done what 
 was reported to me," he said hastily, his obeisance brief 
 and perfunctory. "I heard an uproar in the town, and was 
 told that this man was pardoned." 
 
 "It is so!" said the Duke curtly, eying the ecclesiastic 
 with no great favor. "He is pardoned." 
 
 "Only in part, I presume," the priest rejoined urgently. 
 "Or, if otherwise, I am sure that your highness has not re- 
 ceived certain information with which I can furnish you." 
 
 "Furnish away, sir," quoth the Duke, yawning. 
 
 "I have had letters from my Lord Bishop of Arras 
 respecting him." 
 
 "Respecting him!" exclaimed the prince, starting and 
 bending his brows in surprise. 
 
 "Respecting those in whose company he travels," the 
 priest answered hastily. "They are represented to me as 
 dangerous persons, pestilent refugees from England, and 
 obnoxious alike to the Emperor, the Prince of Spain, and 
 the Queen of England." 
 
 "I wonder you do not add also to the King of France 
 and the Soldan of Turkey!" growled the Duke. "Pish! 
 I am not going to be dictated to by Master Granvelle — no, 
 nor by his master, be he ten times Emperor! Go to! Go 
 to! Master Sub-dean! You forget yourself, and so does 
 your master the Bishop. I will have you know that these 
 people are not what you think them. Call you my cousin, 
 the widow of the consort of the late Queen of France, an 
 obnoxious person? Fie! Fie! You forget yourself ! " 
 
 He moved as he stopped speaking, so that the astonished 
 churchman found himself confronted on a sudden by the 
 smiling, defiant Duchess. The Sub-dean started and his 
 face fell, for, seeing her seated in the Duke's presence, he 
 discerned at once that the game was played out. Yet he 
 rallied himself, bethinking him, I fancy, that there were 
 many spectators. He made a last effort. "The Bishop of 
 Arras " he began. 
 
 "Pish!" scoffed the Duke, interrupting him. 
 
1 88 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 "The Bishop of Arras " the priest repeated firmly. 
 
 "I would he were hung with his own tapestry!" retorted 
 the Duke, with a brutal laugh. 
 
 "Heaven forbid!" replied the ecclesiastic, his pale face 
 reddening and his eyes darting baleful glances at me. But 
 he took the hint, and henceforth said no more of the Bishop. 
 Instead, he continued smoothly, "Your highness has, of 
 course, considered the danger — the danger, I mean, of pro- 
 voking neighbors so powerful by shielding this lady and 
 making her cause your own. You will remember, sir " 
 
 "I will remember Innspruck!" roared the Duke, in a 
 rage, "where the Emperor, ay, and your everlasting Bishop 
 too, fled before a handful of Protestants, like sheep before 
 wolves. A fig for your Emperor! I never feared him 
 young, and I fear him less now that he is old and decrepit 
 and, as men say, mad. Let him get to his watches, and you 
 to your prayers. If there were not this table between us, I 
 would pull your ears. Master Churchman!" 
 
 "But tell me," I asked Master Bertie as I stood beside 
 his couch an hour later, "how did the Duchess manage it? 
 I gathered from something you or she said, a short time 
 back, that you had no influence with the Duke of Cleves." 
 
 "Not quite that," he answered. "My wife and the late 
 Duke of Suffolk had much to do with wedding the Prince's 
 sister to King Henry, thirteen — fourteen years back, is it? 
 And so far we might have felt confident of his protection. 
 But the marriage turned out ill, or turned out short, and 
 Queen Anne of Cleves was divorced. And — well, we felt 
 a little less confident on that account, particularly as he has 
 the name of a headstrong, passionate man." 
 
 "Heaven keep him in it!" I said, smiling. "But you 
 have not told me yet what happened." 
 
 "The Duchess was still asleep this morning, fairly worn 
 out, as you may suppose, when a great noise awoke her. 
 She got up and went to Dymphna, and learned it was the 
 Duke's trumpets. Then she went to the window, and, see- 
 ing few people in the streets to welcome him, inquired why 
 this was. Dymphna broke down at that, and told her what 
 was happening to you, and that you were to die at that very 
 hour. She went out straightway, without covering her head, 
 — you know how impetuous she is, — and flung herself on her 
 
IN THE DUKE'S NAME. 189 
 
 knees in the mud before the Duke's horse as he entered. 
 He knew her, and the rest you can guess." 
 
 Can guess? Ah, what happiness it was! Outside, the 
 sun fell hotly on the steep red roofs, with their rows of case- 
 ments, and on the sleepy square, in which knots of people 
 still lingered, talking of the morning's events. I could see 
 below me the guard which Duke William, shrewdly mis- 
 trusting the Sub-dean, had posted in front of the house, 
 nominally to do the Duchess honor. I could hear in the 
 next room the cheerful voices of my friends. What happi- 
 ness it was to live ! What happiness to be loved ! How 
 very, very good and beautiful and glorious a world, seemed 
 the world to me on that old May morning in that quaint 
 German town which we had entered so oddly ! 
 
 As I turned from the window full of thankfulness, my 
 eyes met those of Mistress Anne, who was sitting on the far 
 side of the sick man's couch, the baby in a cradle beside 
 her. The risk and exposure of the last week had made a 
 deeper mark upon her than upon any of us. She was 
 paler, graver, older, more of a woman and less, much less, 
 of a girl. And she looked very ill. Her eyes, in particular, 
 seemed to have grown larger, and as they dwelt on me now 
 there was a strange and solemn light in them, under which I 
 grew uneasy. 
 
 "You have been wonderfully preserved," she said pres- 
 ently, speaking dreamily, and as much to herself as to me. 
 
 "I have, indeed," I answered, thinking she referred only 
 to my escape of the morning. 
 
 But she did not. 
 
 "There was, firstly, the time on the river when you were 
 hurt with the oar," she continued, gazing absently at me, 
 her hands in her lap; "and then the night when you saw 
 Clarence with Dymphna." 
 
 "Or, rather, saw him without her," I interposed, smil- 
 ing. It was strange that she should mention it as a fact, 
 when at the time she had so scolded me for making, the 
 statement. 
 
 "And then," she continued, disregarding my interrup- 
 tion, "there was the time when you were stabbed in the 
 passage ; and again when you had the skirmish by the river ; 
 and then to-day you were within a minute of death. You 
 have been wonderfully preserved ! ' * 
 
19° THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 "I have," I assented thoughtfully. "The more as I sus- 
 pect that I have to thank Master Clarence for all these little 
 adventures." 
 
 "Strange — very strange!" she muttered, removing her 
 eyes from me that she might fix them on the floor. 
 
 ''What is strange?" 
 
 The abrupt questioner was the Duchess, who came 
 bustling in at the moment. "What is strange?" she re- 
 peated, with a heightened color and dancing eyes. "Shall 
 I tell you?" She paused and looked brightly at me, hold- 
 ing something concealed behind her. I guessed in a mo- 
 ment, from the aspect of her face, what it was : the letter 
 which I had given to Master Lindstrom in the morning, and 
 which, with a pardonable forgetfulness, I had failed to re- 
 claim. 
 
 I turned very red. "It was not intended for you now," 
 I said shyly. For in the letter I had told her my story. 
 
 "Pooh! pooh!" she cried. "It is just as I thought. A 
 pretty piece of folly! No," she continued, as I opened my 
 mouth, "I am not going to keep your secret, sir. You 
 may go down on your knees. It will be of no use. Rich- 
 ard, you remember Sir Anthony Cludde of Coton End in 
 Warwickshire?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," her husband said, rising on his elbow, while 
 his face lit up, and I stood bashfully, shifting my feet, 
 
 *T have danced with him a dozen times, years ago!" she 
 continued, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Well, sir, 
 this gentleman. Master Francis Carey, otherwise Von San- 
 tonkirch, is Francis Cludde, his nephew!" 
 
 "Sir Anthony's nephew?" 
 
 • 'Yes, and the son of Ferdinand Cludde, whom you also 
 have heard of, of whom the less " 
 
 She stopped, and turned quickly, interrupted by a half- 
 stifled scream. It was a scream full of sudden horror and 
 amazement and fear; and it came from Mistress Anne. 
 The girl had risen, and was gazing at me with distended 
 eyes and blanched cheeks, and hands stretched out to keep 
 me off — gazing, indeed, as if she saw in me some awful por- 
 tent or some dreadful threat. She did not speak, but she 
 began, without taking her eyes from me, to retreat toward 
 the door. 
 
IN THE DUKES NAME. 191 
 
 "Hoity toity!" cried my lady, stamping her foot in 
 anger. "What has happened to the girl? What " 
 
 What, indeed? The Duchess stopped, still more aston- 
 ished. For, without uttering a word of explanation or apol- 
 ogy, Mistress Anne had reached the door, groped blindly 
 for the latch, found it, and gone out, her eyes, with the 
 same haunted look of horror in them, fixed on me to the 
 last. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A LETTER THAT HAD MANY ESCAPES. 
 
 " TJ OITY, toity ! " the Duchess cried again, looking from 
 Jfl one to another of us when Anne had disappeared. 
 "What has come to the little fool? Has she gone crazy?" 
 
 I shook my head, too completely at sea even to hazard a 
 conjecture. Master Bertie shook his head also, keeping his 
 eyes glued to the door, as if he could not believe Anne had 
 really gone. 
 
 "I said nothing to frighten her!" my lady protested. 
 
 "Nothing at all," I answered. For how should the an- 
 nouncement that my real name was Cludde terrify Mistress 
 Anne Brandon nearly out of her senses? 
 
 "Well, no," Master Bertie agreed, his thoughtful face 
 more thoughtful than usual; "so far as I heard, you said 
 nothing. But I think, my dear, that you had better follow 
 her and learn what it is. She must be ill." 
 
 The Duchess sat down. "I will go by-and-by," she said 
 coolly, at which I was not much surprised, for I have always 
 remarked that women have less sympathy with other wo- 
 men's ailments, especially of the nerves, than have men. 
 
 "For the moment I want to scold this brave, silly boy 
 here!" she continued, looking so kindly at me that I 
 blushed again, and forgot all about Mistress Anne. "To 
 think of him leaving his home to become a wandering 
 squire of dames merely because his father was a — well, not 
 quite what he would have liked him to be I I remember 
 something about him," she continued, pursing up her lips, 
 and nodding her head at us. "I fancied him dead, how- 
 ever, years ago. But there ! if every one whose father were 
 not quite to his liking left home and went astraying, Master 
 Francis, all sensible folk would turn innkeepers, and make 
 their fortunes." 
 
 "It was not only that which drove me from home," I 
 
A LETTER THAT HAD MANY ESCAPES, 193 
 
 explained. "The Bishop of Winchester gave me clearly to 
 understand ' ' 
 
 "That Coton was not the place for you!" exclaimed my 
 lady scornfully. "He is a sort of connection of yours, is he 
 not? Oh, I know. And he thinks he has a kind of rever- 
 sionary interest in the property! With you and your father 
 out of the way, and only your girl cousin left, his interest 
 is much more likely to come to hand. Do you see?" 
 
 I recalled what Martin Luther had said about the cuckoo. 
 But I have since thought that probably they both wronged 
 Stephen Gardiner in this. He was not a man of petty 
 mind, and his estate was equal to his high place. 1 think it 
 more likely that his motive in removing me from Coton was 
 chiefly the desire to use my services abroad, in conjunction 
 perhaps with some remoter and darker plan for eventually 
 devoting the Cludde property to the Church. Such an act 
 of piety would have been possible had Sir Anthony died 
 leaving his daughter unmarried, and would certainly have 
 earned for the Chancellor Queen Mary's lasting favor. I 
 think it the more likely to have been in his mind because 
 his inability to persuade the gentry to such acts of restitu- 
 tion — King Harry had much enriched us — was always a 
 sore point with the Queen, and more than once exposed 
 him to her resentment. 
 
 "The strangest thing of all," the Duchess continued with 
 alacrity, "seems to me to be this: that if he had not med- 
 dled with you, he would not have had his plans in regard to 
 us thwarted. If he had not driven you from home, you 
 would never have helped me to escape from London, nor 
 been with us to foil his agents." 
 
 "A higher power than the Chancellor arranged that!" 
 said Master Bertie emphatically. 
 
 "Well, at any rate, I am glad that you are you!" the 
 Duchess answered, rising gayly. "A Cludde? Why, one 
 feels at home again. And yet," she continued, her lips 
 trembling suddenly, and her eyes filling with tears as she 
 looked at me, "there was never house raised yet on nobler 
 deed than yours." 
 
 "Go! go! go!" cried her husband, seeing my embar- 
 rassment. "Go and look to that foolish girl!" 
 
 "I will! Yet stop!" cried my lady, pausing when she 
 was half way across the floor, and returning, "I was for- 
 
194 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 getting that I have another letter to open. It is very odd 
 that this letter was never opened before," she continued, 
 producing that which had lain in my haversack. "It has 
 had several narrow escapes. But this time I vow I will see 
 inside it. You give me leave?" 
 
 **0h, yes," I said, smiling. "I wash my hands of it. 
 Whoever the Mistress Clarence to whom it is addressed may 
 be, it is enough that her name is Clarence ! We have suf- 
 fered too much at his hands." 
 
 **I open it, then!" my lady cried dramatically. I 
 nodded. She took her husband's dagger and cut the green 
 silk which bound the packet, and opened and read. 
 
 Only a few words. Then she stopped, and looking off 
 the paper, shivered. "I do not understand this," she mur- 
 mured. "What does it mean?" 
 
 "No good! I'll besv/orn!" Master Bertie replied, gaz- 
 ing at her eagerly. "Read it aloud, Katherine." 
 
 " *To Mistress A B . I am advertised by my 
 
 trusty agent. Master Clarence, that he hath benefited much 
 by your aid in the matter in which I have employed him. 
 Such service goeth always for much, and never for naught, 
 with me. In which belief confirm yourself. For the pres- 
 ent, working with him as heretofore, be secret, and on no 
 account let your true sentiments come to light. So you will 
 be the more valuable to me, even as it is more easy*to un- 
 fasten a barred door from within than from without.' " 
 
 Here the Duchess broke off abruptly, and turned on us a 
 face full of wonder. "What does it mean?" she asked. 
 
 "Is that all?" her husband said. 
 
 "Not quite," she answered, returning to it, and reading: 
 
 " 'Those whom you have hitherto served have too long 
 made a mockery of sacred things, but their cup is full and 
 the business of seeing that they drink it lieth with me, who 
 am not wont to be slothful in these matters. Be faithful 
 and secret. Good speed and fare you well. — Ste. Winton.' " 
 
 "One thing is quite clear!" said Master Bertie slowly. 
 "That you and I are the persons whose ,cup is full. You 
 remember how you once dressed up a dog in a rochet, and 
 dandled it before Gardiner? And it is our matter in which 
 Clarence is employed. Then who is it who has been co- 
 
A LETTER THAT HAD MANY ESCAPES. I95 
 
 Operating with him, and whose aid is of so much vaUie to 
 him?" 
 
 " 'Even as it is easier,' " I muttered thoughtfully, " 'to 
 unfasten a barred door from within than from without.' " 
 What was it of which that strange sentence reminded me? 
 Ha! I had it. Of the night on which we had fled from 
 Master Lindstrom's house, when Mistress Anne had been 
 seized with that odd fit of perverseness, and had almost 
 opened the door looking upon the river in spite of all I 
 could say or do. It was of that the sentence reminded me, 
 "To whom is it addressed?" I asked abruptly. 
 
 "To Mistress Clarence," my lady answered. 
 
 "No; inside, I mean." 
 
 "Oh! to Mistress A B . But that gives us no 
 
 clew," she added. "It is a disguise. You see they are the 
 two first letters of the alphabet." 
 
 So they were. * And the initial letters of Anne Brandon! 
 I wondered that the Duchess did not see it, that she did not 
 at once turn her suspicions toward the right quarter. But 
 she was, for a woman, singularly truthful and confiding. 
 And she saw nothing. 
 
 I looked at Master Bertie. He seemed puzzled, discern- 
 ing, I fancy, how strangely the allusions pointed to Mistress 
 Anne, but not daring at once to draw the inference. She 
 was his wife's kinswoman by marriage — albeit a distant one 
 — and much indebted to her. She had been almost as his 
 own sister. She was young and fair, and to associate 
 treachery and ingratitude such as this with her seemed 
 almost too horrible. 
 
 Then why was I so clear sighted as to read the riddle? 
 Why was I the first to see the truth? Because I had felt 
 for days a vague and ill-defined distrust of the girl. I had 
 seen more of her odd fits and caprices than had the others. 
 Looking back now I could find a confirmation of my idea 
 in a dozen things which had befallen us. I remembered 
 how ill and stricken she had looked on the day when I had 
 first brought out the letter, and how strangely she had talked 
 to me about it. I remembered Clarence's interview with, 
 not Dymphna, — as I had then thought, — but, as I now 
 guessed, Anne, wearing her cloak. I recalled the manner 
 in which she had used me to persuade Master Bertie to take 
 the Wesel instead of the Santon road; no doubt she had 
 
196 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 told Clarence to follow in that direction, if by any chance 
 we escaped him on the island. And her despair when she 
 heard in the church porch that I had killed Clarence at the 
 ford! And her utter abandonment to fear — poor guilty 
 thing! — when she thought that all her devices had only led 
 her with us to a dreadful death! These things, in the 
 light in which I now viewed them, were cogent evidences 
 against her. 
 
 "It must have been written to some one about us!" said 
 the Duchess at length. "To some one in our confidence. 
 'On our side of the door,' as he calls it." 
 
 "Yes, that is certain," I said. 
 
 "And on the wrapper he styles her Mistress Clarence. 
 Now who " 
 
 "Who could it have been? That is the question we have 
 to answer, ' ' Master Bertie replied dryly. Hearing his voice, 
 I knew he had come at last to the same conclusion to which 
 I had jumped. "I think you may dismiss the servants from 
 the inquiry," he continued. "The Bishop of Winchester 
 would scarcely write to them in that style." 
 
 "Dismiss the servants? Then who is left?" she pro- 
 tested. 
 
 "I think ' ' He lost courage, hesitated, and broke off. 
 
 She looked at him wonderingly. He turned to me, and, 
 gaining confirmation from my nod, began again. "I think 
 I should ask A B , " he said. 
 
 "A B ?" she cried, still not seeing one whit. 
 
 "Yes. Anne Brandon," he answered sternly. 
 
 She repeated his words softly and stood a moment gazing 
 at him. In that moment she saw it all. She sat down sud- 
 denly on the chair beside her and shuddered violently, as 
 if she had laid her hand unwittingly upon a snake. "Oh, 
 Richard," she whispered, "it is too horrible!" 
 
 "I fear it is too true," he answered gloomily. 
 
 I shrank from looking at them, from meeting her eyes or 
 his. I felt as if this shame had come upon us all. The 
 thought that the culprit might walk into the room at any 
 moment filled me with terror. I turned away and looked 
 through the window, leaving the husband and wife together. 
 
 "Is it only the name you are thinking of?" she muttered. 
 
 "No," he answered. "Before I left England to go to 
 Calais I saw something pass between them — between her 
 
A LETTER THAT HAD MANY ESCAPES. 197 
 
 and Clarence — which surprised me. Only in the confusion 
 of those last days it slipped from my memory for the time." 
 "I see," she said quietly. "The villain!" 
 
 Looking back on the events of the last week, I found 
 many things made plain by the lurid light now cast upon 
 them. I understood how Master Lindstrom's vase had 
 come to be broken when we were discussing the letter, 
 which in my hands must have been a perpetual terror to the 
 girl. I discerned that she had purposely sown dissension 
 between myself and Van Tree, and recalled how she had 
 striven to persuade us not to leave the island ; then, how she 
 had induced us to take that unlucky road; finally, how on 
 the road her horse had lagged and lagged behind, detaining 
 us all when every minute was precious. The things all dove- 
 tailed into one another ; each by itself was weak, but together 
 they formed a strong scaffold — a scaffold strong enough for 
 the hanging of a man, if she had been a man ! The others 
 appealed to me, the Duchess feverishly anxious to be assured 
 one way or the other. The very suspicion of the existence 
 of such treachery at her side seemed to stifle her. Still 
 looking out of the window I detailed the proofs I have men- 
 tioned, not gladly, Heaven knows, or in any spirit of 
 revenge. But my duty was rather to my companions who 
 had been true to me, than to her. I told them the truth as 
 far as I knew it. The whole wretched, miserable truth was 
 only to become known to me later. 
 
 "I will go to her," the Duchess said presently, rising 
 from her seat. 
 
 "My dear!" her husband cried. He stretched out his 
 hand, and grasping her skirt detained her. "You will 
 not " 
 
 "Do not be afraid!" she replied sadly, as she stooped 
 over him and kissed his forehead. "It is a thing past 
 scolding, Richard; past love and even hope, and all but 
 past pity. I will be merciful as we hope for mercy, but she 
 can never be friend of ours again, and some one must tell 
 her. I will do so and return. As for that man!" she con- 
 tinued, obscuring suddenly the fair and noble side of her 
 character which she had just exhibited, and which I confess 
 had surprised me, for I had not thought her capable of a 
 
198 THE STORV OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 generosity so uncommon; "as for that man," she repeated, 
 drawing herself up to her full height, while her eyes sparkled 
 and her cheek grew red, "who has turned her into a vile 
 schemer and a shameless hypocrite, as he would fain have 
 t«rned better women, I will show him no mercy nor grace 
 if I ever have him under my feet. I will crush him as I 
 would an adder, though I be crushed next moment myself!" 
 
 She was sweeping with that word from the room, and had 
 nearly reached the door before I found my voice. Then I 
 called out "Stay!" just in time. "You will do no good, 
 madam, by going!" I said, rising. "You will not find her. 
 She is gone." 
 
 "Gone?" _ - 
 
 "Yes," I said quietly. "She left the house twenty min- 
 utes ago. I saw her cross the market-place, wearing her 
 cloak and carrying a bag. I do not think she will return." 
 
 "Not return? But whither has she gone?" they both 
 cried at once. 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 "I can only guess," I said in a low voice. "I saw no 
 more than I have told you." 
 
 "But why did you not tell me?" the Duchess cried 
 reproachfully. "She shall be brought back." 
 
 "It would be useless," Master Bertie answered. "Yet I 
 doubt if it be as Carey thinks. Why should she go just at 
 this time? She does not know that she is found out. She 
 does not know that this letter has been recovered. Not a 
 word, mind, was said of it before she left the room." 
 
 "No," I allowed; "that is true." 
 
 I was puzzled on this point myself, now I came to con- 
 sider it. I could not see why she had taken the alarm so 
 opportunely; but I maintained my opinion nevertheless. 
 
 "Something frightened her," I said; "though it may not 
 have been the letter." 
 
 "Yes," said the r3uchess, after a moment's silence. "I 
 suppose you are right. I suppose something frightened 
 her, as you say. I wonder what it was, poor wretch!" 
 
 It turned out that I was right. Mistress Anne had gone 
 indeed, having stayed, so far as we could learn from an 
 examination of the room which she had shared with 
 
A LETTER THAT HAD MANY ESCAPES. 199 
 
 Dymphna, merely to put together the few things which our 
 adventures had left her. She had gone out from among 
 us in this foreign land without a word of farewell, without 
 a good wish given or received, without a soul to say God 
 speed ', The thought made me tremble. If she had died it 
 would have been different. Now, to feel sorrow for her as 
 for one who had been with us in heart as well as in body, 
 seemed a mockery. How could we grieve for one who had 
 moved day by day and hour by hour among us, only that 
 with each hour and day she might plot and scheme and 
 plan our destruction? It was impossible! 
 
 We made inquiries indeed, but without result; and so, 
 abruptly and terribly she passed — for the time — out of our 
 knowledge, though often afterward I recalled sadly the 
 weary, hunted look which I had sometimes seen in her eyes 
 when she sat listless and dreamy. Poor girl! Her own 
 acts had placed her, as the Duchess said, beyond love or 
 hope, but not beyond pity. 
 
 So it is in life. The day which sees one's trial end sees 
 another's begin. We — the Duchess and her child. Master 
 Bertie and I — stayed with our good and faithful friends the 
 Lindstroms a while, resting and recruiting our strength ; and 
 during this interval, at the pressing instance of the Duchess, 
 I wrote letters to Sir Anthony and Petronilla, stating that I 
 was abroad, and was well, and looked presently to return ; 
 but not disclosing my refuge or the names of my compan- 
 ions. At the end of five days. Master Bertie being fairly 
 strong again and Santon being considered unsafe for us as a 
 permanent residence, we went under guard to Wesel, where 
 we were received as people of quality, and lodged, there 
 being no fitting place, in the disused church of St. Willi- 
 brod. Here the child was christened Peregrine — a wan- 
 derer; the governor of the city and I being godfathers. 
 And here we lived in peace — albeit with hearts that yearned 
 for home — for some months. 
 
 During this time two pieces of news came to us from 
 England: one, that the Parliament, though much pressed 
 to it, had refused to acquiesce in the confiscation of the 
 Duchess's estates; the other, that our joint persecutor, the 
 great Bishop of Winchester, was dead. This last we at 
 first disbelieved. It was true, nevertheless. Stephen Gar- 
 
200 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 diner, whose vast schemes had enmeshed people so far apart 
 in station, and indeed in all else, as the Duchess and myself, 
 was dead at last; had died toward the end of 1555, at the 
 height of his power, with England at his feet, and gone to 
 his Maker. I have known many worse men. 
 
 We trusted that this might open the way for our return, 
 but we found on the contrary that fresh clouds were rising. 
 The persecution of the Reformers, which Queen Mary had 
 begun in England, was carried on with increasing rigor, and 
 her husband, who was now King of Spain and master of the 
 Netherlands, freed from the prudent checks of his father, 
 was inclined to pleasure her in this by giving what aid he 
 could abroad. His Minister in the Netherlands, the Bishop 
 of Arras, brought so much pressure to bear upon our pro- 
 tector to induce him to give us up, that it was plain the 
 Duke of Cleves must sooner or later comply. We thought 
 it better, therefore, to remove ourselves, and presently did so, 
 going to the town of Winnheim in the Rhine Palatinate. 
 
 We found ourselves not much more secure here, however, 
 and all our efforts to discover a safe road into France fail- 
 ing, and the stock of money which the Duchess had pro- 
 vided beginning to give out, we were in great straits whither 
 to go or what to do. 
 
 At this time of our need, however. Providence opened a 
 door in a quarter where we least looked for it. Letters 
 came from Sigismund, the King of Poland, and from the 
 Palatine of Wilna in that country, inviting the Duchess and 
 Master Bertie to take up their residence there, and offering 
 the latter an establishment and honorable employment. 
 The overture was unlooked for, and was not accepted with- 
 out misgivings, Wilna being so far distant, and there being 
 none of our race in that country. However, assurance of 
 the Polish King's good faith reached us — I say us, for in all 
 their plans I was included — through John Alasco, a noble- 
 man who had visited England. And in due time we started 
 on this prodigious journey, and came safely to Wilna, where 
 our reception was such as the letters had led us to expect. 
 
 I do not propose to set down here our adventures, though 
 they were many, in that strange country of frozen marshes 
 and endless plains, but to pass over eighteen months which 
 I spent not without profit to myself in the Pole's service, 
 seeing something of war in his Lithuanian campaigns, and 
 
A LETTER THAT HAD MANY ESCAPES. 201 
 
 learning much of men and the world, which here, to say 
 nothing of wolves and bears, bore certain aspects not com- 
 monly visible in Warwickshire. I pass on to the early 
 autumn of 1558, when a letter from the Duchess, who was 
 at Wilna, was brought to me at Cracovy. It was to this 
 effect: 
 
 "Dear Friend: Send you good speed! Word has come 
 to us here of an enterprise Englandward, which promises, if 
 it be truly reported to us, to so alter things at home that 
 there may be room for us at our own firesides. Heaven 
 so further it, both for our happiness and the good of the 
 religion. Master Bertie has embarked on it, and I have 
 taken upon myself to answer for your aid and counsel, 
 which have never been wanting to us. Wherefore, dear 
 friend, come, sparing neither horse nor spurs, nor anything 
 which may bring you sooner to Wilna, and your assured and 
 loving friend, Katherine Suffolk." 
 
 In five days after receiving this I was at Wilna, and two 
 months later I saw England again, after an absence of three 
 years. Early in November, 1558, Master Bertie and I landed 
 at Lowestoft, having made the passage from Hamburg in a 
 trading vessel of that place. We stopped only to sleep one 
 night, and then, dressed as traveling merchants, we set out 
 on the road to London, entering the city without accident 
 or hindrance on the third day after landing. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE witch's warning. 
 
 "rVNE minute!" I said. "That is the place." 
 \J Master Bertie turned in his saddle, and looked at it. 
 The light was fading into the early dusk of a November 
 evening, but the main features of four cross streets, the 
 angle between two of them filled by the tall belfry of a 
 church, were still to be made out. The east wind had 
 driven loiterers indoors, and there was scarcely any one 
 abroad to notice us. I pointed to a dead wall ten paces 
 down one street. "Opposite that they stopped," I said. 
 "There was a pile of boards leaning against it then." 
 
 *'You have had many a worse bedchamber since, lad," 
 he said, smiling. 
 
 "Many," I answered. And then by a common impulse 
 we shook up the horses, and trotting gently on were soon 
 clear of London and making for Islington. Passing 
 through the latter we began to breast the steep slope which 
 leads to Highgate, and coming, "when we had reached the 
 summit, plump upon the lights of the village, pulled up in 
 front of a building which loomed darkly across the road. 
 
 "This is the Gatehouse Tavern," Master Bertie said in a 
 low voice. "We shall soon know whether we have come on 
 a fool's errand — or worse!" 
 
 We rode under the archway into a great courtyard, from 
 which the road issued again on the other side through 
 another gate. In one corner two men were littering down 
 a line of packhorses by the light of the lanterns, which 
 brought their tanned and rugged faces into relief. In 
 another, where the light poured ruddily from an open door- 
 way, an ostler was serving out fodder, and doing so, if we 
 might judge from the travelers' remonstrances, with a nig- 
 gardly hand. From the windows of the house a dozen rays 
 of light shot athwart the darkness, and disclosed as many 
 
THE WITCH'S WARNING. 203 
 
 pigs wallawing asleep in the middle of the yard. In all we 
 saw a coarse comfort and welcome. Master Bertie led the 
 way across the yard, and accosted the ostler. "Can we 
 have stalls and beds?" he asked. 
 
 The man stayed his chaffering, and looked up at us. 
 "Every man to his business," he replied gruffly. "Stalls, 
 yes; but of beds I know nothing. For women's work go to 
 the women." 
 
 "Right!" said I, "so we will. With better luck than 
 you would go, I expect, my man ! ' ' 
 
 Bursting into a hoarse laugh at this — he was lame and 
 one-eyed and not very well-favored — he led us into a long, 
 many-stalled stable, feebly lit by lanterns which here and 
 there glimmered against the walls. "Suit yourselves," he 
 said; "first come is first served here." 
 
 He seemed an ill-conditioned fellow, but the businesslike 
 way in which we went about our work, watering, feeding, 
 and littering down in old campaigners' fashion, drew from 
 him a grunt of commendation. "Have you come from far, 
 masters?" he asked. 
 
 "No, from London," I answered curtly. "We come as 
 linen-drapers from Westcheap, if you want to know." 
 
 "Ay, I see that," he said chuckling. "Never were atop 
 of a horse before nor handled anything but a clothyard; oh, 
 
 no 
 
 "We want a merchant reputed to sell French lace," I 
 continued, looking hard at him. "Do you happen to know 
 if there is a dealer here with any?" 
 
 He nodded rather to himself than to me, as if he had 
 expected the question. Then in the same tone, but with a 
 quick glance of intelligence, he answered, "I will show you 
 into the house presently, and you can see for yourselves. 
 A stable is no place for French lace." He pointed with a 
 wink over his shoulder toward a stall in which a man, 
 apparently drunk, lay snoring. "That is a fine toy!" he 
 ran on carelessly, as I removed my dagger from the holster 
 and concealed it under my cloak — "a fine plaything — for a 
 linen draper!" 
 
 "Peace, peace, man! and show us in," said Master 
 Bertie impatiently. 
 
 With a shrug of his shoulders the man obeyed. Crossing 
 the courtyard behind him, we entered the great kitchen. 
 
204 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 which, full of light and warmth and noise, presented just 
 such a scene of comfort and bustle, of loud talking, red- 
 faced guests, and hurrying bare-armed serving-maids, as I 
 remembered lighting upon at St. Albans three years back. 
 But I had changed much since then, and seen much. The 
 bailiff himself would hardly have recognized his old antago- 
 nist in the tall, heavily cloaked stranger, whose assured air, 
 acquired amid wild surroundings in a foreign land, gave 
 him a look of age to which I could not fairly lay claim. 
 Master Bertie had assigned the lead to me as being in less 
 danger of recognition, and I followed the ostler toward the 
 hearth without hesitation. "Master Jenkin!" the man 
 cried, with the same rough bluntness he had shown without, 
 *'here are two travelers want the lace-seller who was here 
 to-day. Has he gone?" 
 
 "Who gone?" retorted the host as loudly. 
 
 "The lace merchant who came this morning." 
 
 "No; he is in No. 32," returned the landlord. "Will 
 you sup first, gentlemen?" 
 
 We declined, and followed the ostler, who made no secret 
 of our destination, telling those in our road to make way, as 
 the gentlemen were for No. 32. One of the crowd, however, 
 who seemed to be crossing from the lower end of the room, 
 failed apparently to understand, and, interposing between 
 us and our guide, brought me perforce to a halt. 
 
 * 'By your leave, good woman!" I said, and turned to pass 
 round her. 
 
 But she foiled me with unexpected nimbleness, and I 
 could not push her aside, she was so very old. Her gums 
 were toothless and her forehead was lined and wrinkled. 
 About her eyes, which under hideous red lids still shone 
 with an evil gleam — a kind of reflection of a wicked past — a 
 thousand crows' feet had gathered. A few wisps of gray 
 hair struggled from under the handkerchief which covered 
 her head. She was humpbacked, and stooped over a stick, 
 and whether she saw or not my movement of repugnance, 
 her voice was harsh when she spoke. 
 
 "Young gentleman," she croaked, "let me tell your for- 
 tune by the stars. A fortune for a groat, young gentle- 
 man!" she continued, peering up into my face and frus- 
 trating my attempts to pass. 
 
THE WITCH'S WARNING. 205 
 
 *'Here is a groat," I answered peevishly, "and for the 
 fortune, I will hear it another day. So let us by!" 
 
 But she would not. My companion, seeing that the 
 attention of the room was being drawn to us, tried to pull 
 me by her. But I could not use force, and short of force 
 there was no remedy. The ostler, indeed, would have inter- 
 fered on our behalf, and returned to bid her, with a civility 
 he had not bestowed on us, "give us passage." But she 
 swiftly turned her eyes on him in a sinister fashion, and he 
 retreated with an oath and a paling face, while those nearest 
 to us — and half a dozen had crowded round — drew back, 
 and crossed themselves in haste almost ludicrous. 
 
 "Let me see your face, young gentleman," she persisted, 
 with a hollow cough. "My eyes are not so clear as they 
 were, or it is not your cloak and your flap-hat that would 
 blind me." 
 
 Thinking it best to get rid of her, even at a slight risk — and 
 the chance that among the travelers present there would be 
 one able to recognize me was small indeed — I uncovered. 
 She shot a piercing glance at my face, and looking down 
 on the floor, traced hurriedly a figure with her stick. She 
 studied the phantom lines a moment, and then looked up. 
 
 "Listen!" she said solemnly, and waving her stick round 
 me, she quavered out in tones which filled me with a 
 strange tremor: 
 
 " The man goes east, and the wind blows west, 
 Wood to the head, and steel to the breast ! 
 The man goes west, and the wind blows east, 
 The neck twice doomed the gallows shall feast ! 
 
 "Beware!" she went on more loudly, and harshly, tap- 
 ping with her stick on the floor, and shaking her palsied 
 head at me. "Beware, unlucky shoot of a crooked branch! 
 Go no farther with it! Go back! The sword may miss or 
 may not fall, but the cord is sure!" 
 
 If Master Bertie had not held my arm tigthly, I should 
 have recoiled, as most of those within hearing had already 
 done. The strange allusions to my past, which I had no 
 difficulty in detecting, and the witch's knowledge of the 
 risks of our present enterprise, were enough to startle and 
 shake the most constant mind ; and in the midst of enter- 
 prises secret and dangerous^ few minds are sq firm or sg 
 
2o6 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 reckless as to disdain omens. That she was one of those 
 unhappy beings who buy dark secrets at the expense of their 
 souls, seemed certain ; and had I been alone, I should have, 
 I am not ashamed to say it, given back. 
 
 But I was lucky in having for my companion a man of 
 rare mind, and besides of so single a religious belief that to 
 the end of his life he always refused to put faith in a thing 
 of the existence of which I have no doubt myself — I mean 
 witchcraft. 
 
 He showed at this moment the courage of his opinions. 
 "Peace, peace, woman!" he said compassionately. "We 
 shall live while God wills it, and die when he wills it. And 
 neither live longer nor die earlier! So let us by." 
 
 "Would you perish?" she quavered. 
 
 "Ay! If so God wills," he answered undaunted. 
 
 At that she seemed to shake all over, and hobbled aside, 
 muttering, "Then go on! Go on! God wills it!" 
 
 Master Bertie gave me no time for hesitation, but, hold- 
 ing my arm, urged me on to where the ostler stood awaiting 
 the event with a face of much discomposure. He opened 
 the door for us, however, and led the way up a narrow and 
 not too clean staircase. On the landing at the head of this 
 he paused, and raised his lantern so as to cast the light on 
 our faces. "She has overlooked me, the old witch!" he 
 said viciously; "I wish I had never meddled in this busi- 
 ness." 
 
 "Man!" Master Bertie replied sternly; "do you fear 
 that weak old woman?" 
 
 "No; but I fear her master," retorted the ostler, "and 
 that is the devil!" 
 
 "Then I do not," Master Bertie answered bravely. 
 "For my Master is as good a match for him as I am for 
 that old woman. 'When he wills it, man, you will die, and 
 not before. So pluck up spirit." 
 
 Master Bertie did not look at me, though I needed his 
 encouragement as much as the ostler, having had better 
 proofs of the woman's strange knowledge. But, seeing that 
 his exhortation had emboldened this ignorant man, I was 
 ashamed to seem to hesitate. When the ostler knocked at 
 the door — not of 32, but of 15 — and it presently opened, I 
 went in without more ado. 
 
THE WITCH'S WARNING. 207 
 
 The room was a bare inn-chamber. A pallet without 
 coverings lay in one corner. In the middle were a couple 
 of stools, and on one of them a taper. 
 
 The person who had opened to us stood eying us atten- 
 tively; a bluff, weather-beaten man with a thick beard and 
 the air of a sailor. "Well," he said, "what now?" 
 
 "These gentlemen want to buy some lace," the ostler 
 explained. 
 
 "What lace do they want?" was the retort. 
 
 "French lace," I answered. 
 
 "You have come to the right shop, then," the man 
 answered briskly. Nodding to our conductor to depart, he 
 carefully let him out. Then, barring the door behind him, 
 he as rapidly strode to the pallet and twitched it aside, dis- 
 closing a trap door. He lifted this, and we saw a narrow 
 shaft descending into darkness. He brought the taper and 
 held it so as to throw a faint light into the opening. There 
 was no ladder, but blocks of wood nailed alternately against 
 two of the sides, at intervals of a couple of feet or so, made 
 the descent pretty easy for an active man. "The door is 
 on this side," he said, pointing out the one. "Knock 
 loudly once and softly twice. The word is the same." 
 
 We nodded and while he held the taper above, we de- 
 scended, one by one, without much difficulty, though I 
 admit that half-way down the old woman's words "Go on 
 and perish" came back disquietingly to my mind. How- 
 ever, my foot struck the bottom before I had time to digest 
 them, and a streak of light which seemed to issue from 
 under a door forced my thoughts the next moment into 
 a new channel. Whispering to Master Bertie to pause a 
 minute, for there was only room for one of us to stand at 
 the bottom of the shaft, I knocked in the fashion prescribed. 
 
 The sound of loud voices, which I had already detected, 
 ceased on a sudden, and I heard a shuffling on the other 
 side of the boards. This was followed by silence, and then 
 the door was flung open, and, blinded for the moment by a 
 blaze of light, I walked mechanically forward into a room. 
 I made out as I advanced a group of men standing round a 
 rude table, their figures thrown into dark relief by flares 
 stuck in sconces on the walls behind them. Some had 
 weapons in their hands and others had partly risen from 
 
2o8 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 their seats and stood in postures of surprise. "What do 
 you seek?" cried a threatening voice from among them. 
 
 "Lace," I answered. 
 
 "What lace?" 
 
 "French lace." 
 
 "Then you are welcome — heartily welcome!" was the 
 answer given in a tone of relief. "But who comes with 
 you ? ' ' 
 
 "Master Richard Bertie, of Lincolnshire," I answered 
 promptly; and at that moment he emerged from the shaft. 
 
 A still more hearty murmur of welcome hailed his name 
 and appearance, and we were borne forward to the table 
 amid a chorus of voices, the greeting given to Master Bertie 
 being that of men who joyfully hail unlooked-for help. 
 The room, from its vaulted ceiling and stone floor, and the 
 trams of casks which lay here and there or near the table 
 serving for seats, appeared to be a cellar. Its dark, gloomy 
 recesses, the flaring lights, and the weapons on the table, 
 seemed meet and fitting surroundings for the anxious faces 
 which were gathered about the board ; for there was a 
 something in the air which was not so much secrecy as a 
 thing more unpleasant — suspicion and mistrust. Almost at 
 the moment of our entrance it showed itself. One of the 
 men, before the door had well closed behind us, went 
 toward it, as if to go out. The leader — he who had ques- 
 tioned me — called sharply to him, bidding him come 
 back. And he came back, but reluctantly, as it seemed 
 to me. 
 
 I barely noticed this, for Master Bertie, who was known 
 personally to many and by name to all, was introducing me 
 to two who were apparently the leaders : Sir Thomas Pen- 
 ruddocke, a fair man as tall as myself, loose-limbed and 
 untidily dressed, with a reckless eye and a loud tongue ; 
 and Master Walter Kingston, a younger brother, I was told, 
 of that Sir Anthony Kingston who had suffered death the 
 year before for conspiracy against the queen — the same in 
 which Lord Devon had showed the white feather. King- 
 ston was a young man of moderate height and slender; of 
 a brown complexion, and delicate, almost womanish beauty, 
 his sleepy dark eyes and dainty mustache suggesting a tem- 
 per rather amiable than firm. But the spirit of revenge had 
 entered into him, and I soon learned that not even Pen- 
 
THE WITCH'S WARNING. ^09 
 
 ruddocke, a Cornish knight of longer lineage than purse, 
 was so vehement a plotter or so devoted to the cause. 
 Looking at the others my heart sank; it needed no greater 
 experience than mine to discern that, except three or four 
 whom I identified as stout professors of religion, they were 
 men rather of desperate fortunes than good estate. I 
 learned on the instant that conspiracy makes strange bed- 
 fellows, and that it is impossible to do dirty work even with 
 the purest intentions — in good company! Master Bertie's 
 face indicated to one who knew him as well as 1 did some- 
 thing of the same feeling; and could the clock have been 
 put back awhile, and we placed with free hands and uncom- 
 mitted outside the Gatehouse, I think we should with one 
 accord have turned our backs on it, and given up an 
 attempt which in this company could scarcely fare any way 
 but ill. Still, for good or evil, the die was cast now, and 
 retreat was out of the question. 
 
 We had confronted too many dangers during the last 
 three years not to be able to face this one with a good cour- 
 age; and presently Master Bertie, taking a seat, requested 
 to be told of the strength and plans of our associates, his 
 businesslike manner introducing at once some degree of 
 order and method into a conference which before our 
 arrival had — unless I was much mistaken — been conspicu- 
 ously lacking in both. 
 
 "Our resources?" Penruddocke replied confidently. 
 "They lie everywhere, man! We have but to raise the flag 
 and the rest will be a triumphal march. The people, sick 
 of burnings and torturings, and heated by the loss of Calais 
 last January, will flock to us. Flock to us, do I say? I 
 will answer for it they will!" 
 
 "But you have some engagements, some promises from 
 people of standing?" 
 
 "Oh, yes! But the whole nation will join us. They are 
 weary of the present state of things." 
 
 "They m.ay be as weary of it as you say," Master Bertie 
 answered shrewdly ; ' 'but is it equally certain that they will 
 risk their necks to amend it? You have fixed upon some 
 secure base from which we can act, and upon which, if 
 necessary, we may fall back to concentrate our strength?" 
 
 "Fall back?" cried Penruddocke, rising from his seat in 
 heat. "Master Bertie, I hope you have not come among 
 
216 TtJE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDF:. 
 
 us to talk of falling back ! Let us have no talk of that. If 
 Wyatt had held on at once London would have been his! 
 It was falling back ruined him." 
 
 Master Bertie shook his head. "If you have no secure 
 base, you run the risk of being crushed in the first half 
 hour," he said. "When a fire is first lighted the breeze 
 puts it out which afterward but fans it." 
 
 "You will not say that when you hear our plans. There 
 are to be three risings at once. Lord Delaware will rise in 
 the west." 
 
 "But will he?" said Master Bertie pointedly, disregarding 
 the threatening looks which were cast at him by more than 
 one. "The late rebellion there was put down very sum- 
 marily, and I should have thought that countryside would 
 not be prone to rise again. Will Lord Delaware rise?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, he will rise fast enough!" Penruddocke 
 replied carelessly. "I will answer for him. And on the 
 same day, while we do the London business, Sir Richard 
 Bray will gather his men in Kent." 
 
 "Do not count on him!" said Master Bertie. "A pris- 
 oner, muffled and hoodwinked, was taken to the Tower by 
 water this afternoon. And rumor says it was Sir Richard 
 Bray." 
 
 There was a pause of consternation, during which one 
 looked at another, and swarthy faces grew pale. Penrud- 
 docke was the first to recover himself. "Bah!" he ex- 
 claimed, "a fig for rumor! She is ever a lying jade! I 
 will bet a noble Richard Bray is supping in his own house 
 at this minute." 
 
 "Then you would lose," Master Bertie rejoined sadly, 
 and with no show of triumph. "On hearing the report I 
 sent a messenger to Sir Richard's house. He brought word 
 back that Sir Richard Bray had been fetched away unex- 
 pectedly by four men, and that the house was in confusion." 
 
 A murmur of dismay broke out at the lower end of the 
 table. But the Cornishman rose to the situation. "What 
 matter?" he cried boisterously. "What we have lost in 
 Bray we have gained in Master Bertie. He will raise Lin- 
 colnshire for us, and the Duchess's tenants. There should 
 be five hundred stout men of the latter, and two-thirds of 
 them Protestants at heart. If Bray has been seized there 
 is the more call for haste that we may release him 
 
TitE WITCH'S WARNING. 211 
 
 This appeal was answered by an outburst of cries. One 
 or two even rose, and waving their weapons swore a speedy 
 vengeance. But Master Bertie sat silent until the noise had 
 subsided. Then he spoke. "You must not count on them 
 either, Sir Thomas," he said firmly. "I cannot find it in 
 my conscience to bring my wife's tenants into a plan so 
 desperate as this appears to be. To appeal to the people 
 generally is one thing; to call on those who are bound to 
 us and who cannot in honor refuse is another. And I will 
 not risk in a hopeless struggle the lives of men whose fathers 
 looked for guidance to me and mine." 
 
 A silence, the silence of utter astonishment, fell upon the 
 plotters round the table. In every face — and they were all 
 turned upon my companion — I read rage and distrust and 
 dismay. They had chafed under his cold criticisms and 
 his calm reasonings. But this went beyond all, and there 
 were hands which stple instinctively to daggers, and eyes 
 which waited scowling for a signal. But Penruddocke, 
 sanguine by nature and rendered reckless by circumstances, 
 had still the feelings of a gentleman, and something in him 
 responded to the appeal which underlay Master Bertie's 
 words. He remained silent, gazing gloomily at the table, 
 his eyes perhaps opened at this late hour to the hopeless- 
 ness of the attempt he meditated. 
 
 It was Walter Kingston who came to the fore, and put 
 into words the thoughts of the coarser and more selfish 
 spirits round him. Leaping from his seat he dashed his 
 slender hand on the table. "What does this mean?" he 
 sneered, a dangerous light in his dark eyes. "Those only 
 are here or should be here who are willing to stake all — all, 
 mind you — on the cause. Let us have no sneaks ! Let us 
 have no men with a foot on either bank! Let us have no 
 Courtenays nor cowards! Such men ruined Wyatt and 
 hanged my brother! A curse on them!" he cried, his 
 voice rising almost to a scream. 
 
 ' * Master Kingston ! do you refer to me ? " Bertie rejoined 
 in haughty surprise. 
 
 "Ay, I do!" cried the young man hotly. 
 
 "Then I must beg leave of these gentlemen to explain 
 my position." 
 
 "Your position? So! More words?" quoth the other 
 mockingly. 
 
2ti THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 "Ay! as many words as I please," retorted Master Ber- 
 tie,' his color rising, "Afterward I will be as ready with 
 deeds, I dare swear, as any other! My tenants and my 
 wife's I will not draw into an almost hopeless struggle. But 
 my own life and my friend's, since we have obtained your 
 secrets, I must risk, and I will do so in honor to the death. 
 For the rest, who doubts my courage may test it below 
 ground or above." 
 
 The young man laughed rudely. "You will risk your 
 life, but not your lands, Master Bertie? That is the posi- 
 tion, is it?" 
 
 My companion was about to utter a rejoinder, fierce for 
 him, when I, who had hitherto sat silent, interposed, "The 
 old witch told the truth," I cried bitterly. "She said if we 
 came hither we should perish. And perish we shall, 
 through being linked to a dozen men as brave as I could 
 wish, but the biggest fools under heaven!" 
 
 "Fools?" shouted Kingston. 
 
 "Ay, fools!" I repeated. "For who but fools, being at 
 sea in a boat in which all must sink or swim, would fall 
 a-quarreling? Tell me that!" I cried, slapping the table. 
 
 "You are about right," Penruddocke said, and half a 
 dozen voices muttered assent. 
 
 "About right, is he?" shrieked Kingston. "But who 
 knows we are in a boat together? Who knows that, I'd 
 like to hear?" 
 
 "I do!" I said, standing up and overtopping him by 
 eight inches. "And if any man hints that Master Bertie is 
 here for any other purpose or with any other intent than to 
 honestly risk his life in this endeavor as becomes a gentle- 
 man, let him stand out — let him stand out, and I will break 
 his neck! Fie, gentlemen, fie!" I continued, after a short 
 pause, which I did not make too long lest Master King- 
 ston's passion should get the better of his prudence. 
 "Though I am young I have seen service. But I never 
 saw battle won yet with dissension in the camp. For 
 shame ! Let us to business, and make the best dispositions 
 we may." 
 
 "You talk sense, Master Carey!" Penruddocke cried, 
 with a great oath. "Give me your hand. And do you, 
 Kingston, hold your peace. If Master Bertie will not raise 
 his men to save his own skin, he will hardly do it for otirs. 
 
THE WiTcn'S WARNWG. 213 
 
 Now, Sir Richard Bray being taken, what is to be done, 
 my lads ? Come, let us look to that." 
 
 So the storm blew over. But it was with heavy hearts 
 that two of us fell to the discussion which followed, count- 
 ing over weapons and assigning posts, and debating this 
 one's fidelity and that one's lukewarraness. Our first im- 
 pressions had not deceived us. The plot was desperate, and 
 those engaged in it were wanting in every element which 
 should command success — in information, forethought, ar- 
 rangement — everything save sheer audacity. When after 
 a prolonged and miserable sitting it was proposed that all 
 should take the oath of association on the Gospels, Master 
 Bertie and I assented gloomily. It would make our posi- 
 tion no worse, for already we were fully committed. The 
 position was indeed bad enough. We had only persuaded 
 the others to a short delay; and even this meant that we 
 must remain in hiding in England, exposed from day to day 
 to all the chances of detection and treachery. 
 
 Sir Thomas brought out from some secret place about him 
 a tiny roll of paper wrapped in a quill, and while we stood 
 about him looking over his shoulders, he laboriously added, 
 letter by letter, three or four names. The stern, anxious 
 faces which peered the while at the document or scanned 
 each other only to find their anxiety reflected, the flaring 
 lights behind us, the recklessness of some and the distrust of 
 others, the cloaks in which many were wrapped to the chin, 
 and the occasional gleam of hidden weapons, made up a 
 scene very striking. The more as it was no mere show, but 
 some of us saw only too distinctly behind it the figure of 
 the headsman and the block. 
 
 "Now," said Penruddocke, who himself I think took a 
 certain grim pleasure in the formality, "be ready to swear, 
 gentlemen, in pairs, as I call the names. Kingston and 
 Matthewson!" 
 
 Lolling against the wall under one of the sconces I looked 
 at Master Bertie, expecting to be called up with him. He 
 smiled as our eyes met ; and I thought with a rush of ten- 
 derness how lightly I could have dared the worst had all 
 my associates been like him. But repining came too late, 
 and in a moment Penruddocke surprised me by calling out 
 "Crewdson and Carey!" 
 
514 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 So Master Bertie was not to be my companion! I 
 learned afterward that men who were strangers to one 
 another were purposely associated, the theory being that 
 each should keep an eye upon his oath-fellow. I went for- 
 ward to the end of the table, and took the book. 
 
 There was a slight pause. 
 
 "Crewdson!" called Penruddocke sharply; "did you 
 not hear, man?" 
 
 There was a little stir at the farther end of the room, and 
 he came forward, moving slowly and reluctantly. I saw that 
 he was the man whom Penruddocke had called back when 
 we entered, a man of great height, though slender, and 
 closely cloaked. A drooping gray mustache covered his 
 mouth, and that was almost all I made out before Sir 
 Thomas, with some sharpness, bade him uncover. He did 
 •60 with an abrupt gesture, and reaching out his hand 
 grasped the other end of the book as though he would take 
 it from me. His manner was so strange that I looked hard 
 at him, and he, jerking up his head with a gesture of defi- 
 ance, looked at me too, his face very pale. 
 
 I heard Penruddocke's voice droning thejwords of the 
 oath, but I paid no attention to them — I was busied with 
 something else. Where had I seen the sinister gleam in 
 those eyes before, and that forehead high and narrow, and 
 those lean, swarthy cheeks? Where had I before confronted 
 that very face which now glared into mine across the book? 
 Its look was bold and defiant, but low down in the cheek 
 I saw a little pulse beating furiously, a pulse which told of 
 anxiety, and the jaws, half veiled by the ragged mustache, 
 were set in an iron grip. Where? Ha! I knew. I dropped 
 my end of the book and stepped back. 
 
 "Look to the door!" I cried, my voice sounding harsh 
 and strange in my own ears. "Let no one leave! I 
 denounce that man!" And raising my hand I pointed 
 pitilessly at my oath-fellow. "I denounce him — he is a 
 spy and traitor!" 
 
 "la spy?" the man shouted fiercely — with the fierceness 
 of despair. 
 
 **Ay, you! you! Clarence, or Crewdson, or whatever 
 you call yourself, I deno'mce you! My time has come!" 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 FERDINAND CLUDDE. 
 
 I'^HE bitterness of that hour long past, when he had left 
 me for death, when he had played with the human 
 longing for life, and striven without a thought of pity to 
 corrupt me by hopes and fears the most awful that mortals 
 know, was in my voice as I spoke. I rejoiced that ven- 
 geance had come upon him at last, and that I was its instru- 
 ment. I saw the pallor of a great fear creep into his dark 
 cheek, and read in his eyes the vicious passion of a wild 
 beast trapped, and felt no pity. "Master Clarence!" I 
 said, and laughed — laughed mockingly. "You do not look 
 pleased to see your friends. Or perhaps you do not re- 
 member me. Stand forward, Master Bertie! Maybe he 
 will recognize you." 
 
 But though Master Bertie came forward and stood by my 
 side gazing at him, the villain's eyes did not for an instant 
 shift from mine. "It is the man!" my companion said 
 after a solemn pause — for the other, breathing fast, made 
 no answer. "He was a spy in the pay of Bishop Gardiner, 
 when I knew him. At the Bishop's death I heard that he 
 passed into the service of the Spanish Ambassador, the 
 Count de Feria. He called himself at that time Clarence. 
 I recognize him." 
 
 The quiet words had their effect. From full one-half of 
 the savage crew round us a fierce murmur rose more terrible 
 than any loud outcry. Yet this seemed a relief to the 
 doomed man ; he forced himself to look away from me and 
 to confront the dark ring of menacing faces which hemmed 
 him in. The moment he did so he appeared to find cour- 
 age and words. "They take me for another man!" he 
 cried in hoarse accents. *T know nothing of them!" and 
 he added a fearful oath. "He knows me. Ask him !" 
 
 He pointed to Walter Kingston, who was sitting moodily 
 
2i6 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 on a tram outside the ring, and who alone had not risen 
 under the excitement of my challenge. On being thus ap- 
 pealed to he looked up suddenly. "If I am to choose 
 between you," he said bitterly, "and say which is the true 
 man, I know which I shall pick." 
 
 "Which?" Clarence murmured. "Which?" This time 
 his tone was different. In his voice was the ring of hope. 
 
 "I should give my vote for you," Kingston replied, look- 
 ing contemptuously at him. "I know something about 
 you, but of the other gentleman I know nothing!" 
 
 "And not much of the person you call Crewdson," I 
 retorted fiercely, "since you do not know his real name." 
 
 "I know this much," the young man answered, tapping 
 his boot with his scabbard with studied carelessness, "that 
 he lent me some money, and seemed a good fellow and one 
 that hated a mass priest. That is enough for me. As for 
 his name, it is his fancy perhaps. You call yourself Carey. 
 Well, I know a good many Careys, but I do not know you, 
 nor ever heard of you ! " 
 
 I swung round on him with a hot cheek. But the chal- 
 lenge which was upon my tongue was anticipated by Master 
 Bertie, who drew me forcibly back. "Leave this to me, 
 Francis," he said, "and do you watch that man. Master 
 Kingston and gentlemen," he continued, turning again to 
 them, and drawing himself to his full height as he addressed 
 them, "listen, if you please! You know me, if you do not 
 know my friend. The honor of Richard Bertie has never 
 been challenged until to-night, nor ever will be with impu- 
 nity. Leave my friend out of the question and put me in 
 it. I, Richard Bertie, say that that man is a paid spy and 
 informer, come here in quest of blood-money! And he, 
 Crewdson, a nameless man, says that I lie. Choose between 
 us. Or look at him and judge! Look!" 
 
 He was right to bid them look. As the savage murmur 
 rose again and took from the wretched man his last hope, as 
 the ugliness of despair and "wicked, impotent passion dis- 
 torted his face, he was indeed the most deadly witness 
 against himself. 
 
 The lights which shone on treacherous weapons half hid- 
 den, or on the glittering eyes of cruel men whose blood was 
 roused, fell on nothing so dangerous as the livid, despairing 
 face which, unmasked and «yed by all with aversion, still 
 
FERDINAND CLUDDE. 217 
 
 defied us. Traitor and spy as he was, he had the merit of 
 courage at least; he would die game. And even as I, with 
 a first feeling of pity for him, discerned this, his sword was 
 out, and with a curse he lunged at me. 
 
 Penruddocke saved me by a buffet which sent me reeling 
 against the wall, so that the villain's thrust was spent on 
 air. Before he could repeat it, four or five men flung them- 
 selves upon him from behind. For a moment there was a 
 great uproar, while the group surrounding him swayed to 
 and fro as he dragged his captors up and down with a 
 strength I should not have expected. But the end was 
 certain, and we stood looking on quietly. In a minute or 
 two they had him down, and disarming him, bound his 
 hands. 
 
 For me he seemed to have a special hatred. "Curse 
 you!" he panted, glaring at me as he lay helpless. "You 
 have been my evil angel! From the first day I saw you, 
 you have thwarted me in every plan, and now you have 
 brought me to this!" 
 
 "Not I, but yourself," I answered. 
 
 "My curse upon you!" he cried again, the rage and hate 
 in his face so terrible that I turned away shuddering and 
 sick at heart. "If I could have killed you," he cried, "I 
 would have died contented." 
 
 "Enough!" interposed Penruddocke briskly. "It is 
 well for us that Master Bertie and his friend came here 
 to-night. Heaven grant it be not too late! We do not 
 need," he added, looking round, "any more evidence, I 
 think?" 
 
 The dissent was loud, and, save for Kingston, who still 
 sat sulking apart, unanimous. 
 
 "Death?" said the Cornishman quietly. 
 
 No one spoke, but each man gave a brief stern nod. 
 
 "Very well," the leader continued; "then I propose " 
 
 "One moment," said Master Bertie, interrupting him. 
 "A word with you apart, with our friends' permission. 
 You can repeat it to them afterward." 
 
 He drew Sir Thomas aside, and they retired into the 
 corner by the door, where they stood talking in whispers. 
 I had small reason to feel sympathy for the man who lay 
 there tied and doomed to die like a calf. Yet even I shud- 
 dered — yes, and some of the hardened men round me shud- 
 
2l8 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE, 
 
 dered also at the awful expression in his eyes as, without 
 moving his head, he followed the motions of the two by the 
 door. Some faint hope springing into being wrung his soul, 
 and brought the perspiration in great drops to his forehead. 
 I turned away, thinking gravely of the early morning three 
 years ago when he had tortured me by the very same hopes 
 and fears which now racked his own spirit. 
 
 Penruddocke came back, Master Bertie following him. 
 
 "It must not be done to-night," he announced quietly, 
 with a nod which meant that he would explain the reason 
 afterward. **We will meet again to-morrow at four in the 
 afternoon instead of at eight in the evening. Until then 
 two must remain on guard with him. It is right he should 
 have some time to repent, and he shall have it." 
 
 This did not at once find favor. 
 
 "Why not run him through now?" said one bluntly. 
 "And meet to-morrow at some place unknown to him? If 
 we come here again we shall, likely enough, walk straight 
 into the trap." 
 
 "Well, have it that way, if you please," answered Sir 
 Thomas, shrugging his shoulders. "But do not blame me 
 afterward if you find we have let slip a golden opportunity. 
 Be fools if you like. I dare say it will not make much dif- 
 ference in the end!" 
 
 He spoke at random, but he knew how to deal with his 
 crew, it seemed, for on this those who had objected assented 
 reluctantly to the course he proposed. "Barnes and Wal- 
 ters are here in hiding, so they had better be the two to 
 guard him," he continued. "There is no fear that they 
 will be inclined to let him go!" I looked at the men whom 
 the glances of their fellows singled out, and found them to 
 belong to the little knot of fanatics I had before remayked: 
 dark, stern men, worth, if the matter ever came to fighting, 
 all the rest of the band put together. 
 
 "At four, to-morrow, then, we meet," Sir Thomas con- 
 cluded lightly. "Then we will deal with him, never fear! 
 Now it is near midnight, and we must be going. But not 
 all together, or we shall attract attention." 
 
 Half an hour later Master Bertie and I rode softly out of 
 the courtyard and turned our faces toward the city. The 
 night wind came sweeping across the valley of the Thames, 
 
FERDINAND CLUDDE. 219 
 
 and met us full in the face as we reached the brow of the 
 hill. It seemed laden with melancholy whispers. The 
 wretched enterprise, ill-conceived, ill-ordered, and in its 
 very nature desperate, to which we were in honor committed, 
 would have accounted of itself for any degree of forebod- 
 ing. But the scene through which we had just passed, and 
 on my part the knowledge that I had given up a fellow-being 
 to death, had their depressing influences. For some dis- 
 tance we rode in silence, which I was the first to break. 
 
 "Why did you put off his punishment?" I asked. 
 
 "Because I think he will give us information in the inter- 
 val," Bertie answered briefly. "Information which may 
 help us. A spy is generally ready to betray his own side 
 upon occasion." 
 
 "And you will spare him if he does?" I asked. It 
 seemed to me neither justice nor mercy. 
 
 "No," he said, "there is no fear of that. Those who go 
 with ropes round their necks know no mercy. But drown- 
 ing men will catch at straws ; and ten to one he will babble!" 
 
 I shivered. "It is a bad business," I said. 
 
 He thought I referred to the conspiracy, and he inveighed 
 bitterly against it, reproaching himself for bringing me into 
 it, and for his folly in believing the rosy accounts of men 
 who had all to win, and nothing save their worthless lives to 
 lose. "There is only one thing gained," he said. "We are 
 likely to pay dearly for that, so we may think the more of 
 it. We have been the means of punishing a villain." -* 
 
 "Yes," I said, "that is true. It was a strange meeting 
 and a strange recognition. Strangest of all that I should 
 be called up to swear with him." 
 
 "Not strange," Master Bertie answered gravely. "I 
 would rather call it providential. Let us think of that, and 
 be of better courage, friend. We have been used; we shall 
 not be cast away before our time." 
 
 I looked back. For some minutes I had thought I heard 
 behind us a light footstep, more like the pattering of a 
 dog than anything else. I could see nothing, but that was 
 not wonderful, for the moon was young and the sky over- 
 cast. "Do you hear some one following us?" I said. 
 
 Master Bertie drew rein suddenly, and turning in the 
 saddle we listened. For a second I thought I still heard the 
 sound. The next it ceased, and only the wind toying with 
 
220 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 the November leaves and sighing away in the distance, came 
 to our ears. "No," he said, "I think it must have been your 
 fancy. I hear nothing." 
 
 But Avhen we rode on the sound began again, though at 
 first more faintly, as if our follower had learned prudence 
 and fallen farther behind. "Do not stop, but listen!" I 
 said softly. "Cannot you hear the pattering of a naked 
 foot now?" 
 
 "I hear something," he answered. "I am afraid you are 
 right, and that we are followed." 
 
 "What is to be done?" I said, my thoughts busy. 
 
 "There is Caen wood in front," he answered, "with a little 
 open ground on this side of it. We will ride under the trees 
 and then stop suddenly. Perhaps we shall be able to distin- 
 guish him as he crosses the open behind us." We made the 
 experiment ; but as if our follower had divined the plan, his 
 footstep ceased to sound before we had stopped our horses. 
 He had fallen farther behind. "We might ride quickly 
 back," I suggested, "and surprise him." 
 
 "It would be useless," Bertie answered. "There is too 
 much cover close to the road. Let us rather trot on and 
 outstrip him." 
 
 We did trot on; and what with the tramp of our horses as 
 they swung along the road, and the sharp passage of the 
 wind by our ears, we heard no more of the footstep behind. 
 But when we presently pulled up to breathe our horses — 
 or rather within a few minutes of our doing so — there it was 
 behind us, nearer and louder than before. I shivered as I 
 listened; and presently, acting on a sudden impulse, I 
 wheeled my horse round and spurred him back a dozen 
 paces along the road. 
 
 I pulled up. 
 
 There was a movement in the shadow of the trees on my 
 right, and I leaned forward, peering in that direction. 
 Gradually, I made out the lines of a figure standing still as 
 though gazing at me; a strange, distorted figure, crooked, 
 short, and in some way, though no lineament of the face 
 was visible, expressive of a strange and weird malevolence. 
 It was the witch! The witch whom I had seen in the 
 kitchen at the Gatehouse. How, then, had she come hither? 
 How had she, old, lame, decrepit, kept up with us? 
 
 I trembled as she raised her hand, and, standing other- 
 
FERDINAND CLUDDE. 221 
 
 wise motionless, pointed at me out of the gloom. The 
 horse under me was trembling too, trembling violently, with 
 its ears laid back, and, as she moved, its terror increased, 
 it plunged wildly. I had to give for a moment all my atten- 
 tion to it, and though I tried, in mere revolt against the 
 fear which 1 felt was overcoming me, to urge it nearer, my 
 efforts were vain. After nearly unseating me, the beast 
 whirled round and, getting the better of me, galloped down 
 the road toward London. 
 
 "What is it?" cried Master Bertie, as I came speedily up 
 with him ; he had ridden slowly on. "What is the matter?" 
 
 "Something \f\ the hedge startled it," I explained, trying 
 to soothe the horse. "I could not clearly see what it was." 
 
 "A rabbit, I dare say," he remarked, deceived by my 
 manner. 
 
 "Perhaps it was," I answered. Some impulse, not unnat- 
 ural, led me to say nothing about what I had seen. I was 
 not quite sure that my eyes had not deceived me. I feared 
 his ridicule, too, though he was not very prone to ridicule. 
 And above all I shrank from explaining the medley of super- 
 stitious fear, distrust, and abhorrence in which I held the 
 creature who had shown so strange a knowledge of my life. 
 
 We were already near Holborn, and reaching without 
 further adventure a modest inn near the Bars, we retired to 
 a room we had engaged, and lay down with none of the 
 gallant hopes which had last night formed the subject of our 
 talk. Yet we slept well, for depression goes better with 
 sleep than does the tumult of anticipation ; and I was up 
 early, and down in the yard looking to the horses before 
 London was well awake. As I entered the stable a man 
 lying curled up in the straw rolled lazily over and, shading 
 his eyes, glanced up. Apparently he recognized me, for he 
 got slowly to his feet. "Morning!" he said gruffly. 
 
 I stood staring at him, wondering if I had made a mis- 
 take. 
 
 "What are you doing here, my man?" I said sharply, 
 when I had made certain I knew him, and that he was really 
 the surly ostler from the Gatehouse tavern at Highgate. 
 "Why did you come here? Why have you followed us?" 
 
 "Come about your business," he answered. "To give 
 you that." 
 
 I took the note he held out to me. "From whom?" I 
 said. "Who sent it by you?" 
 
2 22 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 "Cannot tell," he replied, shaking his head. 
 
 "Cannot, or will not?" I retorted. 
 
 "Both," he said doggedly. "But there, if you want to 
 know what sort of a kernel is in a nut, you don't shake the 
 tree, master — ^you crack the nut." 
 
 I looked at the note he had given me. It was but a slip 
 of paper folded thrice. The sender had not addressed, or 
 sealed, or fastened it in anyway; had taken no care either 
 to insure its reaching its destination or to prevent prying eyes 
 seeing the contents. If one of our associates had sent it, 
 he had been guilty of the grossest carelessness. "You are 
 sure it is for me?" I said. 
 
 "As sure as mortal can be," he answered. "Only that it 
 was given me for a man, and not a mouse! You are not 
 afraid, master?" 
 
 I was not ; but he edged away -as he spoke, and looked 
 with so much alarm at the scrap of paper that it was abun- 
 dantly clear he was very much afraid himself, even while he 
 derided me. I saw that if I had offered to return the note he 
 would have backed out of the stable and gone off there and 
 then as fast as his lame foot would let him. This puzzled 
 me. However, I read the note. There was nothing in it 
 to frighten me. Yet, as I read, the color came into my 
 face, for it contained one name to which I had long been a 
 stranger. 
 
 "To Francis Cludde, " it ran. "If you would not do a 
 thing of which you will miserably repent all your life, and 
 which will stain you in the eyes of all Christian men, meet 
 me two hours before noon at the cross street by St. Botolph's, 
 where you first saw Mistress Bertram. And tell no one. 
 Fail not to come. In Heaven's name, fail not!" 
 
 The note had nothing to do with the conspiracy, then, on 
 the face of it; mysterious as it was, and mysteriously as it 
 came. "Look here!" I said to the man, "Tell me who 
 sent it, and I will give you a crown." 
 
 "I would not tell you," he answered stubbornly, "if you 
 could make me King of England ! No, nor King of Spain 
 too! You might rack me and you would not get it from 
 me!" 
 
 His one eye glowed with so obstinate a resolve that I gave 
 up the attempt to persuade him, and turned to examine the 
 message itself. But here I fared no better. I did not 
 know the handwriting, and there was no peculiarity in the 
 
FERDINAND CLUDDE, 223 
 
 paper. I was no wiser than before. ''Are you to take 
 back any answer?" I said. 
 
 "No," he replied, "the saints be thanked for the same! 
 But you will bear me witness," he went on anxiously, "that 
 I gave you the letter. You will not forget that, or say that 
 you have not had it? But there!" he added to himself as he 
 turned away, speaking in a low voice, so that I barely caught 
 the sense of the words, "what is the use? she will know!" 
 
 She will know! It had something to do with a woman 
 then, even if a woman were not the writer. I went in to 
 breakfast in two minds about going. I longed to tell Mas- 
 ter Bertie and take his advice, though the unknown had 
 enjoined me not to do so. But for the time I refrained, 
 and explaining my absence of mind as well as I could, I 
 presently stole away on some excuse or other, and started in 
 good time, and on foot, into the city. I reached the ren- 
 dezvous a quarter of an hour before the time named, and 
 strolling between the church and the baker's shop, tried to 
 look as much like a chance passer-by as I could, keeping 
 the while a wary lookout for any one who might turn out to 
 be my correspondent. 
 
 The morning was cold and gray. A drizzling rain was 
 falling. The passers were few, and the appearance of the 
 streets dirty and, with littered kennels, was dreary indeed. 
 I found it hard at once to keep myself warm and to avoid 
 observation as I hung about. Ten o'clock had rung from 
 more than one steeple, and I was beginning to think myself 
 a fool for my pains, when a woman of middle height, slen- 
 der and young in figure, but wearing a shabby brown cloak, 
 and with her head muffled in a hood, as though she had the 
 toothache or dreaded the weather more than ordinary, 
 turned the corner of the belfry and made straight toward 
 me. She drew near, and seemed about to pass me without 
 notice. But when abreast of me she glanced up suddenly, 
 her eyes the only features I could see. 
 
 "Follow me to the church!" she murmured gently. 
 And she swept on to the porch. 
 
 I obeyed reluctantly; very reluctantly, my feet seeming 
 like lead. For I knew who she was. Though I had only 
 seen her eyes, I had recognized them, and guessed already 
 what her business with me was. She led the way resolutely 
 
2 24 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 to a quiet corner. The church was empty and still, with 
 only the scent of incense in the air to tell of a recent 
 service. It was no surprise to me when she turned abruptly, 
 and, removing her hood, looked me in the face. 
 
 "What have you done with him?" she panted, laying her 
 hand on my arm. "Speak! Tell me what you have done 
 with him?" 
 
 The question, the very question, I had foreseen ! Yet I 
 tried to fence with her. I said, "With whom?" 
 
 "With whom?" she repeated bitterly. "You know me! 
 I am not so changed in three years that you do not recog- 
 nize me?" 
 
 "No; I know you," I said. 
 
 There was a hectic flush on her cheeks, and it seemed to 
 me that the dark hair was thinner on her thin temples than 
 when I had seen her last. But the eyes were the same. 
 
 "Then why ask with whom?" she cried passionately. 
 "What have you done with the man you called Clarence?" 
 
 "Done with him?" I said feebly. 
 
 "Ay, done with him? Come, speak and tell me!" she 
 repeated in fierce accents, her hand clutching my wrist, her 
 eyes probing my face with merciless glances. "Have you 
 killed him? Tell me!" 
 
 "Killed him, Mistress Anne?" I said sullenly. "No, I 
 have not killed him." 
 
 "He is alive?" she cried. 
 
 "For all I know, he is alive." 
 
 She glared at me for some seconds to assure herself that 
 I was telling the truth. Then she heaved a great sigh ; her 
 hands fell from my wrists, the color faded out of her face, 
 and she lowered her eyes. I glanced round with a momen- 
 tary idea of escape — I so shrank from that which was to 
 come. But before I had well entertained the notion she 
 looked up, her face grown calm. 
 
 "Then what have you done with him?" she asked. 
 
 "I have done nothing with him," I answered. 
 
 She laughed; a mirthless laugh. "Bah!" she said, "do 
 not tell me lies! That is your honor, I suppose — your 
 honor to your friends down in the cellar there ! Do you 
 think that I do not know all about them? Shall I give you 
 the list? He is a very dangerous conspirator, is Sir Thomas 
 
FERDINAND CLUDDE. 225 
 
 Penruddocke, is he not? And that scented dandy Master 
 Kingston! Or Master Crewdson — tell me of him! Tell 
 me of him, I say!" she exclaimed, with a sudden return 
 from irony to a fierce eagerness, a breathless impatience. 
 "Why did he not come up last night? What have you 
 done with him?" 
 
 I shook my head, sick and trembling. How could I tell 
 her? 
 
 "I see," she said. "You will not tell me. But you 
 swear he is yet alive, Master Cludde? Good. Then you 
 are holding him for a hostage? Is that it?" with a piercing 
 glance at my face. "Or, you have condemned him, bilt for 
 some reason the sentence has not been executed!" She 
 drew a long, deep breath, for I fear my face betrayed me. 
 "That is it, is it? Then there is still time." 
 
 She turned from me and looked toward the end of the 
 aisle, where a dull red lamp hanging before the altar glowed 
 feebly in the warm scented air. She seemed so to turn and 
 so to look in thankfulness, as if the news she had learned 
 were good instead of what it was. "What is the hour 
 fixed?" she asked suddenly. 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 "You will not tell me? Well, it matters not," she 
 answered briskly. "He must be saved. Do you hear? 
 He must be saved. Master Cludde. That is your business." 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 "You think it is not?" she said. "Well, I can show you 
 it is! Listen!" 
 
 She raised herself on a step of the font, and looked me 
 harshly in the face. "If he be not given up to me safe and 
 sound by sunset this evening, I will betray you all! All! 
 I have the list here," she muttered sternly, touching her 
 bosom. "You, Master Bertie, Penruddocke, Fleming, 
 Barnes — all. All, do you hear? Give him up or you shall 
 hang!" 
 
 "You would not do it!" I cried aghast, peering into her 
 burning eyes. 
 
 "Would not do it? Fool!" she hissed. "If all the 
 world but he had one head, I would cut it off to save his! 
 He is my husband! Do you hear? He is my husband — 
 my all ! Do you think I have given up everything, friends 
 
226 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 and honor and safety/ for him, to lose him now? No! 
 You say I would not do it? Do you know what I have 
 done? You have a scar there." 
 
 She touched me lightly on the breast. "I did it," she 
 said. 
 
 "You?" I muttered. 
 
 "Yes, I, you blind fool! I did it," she answered. 
 "You escaped then, and I was glad of it, since the wound 
 answered my purpose. But you will not escape again. 
 The cord is surer." 
 
 Something in her last words crossed my memory and 
 enlightened me. 
 
 "You were the woman I saw last night," I said. "You 
 followed us from Highgate. " 
 
 "What matter! What matter!" she exclaimed impa- 
 tiently. "Better be footsore than heartsore. Will you do 
 now what I want? Will you answer for his life?" 
 
 "I can do nothing without the others," I said. 
 
 "But the others know nothing," she answered. "They 
 do not know their own danger. Where will you find 
 them?" 
 
 "I shall find them," I replied resolutely. "And in any 
 case I must consult Master Bertie. Will you come and see 
 him?" 
 
 "And be locked up too?" she said sternly, and in a dif- 
 ferent tone. "No. It is you must do this, and you must 
 answer for it, Francis Cludde. You, and no one else." 
 
 "I can do nothing by myself," I repeated. 
 
 "Ay, but you can — you must!" she retorted, "or 
 Heaven's curse will be upon you ! You think me mad to 
 say that. Listen! Listen, fool! The man whom you 
 have condemned, whom you have left to die, is not only my 
 husband, wedded to me these three years, but your father — 
 your father, Ferdinand Cludde ! ' ' 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE COMING QUEEN. 
 
 1 STOOD glaring at her. 
 "You were a blind bat or you would have found it out 
 for yourself, " she continued scornfully. "A babe would 
 have guessed it, knowing as much of vour father as you 
 did." 
 
 "Does he know himself?" I muttered hoarsely, looking 
 anywhere but at her now. The shock had left me dull and 
 confused. I did not doubt her word, rather I wondered 
 with her that I had not found this out for myself. But the 
 possibility of meeting my father in that wide world into 
 which I had plunged to escape from the knowledge of his 
 existence, had never occurred to me. Had I thought of it, 
 it would have seemed too unlikely; and though I might 
 have seen in Gardiner a link between us, and so have iden- 
 tified him, the greatness of the Chancellor's transactions, 
 and certain things about Clarence which had seemed, or 
 would have seemed, had I ever taken the point into consid- 
 eration, at variance with my ideas of my father, had pre- 
 vented me getting upon the track. 
 
 "Does he know that you are his son, do you mean?" she 
 said. "No, he does not." 
 
 "You have not told him?" 
 
 "No," she answered with a slight shiver. 
 
 I understood. I comprehended that even to her the 
 eagerness with which, being father and son, we had sought 
 one another's lives during those days on the Rhine, had 
 seemed so dreadful that she had concealed the truth from 
 him. 
 
 "When did you learn it?" I asked, trembling too. 
 *I knew his right name before I ever saw you," she 
 answered. "Yours I learned on the day I left you at San- 
 ton." Looking back I remembered the strange horror, 
 
228 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 then inexplicable, which she had betrayed ; and I under- 
 stood it. So it was that knowledge which had driven her 
 from us ! " What will you do now ? " she said. " You will 
 save himi You must save him ! He is your father." 
 
 Save him? I shuddered at the thought that I had 
 destroyed him! that I, his son, had denounced him! Save 
 him! The perspiration sprang out in beads on my forehead. 
 If I could not save him I should live pitied by my friends 
 and loathed by my enemies! 
 
 "If it be possible," I muttered, "I will save him." 
 
 "You swear it?" she cried. Before I could answer she 
 seized my arm and dragged me up the dim aisle until we 
 stood together before the Figure and the Cross. The 
 chimes above us rang eleven. A shaft of cold sunshine 
 pierced a dusty window, and, full of dancing motes, shot 
 athwart the pillars. 
 
 "Swear!" she repeated with trembling eagerness, turning 
 her eyes on mine, and raising her hand solemnly toward the 
 Figure. "Swear by the Cross!" 
 
 "I swear," I said. 
 
 She dropped her hand. Her form seemed to shrink and 
 grow less. Making a sign to me to go, she fell on her knees 
 on the step, and drew her hood over her face. I walked 
 away on tiptoe down the aisle, but glancing back from the 
 door of the church I saw the small, solitary figure still 
 kneeling in prayer. The sunshine had died away. The 
 dusty window was colorless. Only the red lamp glowed 
 dully above her head. I seemed to see what the end 
 would be. Then I pushed aside the curtain, and slipped 
 out into the keen air. It was hers to pray. It was mine to 
 act. 
 
 I lost no time, but on my return I could not find Master 
 Bertie either in the public room or in the inn yard, so I 
 sought him in his bedroom, where I found him placidly 
 reading a book; his patient waiting in striking contrast with 
 the feverish anxiety which had taken hold of me. "What 
 is it, lad?" he said, closing the volume, and laying it down 
 on my entrance. "You look disturbed?" 
 
 **I have seen Mistress Anne," I answered. He whistled 
 softly, staring at me without a word. "She knows all," I 
 continued. 
 
THE COMING QUEEN. 229 
 
 "How much is all?" he asked after a pause. 
 
 "Our names — all our names, Penruddocke's, Kingston's, 
 the others ; our meeting-place, and that we hold Clarence a 
 prisoner. She was that old woman whom we saw at the 
 Gatehouse tavern last night." 
 
 He nodded, appearing neither greatly surprised nor 
 greatly alarmed. " Does she intend to use her knowledge ? ' ' 
 he said. "I suppose she does." 
 
 "Unless we let him go safe and unhurt before sunset." 
 
 *'They will never consent to it," he answered, shaking 
 his head. 
 
 "Then they will hang!" I cried. 
 
 He looked hard at me a moment, discerning something 
 strange in the bitterness of my last words. "Come, lad," 
 he said, "you have not told me all. What else have you 
 learned?" 
 
 "How can I tell you?" I cried wildly, waving him off, 
 and going to the lattice that my face might be hidden 
 from him. "Heaven has cursed me!" I added, my voice 
 breaking. 
 
 He came and laid his hand on my shoulder. "Heaven 
 curses no one," he said. "Most of our curses we make for 
 ourselves. What is it, lad?" 
 
 I covered my face with my hands. "He — he is my 
 father," I muttered. "Do you understand? Do you see 
 what I have done? He is my father!" 
 
 "Ha!" Master Bertie uttered that one exclamation in 
 intense astonishment ; then he said no more. But the pres- 
 sure of his hand told me that he understood, that he felt 
 with me, that he would help me. And that silent compre- 
 hension, that silent assurance, gave the sweetest comfort. 
 "He must be allowed to go, then, for this time," he resumed 
 gravely, after a pause in which I had had time to recover 
 myself. "We will see to it. But there will be difficulties. 
 You must be strong and brave. The truth must be told. 
 It is the only way." 
 
 I saw that it was, though 1 shrank exceedingly from the 
 ordeal before me. Master Bertie advised, when I grew 
 more calm, that we should be the first at the rendezvous, lest 
 by some chance Penruddocke's orders should be anticipat- 
 ed; and accordingly, soon after two o'clock, we mounted, 
 
230 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDH. 
 
 and set forth. I remarked that my companion looked very 
 carefully to his arms, and, taking the hint, I followed his 
 example. 
 
 It was a silent, melancholy, anxious ride. However suc- 
 cessful we might be in rescuing my father — alas! that I 
 should have to-day and always to call that man father — I 
 could not escape the future before me. I had felt shame 
 while he was but a name to me ; how could I endure to live, 
 with his infamy always before my eyes? Petronilla, of whom 
 I had been thinking so much since I returned to England, 
 whose knot of velvet had never left my breast nor her gentle 
 face my heart — how could I go back to her now? I had 
 thought my father dead, and his name and fame old tales. 
 But the years of foreign life which yesterday had seemed a 
 sufficient barrier between his past and myself — of what 
 use were they now? Or the foreign service I had fondly 
 regarded as a kind of purification? 
 
 Master Bertie broke in on my reverie much as if he had 
 followed its course. "Understand one thing, lad!" he 
 said, laying his hand on the withers of my horse. "Yours 
 must not be the hand to punish your father. But after 
 to-day you will owe him no duty. You will part from him 
 to-day and he will be a stranger to you. He deserted you 
 when you were a child; and if you owe reverence to any 
 one, it is to your uncle and not to him. He has himself 
 severed the ties between you." 
 
 "Yes," I said. "I will go abroad. I will go back to 
 Wilna." 
 
 "If ill comes of our enterprise — as I fear ill will come — we 
 will both go back, if we can," he answered. "If good by 
 any chance should come of it, then you shall be my brother, 
 our family shall be your family. The Duchess is rich 
 enough," he added with a smile, "to allow you a younger 
 brother's portion." 
 
 I could not answer him as I desired, for we passed at that 
 moment under the archway, and became instantly involved 
 in the bustle going forward in the courtyard. Near the 
 principal door of the inn stood eight or nine horses gayly - 
 caparisoned and in the charge of three foreign-looking men, 
 who, lounging in their saddles, were passing a jug from hand 
 to hand. They turned as we rode in and looked at us curi- 
 
THE COMING QUEEN'. 231 
 
 ously, but not with any impertinence. Apparently they 
 were waiting for the rest of their party, who were inside the 
 house. Civilly disposed as they seemed, the fact that they 
 were armed, and wore rich liveries of black and gold, 
 caused me, and I think both of us, a momentary alarm. 
 
 "Who are they?" Master Bertie asked in a low voice, as 
 he rode to the opposite door and dismounted with his back 
 to them. 
 
 "They are Spaniards, I fancy," I said, scanning them 
 over the shoulders of my horse as I too got off. "Old 
 friends, so to speak." 
 
 "They seem wonderfully subdued for them," he an- 
 swered, "and on their best behavior. If half the tales we 
 heard this morning be true, they are not wont to carry 
 themselves like this." 
 
 Yet they certainly were Spanish, for I overheard them 
 speaking to one another in that language ; and before we had 
 well dismounted, their leader — whom they received with 
 great respect, one of them jumping down to hold his stirrup — 
 came out with three -or four more and got to horse again. 
 Turning his rein to lead the way out through the north gate 
 he passed near us, and as he settled himself in his saddle 
 took a good look at us. The look passed harmlessly over 
 me, but reaching Master Bertie became concentrated. The 
 rider started and smiled faintly. He seemed to pause, 
 then he raised his plumed cap and bowed low — covered 
 himself again and rode on. His train all followed his 
 example and saluted us as they passed. Master Bertie's 
 face, which had flushed a fiery red under the other's gaze, 
 grew pale again. He looked at me, when they had gone by, 
 with startled eyes. 
 
 "Do you know who that was?" he said, speaking like one 
 who had received a blow and did not yet know how much 
 he was hurt. 
 
 "No,'' I said. 
 
 "It was the Count de Feria, the Spanish Ambassador," 
 he answered. "And he recognized me. I met him often, 
 years ago. I knew him again as soon as he came out, but I 
 did not think he would by any chance recognize me in this 
 dress." 
 
 "Are you sure," I asked in amazement, "that it was he?" 
 
 "Quite sure," he answered. 
 
232 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 "But why did he not have you arrested, or at least de- 
 tained? The warrants are still out against you." 
 
 Master Bertie shook his head. "I cannot tell," he said 
 darkly. "He is a Spaniard. But come, we have the less 
 time to lose. We must join our friends and take their 
 advice; we seem to be surrounded by pitfalls." 
 
 At this moment the lame ostler came up, and grumbling 
 at us as if he had never seen us in his life before, and never 
 wished to see us again, took our horses. We went into the 
 kitchen, and taking the first chance of slipping upstairs to 
 No. 15, we were admitted with the same precautions as 
 before, and descending the shaft gained the cellar. 
 
 Here we were not, as we had looked to be, the first on the 
 scene. I suppose a sense of the insecurity of our meeting- 
 place had led every one to come early, so as to be gone 
 early. Penruddocke indeed was not here yet, but Kingston 
 and half a score of others were sitting about conversing in 
 low tones. It was plain that the distrust and suspicion 
 which we had remarked on the previous day had not been 
 allayed by the discovery of Clarence's treachery. 
 
 Indeed, it was clear that the distrust and despondency 
 had to-day become a panic. Men glared at one another 
 and at the door, and talked in whispers and started at the 
 slightest sound. I glanced round. The one I sought for 
 with eager yet shrinking eyes was not to be seen. I turned 
 to Master Bertie, my face mutely calling on him to ask the 
 question. "Where is the prisoner?" he said sharply. 
 
 A moment I hung in suspense. Then one of the men 
 said, "He is in there. He is safe enough ! " He pointed, 
 as he spoke, to a door which seemed to lead to an inner 
 cellar. 
 
 "Right," said Master Bertie, still standing. "I have two 
 pieces of bad news for you nevertheless. Firstly I have 
 just been recognized by the Spanish Ambassador, whom I 
 met in the courtyard above." 
 
 Half the men rose to their feet. "What is he doing 
 here?" they cried, one boldly, the others with the quaver 
 very plain in their voices. 
 
 "I do not know; but he recognized me. Why he took 
 no steps to detain or arrest me I cannot tell. He rode 
 away by the north road." 
 
THE COMING QUEEN. 233 
 
 They gazed at one another and we at them. The wolfish 
 look which fear brings into some faces grew stronger in 
 theirs. 
 
 "What is your other bad news?" said Kingston, with an 
 oath. 
 
 "A person outside, a friend of the prisoner, has a list of 
 our names, and knows our meeting-place and our plans. 
 She threatens to use the knowledge unless the man Clarence 
 or Crewdson be set free." 
 
 There was a loud murmur of wrath and dismay, amid 
 which Kingston alone preserved his composure. "We 
 might have been prepared for that," he said quietly. "It 
 is an old precaution of such folk. But how did you come 
 to hear of it?" 
 
 "My friend here saw the messenger and heard the terms. 
 The man must be set free by sunset." 
 
 "And what warranty have we that he will not go straight 
 with his plans and his list to the Council?" 
 
 Master Bertie could not answer that, neither could I ; we 
 had no surety, and if we set him free could take none save 
 his word. His word I Could even I ask them to accept 
 that ?> To stake the life of the meanest of them on it? 
 
 I saw the difficulties of the position, and when Master 
 Kingston pronounced coolly that this was a waste of time, 
 and that the only wise course was to dispose of the principal 
 witness, both in the interests of justice and our own safety, 
 and then shift for ourselves before the storm broke, I 
 acknowledged in my heart the wisdom of the course, and 
 felt that yesterday it would have received my assent. 
 
 "The risk is about the same either way," Master Bertie 
 said. 
 
 "Not at all," Kingston objected, a sparkle of malice in 
 his eye. Last night we had thwarted him. To-night it was 
 his turn ; and the dark lowering looks of those round him 
 showed that numbers were with him. "This fellow can 
 hang us all. His accomplice who escapes can know noth- 
 ing save through him, and could give only vague and un- 
 certain evidence. No, no. Let us cast lots who shall do 
 it, get it done quickly, and begone." 
 
 "We must wait at least," Bertie urged, "until Sir 
 Thomas comes." 
 
 "No!" retorted Kingston, with heat. "We are all equal 
 
234 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 here. Besides the man was condemned yesterday, with the 
 full assent of all. It only remains to carry out the sentence. 
 Surely this gentleman," he continued, turning suddenly 
 upon me, "who was so ready to accuse him yesterday, does 
 not wish him spared to-day?" 
 
 "I do wish it," I said, in a low tone. 
 
 "Ho! ho!" he cried, folding his arms and throwing 
 back his head, astonished at the success of his own question. 
 "Then may we ask for your reasons, sir? Last night you 
 could not lay your tongue to words too bad for him. To- 
 night you wish to spare him, and let him go?" 
 
 "I do," I said. I felt that every eye was upon me, and 
 that. Master Bertie excepted, not one there would feel sym- 
 pathy with me in my humiliation. They were driven to the 
 wall. They had no time for fine feeling, for sympathy, for 
 appreciation of the tragic, unless it touched themselves. 
 What chance had I with them, though I was a son pleading 
 for a father? Nay, what argument had I save that I was his 
 son, and that I had brought him to this? No argument. 
 Only the appeal to them that they would not make me a 
 parricide ! And I felt that at this they would mock. 
 
 And so, in view of those stern, curious faces, a new 
 temptation seized me — the temptation to be silent. Why 
 should I not stand by and let things take their course? 
 Why should I not spare myself the shame which I already 
 saw would be fruitless? When Master Kingston, with a 
 cynical bow, said, "Your reasons, sir?" I stood mute and 
 trembling. If I kept silence, if I refused to give my 
 reasons, if I did not acknowledge the prisoner, but merely 
 begged his life, he would die, and the connection between 
 us would be known only to one or two. I should be freed 
 from him and might go my own way. The sins of Ferdi- 
 nand Cludde were well-nigh forgotten — why take to myself 
 the sins of Clarence, which would otherwise never stain my 
 name, would never be associated with my father or myself? 
 
 Why, indeed? It was a great and sore temptation, as I 
 stood there before all those eyes. He had deserved death. 
 I had given him up in perfect innocence. Had I any right 
 to call on them to risk their lives that I might go harmless in 
 conscience, and he in person? Had I 
 
 What, was there after all some taint in my blood? Was 
 I going to become like him — to take to myself a shame of 
 
THE COMING QUEEN. 235 
 
 my own earning, in the effort to escape from the burden of 
 his ill-fame? I remembered in time the oath I had sworn, 
 and when Kingston repeated his question, I answered him 
 quickly. "I did not know yesterday who he was," I said. 
 "I have discovered since that he is my father. I ask noth- 
 ing on his account. Were he only my father I would not 
 plead for him. I plead for myself," I murmured. "If you 
 show no pity, you make me a parricide." 
 
 I had done them wrong. There was something in my 
 voice, 1 suppose, as I said the words which cost me so 
 much, which wrought with almost all of them in a degree. 
 They gazed at me with awed, wondering faces, and mur- 
 mured "His father!" in low tones. They were recalling 
 the scene of last night, the moment when I had denounced 
 him, the curse he had hurled at me, the half-told story of 
 which that had seemed the climax, I had wronged them. 
 They did see the tragedy of it. 
 
 Yes, they pitied me ; but they showed plainly that they 
 would still do what perhaps I should have done in their 
 place — justice. "He knows too much!" said one. "Our 
 lives are as good as his," muttered another — the first to 
 become thoroughly himself again — "why should we all die 
 for him?" The wolfish glare came back fast to their eyes. 
 They handled their weapons impatiently. They were long- 
 ing to be away. At this moment, when I saw I had indeed 
 made my confession in vain, Master Bertie struck in. 
 "What," he said, "if Master Carey and 1 take charge of 
 him, and escorting him to his agent without, be answerable 
 for both of them?" 
 
 "You would be only putting your necks into the noose!" 
 said Kingston. 
 
 "We will risk that!" replied my friend — and what a 
 friend and what a man he seemed amid that ignoble crew! — 
 "I will myself promise you that if he refuse to remain with 
 us until midnight, or tries wherever we are to raise an alarm 
 or communicate with any one, I will run him through with 
 my own hand? Will not that satisfy you?" 
 
 "No," Master Kingston retorted, "it will not! A bird 
 in the hand is worth two in the bush!" 
 
 "But the woman outside?" said one timidly. 
 
 "We must run that risk!" quoth he. "In an hour or 
 two we shall be in hiding. Come, the lot must be drawn. 
 For this gentleman, let him stand aside." 
 
236 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 I leaned against the wall, dazed and horror-stricken. 
 Now that I had identified myself with him I felt a great long- 
 ing to save him. I scarcely noticed the group drawing pieces 
 of paper at the table. My every thought was taken up with 
 the low door over there, and the wretched man lying bound 
 in the darkness behind it. What must be the horror, the 
 black despair, the hate and defiance of his mind as he lay 
 there, trapped at last like any beast of prey? It was horri- 
 ble ! horrible ! horrible ! 
 
 I covered my face and could not restrain the cry of un- 
 utterable distress which rose to my lips. They looked round, 
 two or three of them, from the table. But the impression 
 my appeal had made upon them had faded away already, 
 and they only shrugged their shoulders and turned again to 
 their task. Master Bertie alone stood apart, his arms 
 folded, his face grave and dark. He too had abandoned 
 hope. There seemed no hope, when suddenly there came 
 a knocking at the door. The papers were dropped, and 
 while some stood as if stiffened into stone, others turned 
 and gazed at their neighbors. It was a knocking more 
 hasty and imperative than the usual summons, though given 
 in the same fashion. At last a man found tongue. "It 
 is Sir Thomas," he suggested, with a sigh of relief. "He 
 is in a hurry and brings news. I know his knock." 
 
 "Then open the door, fool," cried Kingston. "If you 
 can see through a two-inch plank, why do you stand there 
 like a gaby?" 
 
 Master Bertie anticipated the man, and himself opened 
 the door and admitted the knocker. Penruddocke it was ; 
 he came in, still drumming on the door with his fist, his 
 eyes sparkling, his ruddy cheeks aglow. He crossed the 
 threshold with a swagger, and looking at us all burst into a 
 strange peal of laughter. "Yoicks! Gone to earth!" he 
 shouted, waving his hand as if he had a whip in it. "Gone 
 to earth — gone forever! Did you think it was the Lords of 
 the Council, my lads?" 
 
 He had le+"t the door wide open behind him, and w'=' i:ow 
 saw in the doorway he seafaring man who usually guarded 
 the room above. 'What does this mean, Sir Thomas?" 
 Kingston said sternly. He thought, I fancy, as many ot us 
 did, that the knight was drunk. "Have you given that man 
 permission to leave his post?" 
 
 "Post? There are no more posts," cried Sir Thomas, 
 
THE COMING QUEEN, 237 
 
 with a strange jollity. He certainly was drunk, but perhaps 
 not with liquor. "Except good fat posts," he continued, 
 smacking Master Bertie on the shoulder, "for loyal men 
 who have done the state service, and risked their lives in 
 evil times! Posts? I shall get so drunk to-night that the 
 stoutest post on Ludgate will not hold me up!" 
 
 * 'You seem to have gone far that way already," my friend 
 said coldly. 
 
 "So will you, when you hear the news!" Penruddocke 
 replied more soberly. "Lads, the Queen is dying!" 
 
 In the vaulted room his statement was received in silence ; 
 a silence dictated by no feeling for the woman going before 
 her Maker — how should we who were plotting against her 
 feel for her, we who were for the most part homeless and 
 proscribed through her? — but the silence of men in doubt, in 
 doubt whether this might mean all that from Sir Thomas's 
 aspect it seemed to mean. 
 
 "She cannot live a week!" Penruddocke continued. 
 "The doctors have given up hope, and at the palace all is in 
 confusion. She has named the Princess Elizabeth her suc- 
 cessor, and even now Cecil is drawing up the proclamations. 
 To show that the game is really up, the Count de Feria, the 
 Spanish Ambassador, has gone this very day to Hatfield to 
 pay his respects to the coming queen." 
 
 Then indeed the vaulted roof did ring — ring and ring 
 again with shouts of "The Coming Queen!" Men over 
 whom the wings of death had seemed a minute ago to be 
 hovering, darkening all things to them, looked up and saw 
 the sun. "The Coming Queen!" they cried. 
 
 "You need fear nothing!" continued Penruddocke 
 wildly. "No one will dare to execute the warrants. The 
 Bishops are shaking in their miters. Pole is said to be 
 dying. Bonner is more likely to hang himself than burn 
 others. Up and out and play the man! Away to your 
 counties and get ready your tar-barrels! Now we will give 
 them a taste of the Cujus Regio! Ho! drawer, there! A 
 cup of ale!"» 
 
 He turned, and shouting a scrap of a song, swaggered 
 back into the shaft and began to ascend. They all trooped 
 after him, talking and laughing, a reckless, good-natured 
 crew, looking to a man as it they had never known fear or 
 selfishness — as if distrust were a thing impossible to them. 
 
238 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 Master Kingston alone, whom his losses had soured and 
 who still brooded over his revenge, went off moodily. 
 
 I was for stopping one of them; but Master Bertie 
 directed my eyes by a gesture of his hand to the door at the 
 far end of the cellar, and I saw that the key was in the lock. 
 He wrung my hand hard. "Tell him all," he muttered. 
 "I will wait above." 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 MY FATHER. 
 
 TELL him all? I stood thinking, my hand on the key. 
 The voices of the rearmost of the conspirators sounded 
 more and more faintly as they passed up the shaft, until 
 their last accents died in the room above, and silence fol- 
 lowed; a silence in strange contrast with the bright glare of 
 the torches which burned round me and lit up the empty 
 cellar as for a feast. I was wondering what he would say 
 when I told him all — when I said "I am your son! I, whom 
 Providence has used to thwart your plans, whose life you 
 sought, whom, without a thought of pity, you left to perish ! 
 I am your son!" 
 
 Infinitely I dreaded the moment when I should tell him 
 this, and hear his answer; and I lingered with my hand on 
 the key until an abrupt knocking on the other side of the 
 door brought the blood to my face. Before I could turn 
 the key the hasty summons was repeated, and grew to a 
 frantic, hurried drumming on the boards — a sound which 
 plainly told of terror suddenly conceived and in an instant 
 full-grown. A hoarse cry followed, coming dully to my 
 ears through the thickness of the door, and the next mo- 
 ment the stout planks shook as a heavy weight fell against 
 them. 
 
 I turned the key, and the door was flung open from 
 within. My father stumbled out. 
 
 The strong light for an instant blinded him, and he blinked 
 as an owl does brought to the sunshine. Even in him the 
 long hours passed in solitude and the blackness of despair 
 had worked changes. His hair was grayer; in patches it 
 was almost white, and then again dark. He had gnawed his 
 lower lip, and there were bloodstains on it. His mustache, 
 
240 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE, 
 
 too, was ragged and torn, as if he had gnawed that also. 
 His eyes were bloodshot, his lean face was white and hag- 
 gard and fierce. 
 
 "Ha!" he cried, trembling, as he peered round, "I 
 thought they had left me to starve! There were rats in 
 there! I thought " 
 
 He stopped. He saw me standing holding the edge of 
 the door. He saw that otherwise the room was empty, the 
 farther door leading to the shaft open. An open door! To 
 him doubtless it seemed of all sights the most wonderful, 
 the most heavenly ! His knees began to shake under him. 
 
 "What is it?" he muttered. "What were they shouting 
 about? I heard them shouting." 
 
 "The queen is dying," I answered simply, "or dead, and 
 you can do us no more harm. You are free." 
 
 "Free?" He repeated the word, leaning against the 
 wall, his eyes wild and glaring, his lips parted. 
 
 "Yes, free," I answered, in a lower voice — "free to go 
 out into the air of heaven a living man!" I paused. For 
 a moment I could not continue. Then I added solemnly, 
 "Sir, Providence has saved you from death, and me from a 
 crime." 
 
 He leaned still against the wall, dazed, thunderstruck, 
 almost incredulous, and looked from me to the open door 
 and back again as if without this constant testimony of his 
 eyes he could not believe in his escape. 
 
 "It was not Anne?" he murmured. "She did not " 
 
 "She tried to save your life," I answered; "but they 
 would not listen to her." 
 
 "Did she come here?" 
 
 As he spoke, he straightened himself with an effort and 
 stood up. He was growing more like himself. 
 
 "No," I answered. "She sent for me and told me her 
 terms. But Kingston and the others would not listen to 
 them. You would have been dead now, though I did all I 
 could to save you, if Penruddocke had not brought this 
 news of the queen." 
 
 "She is dead?" 
 
 "She is dying. The Spanish Ambassador," I added, to 
 clinch the matter, for I saw he doubted, "rode through 
 here this afternoon to pay his court to the Princess Eliza- 
 beth at Hatfield." 
 
MY FATHER. 241 
 
 He looked down at the ground, thinking deeply. Most 
 men would have been unable to think at all, unable to con- 
 centrate their thoughts on anything save their escape from 
 death. But a life of daily risk and hazard had so hardened 
 this man that I was certain, as I watched him, that he was 
 not praying nor giving thanks. He was already pondering 
 how he might make the most out of the change; how he 
 might to the best advantage sell his knowledge of the gov- 
 ernment whose hours were numbered to the government 
 which soon would be. The life of intrigue had become 
 second nature to him. 
 
 He looked up and our eyes met. We gazed at one 
 another. 
 
 "Why are you here?" he said curiously. "Why did they 
 leave you? Why were you the one to stop to set me free, 
 Master Carey?" 
 
 "My name is not Carey," I answered. 
 
 "What is it, then?" he asked carelessly. 
 
 "Cludde," I answered softly. 
 
 "Cludde!" He called it out. Even his self-mastery 
 could not cope with this surprise. "Cludde," he said 
 again — said it twice in a lower voice. 
 
 "Yes, Cludde," I answered, meeting and yet shrinking 
 from his questioning eyes, "my name is Cludde. So is 
 yours. I tried to save your life, because I learned from 
 Mistress Anne " 
 
 I paused. I shrank from telling him that which, as it 
 seemed to me, would strike him to the ground in shame and 
 horror. But he had no fear. 
 
 "What?" he cried. "What did you learn?" 
 
 "That you are my father," I answered slowly. "I am 
 Francis Cludde, the son whom you deserted many years 
 ago, and to whom Sir Anthony gave a home at Coton." 
 
 I expected him to do anything except what he did. He 
 stared at me with astonished eyes for a minute, and then a 
 low whistle issued from his lips. 
 
 "My son, are you! My son!" he said coolly. "And 
 how long have you known this, young sir?" 
 
 "Since yesterday," I murmured. The words he had used 
 on that morning at Santon, when he had bidden me die and 
 rot, were fresh in my memory — in my memory, not in his. 
 I recalled his treachery to the Duchess, his pursuit of us, 
 
242 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 his departure with Anne, the words in which he had cursed 
 me. He remembered apparently none of these things, but 
 simply gazed at me with a thoughtful smile. 
 
 "I wish I had known it before," he said at last. "Things 
 might have been different. A pretty dutiful son you have 
 been!" 
 
 The sneer did me good. It recalled to my mind what 
 Master Bertie had said. 
 
 "There can be no question of duty between us," I 
 answered firmly. "What duty I owe to any one of my 
 family, I owe to my uncle." 
 
 "Then why have you told me this?" 
 
 "Because I thought it right you should know it," I an- 
 swered, "were it only that, knowing it, we may go different 
 ways. We have nearly done one another a mischief more 
 than once," I added gravely. 
 
 He laughed. He was not one whit abashed by the dis- 
 covery, nor awed, nor cast down. There was even in his 
 cynical face a gleam of kindliness and pride as he scanned 
 me. We were almost of a height — I the taller by an inch 
 or two ; and in our features I believe there was a likeness, 
 though not such as to invite remark. 
 
 "You have grown to be a chip of the old block," he said 
 coolly. "I would as soon have you for a son as another. I 
 think on the whole I am pleased. You talked of Provi- 
 dence just now" — this with a laugh of serene amusement — 
 "and perhaps you were right. Perhaps there is such a 
 thing. For I am growing old, and lo! it gives me a son to 
 take care of me." 
 
 I shook my head. I could never be that kind of son to 
 him, 
 
 "Wait a bit," he said, frowning slightly. "You think 
 your side is up and mine is down, and I can do you no good 
 now, but only harm. You are ashamed of me. Well, 
 wait," he continued, nodding confidently. "Do not be 
 too sure that I cannot help you. I have been wrecked a 
 dozen times, but I never yet failed to find a boat that would 
 take me to shore." 
 
 Yes, he was so arrogant in the pride of his many deceits 
 that an hour after Heaven had stretched out its hand to save 
 him, he denied its power and took the glory to himself. I 
 did not know what to say to him, how to undeceive bvm, how 
 
MV FATHER. 243 
 
 to tell him that it was not the failure of his treachery which 
 shamed me, but the treachery itself. I could only remain 
 silent. 
 
 And so he mistook me; and, after pondering a moment 
 with his chin in his hand, he continued : 
 
 "I have a plan, my lad. The Queen dies. Well — I am 
 no bigot — long live the Queen and the Protestant religion ! 
 The down will be up and the up down, and the Protestants 
 will be everything. It will go hard then with those who cling 
 to the old faith." 
 
 He looked at me with a crafty smile, his head on one side. 
 
 'T do not understand," I said coldly. 
 
 "Then listen. Sir Anthony will hold by his religion. 
 He used to be a choleric gentleman, and as obstinate as a 
 mule. He will need but to be pricked up a little, and he 
 will get into trouble with the authorities as sure as eggs are 
 eggs. I will answer for it. And then " 
 
 "Well?" I said grimly. How was I to observe even a 
 show of respect for him when I was quivering.with fierce 
 wrath and abhorrence? "Do you think that will benefit 
 you / " I cried. "Do you think that you are so high in favor 
 with Cecil and the Protestants that they will stt you in Sir 
 Anthony's place? You!" 
 
 He looked at me still more craftily, not put out by my 
 indignation, but rather amused by it. 
 
 "No, lad, not me," he replied, with tolerant good-nature. 
 "I am somewhat blown upon of late. But Providence has 
 not given me back my son for nothing. I am not alone in 
 the world now. I must remember my family. I must think 
 a little of others as well as of myself." 
 
 "What do you mean?" I said, recoiling. 
 
 He scanned me for a moment, with his eyes half-shut, 
 his head on one side. Then he laughed, a cynical, jarring 
 laugh. 
 
 "Good boy!" he said. "Excellent boy! He knows no 
 more than he is told. His hands are clean, and he has 
 friends upon the winning side who will not see him lose a 
 chance, should a chance turn up. Be satisfied. Keep 
 your hands clean if you like, boy. We understand one 
 another," 
 
 He laughed again and turned away; and, much as I 
 dreaded and disHked him, there was something in the in- 
 
244 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDk. 
 
 domitable nature of the man which wrung from me a meed 
 of admiration. Could the best of men have recovered more 
 quickly from despair? Could the best of men, their plans 
 failing, have begun to spin fresh webs with equal patience? 
 Could the most courageous and faithful of those who have 
 tried to work the world's bettering, have faced the downfall 
 of their hopes with stouter hearts, with more genuine resig- 
 nation? Bad as he was, he had courage and endurance 
 beyond the common. 
 
 He came back to me when he had gone a few paces. 
 
 "Do you know where my sword is?" he asked in a mat- 
 ter-of-fact tone, as one might ask a question of an old 
 comrade. 
 
 I found it cast aside behind the door. He took it from 
 me, grumbling over a nick in the edge, which he had 
 caused by some desperate blow when he was seized. He 
 fastened it on with an oath. I could not look at the sword 
 without remembering how nearly he had taken my life with 
 it. The recollection did not trouble him in the slightest. 
 
 "Now farewell!" he said carelessly, "I am going to turn 
 over a new leaf, and begin returning good for evil. Do you 
 go to your friends and do your work, and I will go to my 
 friends and do mine." 
 
 Then with a nod he walked briskly away, and I heard 
 him climb the ladder and depart. 
 
 What was he going to do? I was so deeply amazed by 
 the interview that I did not understand. I had thought 
 him a wicked man, but I had not conceived the hardness of 
 his nature. As I stood alone looking round the vault, I 
 could hardly believe that I had met and spoken to my 
 father, and told him I was his son— and this was all! I 
 could hardly believe that he had gone away with this knowl- 
 edge, unmoved and unrepentant; alike unwarned by the 
 Providence which had used me to thwart his schemes, and 
 untouched by the beneficence which had thrice held him 
 back from the crime of killing me — ay, proof even against 
 the long-suffering which had plucked him from the abyss 
 and given him one more chance of repentance. 
 
 I found Master Bertie in the stables waiting for me with 
 some impatience. Of which, upon the whole, I was glad. 
 For I had no wish to be closely questioned, and the account 
 
MY FATHER, 245 
 
 I gave him of the interview might at another time have 
 seemed disjointed and incoherent. He listened to it, how- 
 ever, without remark ; and his next words made it clear 
 that he had other matters in his mind. 
 
 "I do not know what to do about fetching the Duchess 
 over," he said. "This news seems to be true, and she 
 ought to be here." 
 
 "Certainly," I agreed. 
 
 "The country in general is well affected to the Princess 
 Elizabeth," he continued. "Yet the interests of the Bish- 
 ops, of the Spanish faction, and of some of the council, will 
 lie in giving trouble. To avoid this, we should show our 
 strength. Therefore I want the Duchess to come over with 
 all speed. Will you fetch her?" he added sharply, turning 
 to me. 
 
 "Will I?" I cried in surprise. 
 
 "Yes, you. I cannot well go myself at this crisis. Will 
 you go instead?" 
 
 "Of course I will," I answered. 
 
 And the prospect cheered me wonderfully. It gave me 
 something to do, and opened my eyes to the great change of 
 which Penruddocke had been the herald, a change which 
 was even then beginning. As we rode down Highgate Hill 
 that day, messengers were speeding north and south and 
 east and west, to Norwich and Bristol and Canterbury and 
 Coventry and York, with the tidings that the somber rule 
 under which England had groaned for five years and more 
 was coming to an end. If In a dozen towns of England 
 they roped their bells afresh ; If in every county, as Pen- 
 ruddocke had prophesied, they got their tar-barrels ready ; 
 if all, save a few old-fashioned folk and a few gloomy bigots 
 and hysterical women, awoke as from an evil dream; if even 
 sensible men saw in the coming of the young queen a pana- 
 cea for all their ills — a quenching of Smithfield fires, a Calais 
 recovered, a cure for the worthless coinage which hampered 
 trade, and a riddance of worthless foreigners who plundered 
 it — with better roads, purer justice, a fuller Exchequer, 
 more favorable seasons — if England read all this in that 
 news of Penruddocke's, was it not something to us also? 
 
 It was indeed. We were saved at the last moment from 
 the dangerous enterprise on which we had rashly embarked. 
 We had now such prospects before us as only the success of 
 
246 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 that scheme could have ordinarily opened. Ease and honor 
 instead of the gallows, and to lie warm instead of creaking 
 in the wind! Thinking of this, I fell into a better frame of 
 mind as I jogged along toward London. For what, after 
 all, was my father to me, that his existence should make me 
 unhappy, or rob mine of all pleasure? I had made a place 
 for myself in the world. I had earned friends for myself. 
 He might take away my pride in the one, but he could 
 never rob me of the love of the others — of those who had 
 eaten and drunk and fought and suffered beside me, and for 
 whom I too had fought and suffered ! 
 
 "A strange time for the swallows to come back," said my 
 lady, turning to smile at me, as I rode on her off-side. 
 
 It would have been strange, indeed, if there had been 
 swallows in the air. For it was the end of December. The 
 roads were frost-bound and the trees leafless. The east 
 wind, gathering force in its rush across the Essex marshes, 
 whirled before it the last trophies of Hainault Forest, and 
 seemed, as it whistled by our ears and shaved our faces, to 
 grudge us the shelter to which we were hastening. The 
 long train behind us — for the good times of which we had 
 talked so often had come — were full of the huge fire we 
 expected to find at the inn at Barking — our last stage on the 
 road to London. And if the Duchess and I bore the cold 
 more patiently, it was probably because we had more food 
 for thought — and perhaps thicker raiment. 
 
 "Do not shake your head," she continued, glancing at 
 me with mischief in her eyes, "and flatter yourself you will 
 not go back, but will go on making yourself and some one 
 else unhappy. You will do nothing of the kind, Francis. 
 Before the spring comes you and I will ride over the draw- 
 bridge at Coton End, or I am a Dutchwoman!" 
 
 "I cannot see that things are changed," I said. 
 
 "Not changed?" she replied. "When you left, you were 
 nobody. Now you are somebody, if it be only in having a 
 sister with a dozen serving-men in her train. Leave it to 
 me. And now, thank Heaven, we are here! I am so stiff 
 and cold, you must lift me down. We have not to ride far 
 after dinner, I hope." 
 
 "Only seven miles," I answered, as the host, who had 
 
MV FATHER. ^47 
 
 been warned by an outrider to expect us, came running out 
 with a tail at his heels. 
 
 "What news from London, Master Landlord?" I said to 
 him as he led us through the kitchen, where there was in- 
 deed a great fire, but no chimney, and so to a smaller room 
 possessing both these luxuries. "Is all quiet?" 
 
 "Certainly, your worship," he replied, bowing and rub- 
 bing his hands. "There never was such an accession, nor 
 more ale drunk, nor powder burned — and I have seen three 
 — and there was pretty shouting at old King Harry's, but 
 not like this. Such a fair young queen, men report, with 
 a look of the stout king about her, and as prudent and dis- 
 creet as if she had changed heads with Sir William Cecil. 
 God bless her, say I, and send her a wise husband!" 
 
 "And a loving one," quoth my lady prettily. "Amen." 
 
 "I am glad all has gone off well," I continued, speaking 
 to the Duchess, as I turned to the blazing hearth. "If there 
 had been blows, I would fain have been here to strike one." 
 
 "Nay, sir, not a finger has wagged against her," the land- 
 lord answered, kicking the logs together — "to speak of, that 
 is, your worship. I do hear to-day of a little trouble down 
 in Warwickshire. But it is no more than a storm in a wash- 
 tub, I am told." 
 
 "In Warwickshire?" I said, arrested, in the act of taking 
 off my cloak, by the familiar name. "In what part, my 
 man?" 
 
 "I am not clear about that, sir, not knowing the coun- 
 try," he replied. "But I heard that a gentleman there had 
 fallen foul of her Grace's orders about church matters, and 
 beaten the officers sent to see them carried out ; and that, 
 when the sheriff remonstrated with him, he beat him too. 
 But I warrant they will soon bring him to his senses." 
 
 "Did you hear his name?" I asked. There was a natural 
 misgiving in my mind. Warwickshire was large; and yet 
 something in the tale smacked of Sir Anthony. 
 
 "I did hear it," the host answered, scratching his head, 
 "but I cannot call it to mind. I think I should know it if I 
 heard it." 
 
 "Was it Sir Anthony Cludde?" 
 
 "It was that very same name!" he exclaimed, clapping 
 his hands in wonder. "To be sure! Your worship has it 
 pat!" 
 
248 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 I slipped back into my cloak again, and snatched up my 
 hat and whip. But the Duchess was as quick. She stepped 
 between me and the door. 
 
 "Sit down, Francis!" she said imperiously. "What 
 would you be at ?" 
 
 "What would I be at?" I cried with emotion. "I would 
 be with my uncle. I shall take horse at once and ride War- 
 wuckshire way with all speed. It is possible that I may be 
 in time to avert the consequences. At least I can see that 
 my cousin comes to no harm." 
 
 "Good lad," she said placidly. "You shall start to- 
 morrow." 
 
 "To-morrow!" I cried impatiently. "But time is every- 
 thing, madam." 
 
 "You shall start to-morrow," she repeated. "Time is 
 not everything, firebrand! If you start to-day what can 
 you do? Nothing! No more than if the thing had hap- 
 pened three years ago, before you met me. But to-morrow 
 — when you have seen the Secretary of State, as I promise 
 you you shall, this evening if he be in London — to morrow 
 you shall go in a different character, and with credentials." 
 
 "You will do this for me?" I exclaimed, leaping up and 
 taking her hand, for I saw in a moment the wisdom of the 
 course she proposed. "You will get me " 
 
 "I will get you something to the purpose," my lady 
 answered roundly. "Something that shall save your uncle 
 if there be any power in England can save him. You shall 
 have it, Frank," she added, her color rising, and her eyes 
 filling, as I kissed her hand, "though I have to take Master 
 Secretary by the beard!" 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 SIR ANTHONY'S PURPOSE. 
 
 LATE, as I have heard, on the afternoon of November 
 J 20, 1558, a man riding between Oxford and Wor- 
 cester, with the news of the queen's death, caught sight 
 of the gateway tower at Coton End, which is plainly visible 
 from the road. Though he had already drunk that day as 
 much ale as would have sufficed him for a week when the 
 queen was well, yet much wants more. He calculated he 
 had time to stop and taste the Squire's brewing, which he 
 judged, from the look of the tower, might be worth his news; 
 and he rode through the gate and railed at his nag for 
 stumbling. 
 
 Half way across the Chase he met Sir Anthony. The old 
 gentleman was walking out, with his staff in his hand and 
 his dogs behind him, to take the air before supper. The 
 man, while he was still a hundred paces off, began to wave 
 his hat and shout something, which ale and excitement ren- 
 dered unintelligible. 
 
 "What is the matter?" said Sir Anthony to himself. 
 And he stood still. 
 
 "The queen is dead!" shouted the messenger, swaying 
 in his saddle. 
 
 The knight stared. 
 
 "Ay, sure!" he ejaculated after a while. And he took 
 off his hat. "Is it true, man?" 
 
 "As true as that I left London yesterday afternoon and 
 have never drawn rein since!" swore the knave, who had 
 been three days on the road, and had drunk at every hostel 
 and at half the manor-houses between London and Oxford. 
 
 "God rest her soul!" said Sir Anthony piously, still in 
 somewhat of a maze. "And do you come in! Come in, 
 man, and take something." 
 
250 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE, 
 
 But the messenger had got his formula by heart, and was 
 not to be defrauded of any part of it. 
 
 "God save the queen!" he shouted. And out of respect 
 for the knight, he slipped from his saddle and promptly fell 
 on his back in the road. 
 
 "Ay, to be sure, God save the queen!" echoed Sir An- 
 thony, taking off his hat again. "You are right, man!" 
 Then \it hurried on, not noticing the messenger's mishap. 
 The tidings he had heard seemed of such importance, and 
 he was so anxious to tell them to his household — for the 
 greatest men have weaknesses, and news such as this comes 
 seldom in a lifetime — that he strode on to the house, and 
 over the drawbridge into the courtyard, without once look- 
 ing behind him. 
 
 He loved order and decent observance. But there are 
 times when a cat, to get to the cream-pan, will wet its feet. 
 He stood now in the middle of the courtyard, and raising 
 his voice, shouted for his daughter. "Ho, Petronilla! do 
 you hear, girl! Father! Father Carey! Martin Luther! 
 Baldwin!" and so on, until half the household were 
 collected. "Do you hear, all of you? The queen is dead ! 
 God rest her soul!" 
 
 "Amen!" said Father Carey, as became him, putting in 
 his word amid the wondering silence which followed; while 
 Martin Luther and Baldwin, who were washing themselves 
 at the pump, stood with their heads dripping and their, 
 mouths agape. 
 
 "Amen!" echoed the knight. "And long live the queen! 
 Long live Queen Elizabeth ! " he continued, having now got 
 his formula by heart. And he swung his hat. 
 
 There was a cheer, a fairly loud cheer. But there was 
 one who did not join in it, and that was Petronilla. She, 
 listening at her lattice upstairs, began at once to think, as 
 was her habit when any matter great or small fell out, 
 whether this would affect the fortunes of a certain person 
 far away. It might, it might not ; she did not know. But 
 the doubt so far entertained her that she came down to sup- 
 per with a heightened color, not thinkng in the least, poor 
 girl, that the event might have dire consequences for others 
 almost as dear to her, and nearer home. 
 
SIR ANTHONY'S PURPOSE. 251 
 
 Every year since his sudden departure a letter from Fran- 
 cis Cludde had come to Coton ; a meager letter, which had 
 passed through many hands, and reached Sir Anthony now- 
 through one channel, now through another. The knight 
 grumbled and swore over these letters, which never con- 
 tained an address to which an answer could be forwarded, 
 nor said much, save that the writer was well and sent his 
 love and duty, and looked to return, all being well. But, 
 meager as they were, and loud as he swore over them, he 
 put them religiously away in an oak-chest in his parlor; and 
 another always put away for her share something else, which 
 was invariably inclosed — a tiny swallow's feather. The 
 knight never said anything about the feather; neither asked 
 the meaning of its presence, nor commented upon its 
 absence when Petronilla gave him back the letter. But 
 for days after each of these arrivals he would look much 
 at his daughter, would follow her about with his eyes, 
 be more regular in bidding her attend him in his walk, 
 and more particular in seeing that she had the tidbits of 
 the joint. 
 
 For Petronilla, it cannot be said, though I think in after 
 times she would have liked to make some one believe it, that 
 she wasted away., But she did take a more serious and 
 thoughtful air in these days, which she never, God bless 
 her, lost afterward. There came from Wootton Wawen and 
 from Henley in Arden and from Cookhill gentlemen of 
 excellent estate, to woo her. But they all went away dis- 
 consolate after drinking very deeply of Sir Anthony's ale 
 and strong waters. And some wondered that the good 
 knight did not roundly take the jade to task and see her 
 settled. 
 
 But he did not ; so possibly even in these days he had 
 other views. I have been told that, going up once to her 
 little chamber to seek her, he found a very singular orna- 
 ment suspended inside her lattice. It was no other than a 
 common clay house-martin's nest. But it was so deftly 
 hung in a netted bag, and so daintily swathed in moss 
 always green, and the Christmas roses and snowdrops and 
 violets and daffodils which decked it in turn were always so 
 pure and fresh and bright — as the knight learned by more 
 tha-n one stealthy visit afterward — that, coming down the 
 
252 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 Steep steps, he could not see clearly, and stumbled against 
 a cook-boy, and beat him soundly for getting in his way. 
 
 To return, however. The news of the queen's death had 
 scarcely been well digested at Coton, nor the mass for her 
 soul, which Father Carey celebrated with much devotion, 
 been properly criticised, before another surprise fell upon 
 the household. Two strangers arrived, riding late one even- 
 ing, and rang the great bell while all were at supper. Bald- 
 win and the porter went to see what it was, and brought 
 back a message which drew the knight from his chair, as a 
 terrier draws a rat. 
 
 "You are drunk!" he shouted, purple in the face, and 
 fumbling for the stick which usually leaned against his seat 
 ready for emergencies. "How dare you bring cock-and- 
 bull stories to me?" 
 
 "It is true enough!" muttered Baldwin sullenly: a stout, 
 dour man, not much afraid of his master, but loving him 
 exceedingly. "I knew him again myself." 
 
 Sir Anthony strode firmly out of the room, and in the 
 courtyard near the great gate found a man and a woman 
 standing in the dusk. He walked up to the former and 
 looked him in the face. "What do you here?" he said, in 
 a strange, hard voice. 
 
 "I want shelter for a night for myself and my wife; a 
 meal and some words with you — no more," was the answer. 
 "Give me this," the stranger continued, "which every idle 
 passer-by may claim at Coton End, and you shall see no 
 more of me, Anthony." 
 
 For a moment the knight seemed to hesitate. Then he 
 answered, pointing sternly with his hand, "There is the hall 
 and supper. Go and eat and drink. Or, stay!" he 
 resumed. And he turned and gave some orders to Bald- 
 win, who went swiftly to the hall, and in a moment came 
 again. "Now go! What you want the servants will pre- 
 pare for you." 
 
 "I want speech of you," said the newcomer. 
 
 Sir Anthony seemed about to refuse, but thought better 
 of it. "You can come to my room when you have 
 supped," he said, in the same ungracious tone, speaking 
 with his eyes averted. 
 
SIR ANTHONY'S PURPOSE, 253 
 
 **And you — do you not take supper?" 
 
 "I have finished," said the knight, albeit he had eaten 
 little. And he turned on his heel. 
 
 Very few of those who sat round the table and watched 
 with astonishment the tall stranger's entrance knew him 
 again. It was thirteen years since Ferdinand Cludde had 
 last sat there; sitting there of right. And the thirteen years 
 had worked much change in him. When he found that 
 Tetronilla, obeying her father's message, had disappeared, 
 he said haughtily that his wife would sup in her own room; 
 and with a flashing eye and curling lip, bade Baldwin see to 
 it. Then, seating himself in a place next Sir Anthony's, he 
 looked down the board at which all sat silent. His sar- 
 castic eye, his high bearing, his manner — the manner of one 
 who had gone long with his life in his hand — awed these 
 simple folk. Then, too, he was a Cludde. Father Carey 
 was absent that evening. Martin Luther had one of those 
 turns, half-sick, half-sullen, which alternated with his moods 
 of merriment; and kept his straw pallet in some corner or 
 other. There was no one to come between the servants and 
 this dark-visaged stranger, who was yet no stranger. 
 
 He had his way and his talk with Sir Anthony ; the latter 
 lasting far into the night and producing odd results. In 
 the first place, the unbidden guest and his wife stayed on 
 over next day, and over many days to come, and seemed 
 gradually to grow more and more at home. The knight 
 began to take long walks and rides with his brother, and 
 from each walk and ride came back with a more gloomy 
 face and a curter manner. Petronilla, his companion of 
 old, found herself set aside for her uncle, and cast, for 
 society, on Ferdinand's wife, the strange young woman with 
 the brilliant eyes, whose odd changes from grave to gay 
 rivaled Martin Luther's; and who now scared the girl by 
 wild laughter and wilder gibes, and now moved her to pity 
 by fits of weeping or dark moods of gloom. That Uncle 
 Ferdinand's wife stood in dread of her husband, Petronilla 
 soon learned, and even began to share this dread, to shrink 
 from his presence, and to shut herself up more and more 
 closely in her own chamber. 
 
 There was another, too, who grew to be troubled about 
 this time, and that was Father Carey. The good-natured, 
 
254 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 easy priest received with joy and thankfulness the news that 
 Ferdinand Cludde had seen his errors and re-entered the 
 fold. But when he had had two or three interviews with 
 the convert, his brow, too, grew clouded, and his mind 
 troubled. He learned to see that the accession of the 
 young Protestant queen must bear fruit for which he had a 
 poor appetite. He began to spend many hours in the 
 church — the church which he had known all his life — and 
 wrestled much with himself — if his face were any index to 
 his soul. Good, kindly man, he was not of the stuff of 
 which martyrs are made; and to be forced, pushed on, and 
 goaded into becoming a martyr against one's will — well, the 
 Father's position was a hard one. As was tliat in those 
 days of many a good and learned clergyman bred in one 
 church, and bidden suddenly, on pain of losing his liveli- 
 hood, if not his life, to migrate to another. 
 
 The visitors had been in the house a month — and in that 
 month an observant eye might have noted much change, 
 though all things in seeming went on as before — when the 
 queen's orders enjoining all priests to read the service, or 
 a great part of it, in English, came down, being fowarded 
 by the sheriff to Father Carey. The missive arrived on a 
 Friday, and had been indeed long expected. 
 
 "What shall you do?" Ferdinand asked Sir Anthony. 
 
 "As before!" the tall old man replied, gripping his staff 
 more firmly. It was no new subject between them. A 
 hundred times they had discussed it already, even as they 
 were now discussing it on the terrace by the fish-pool, with 
 the church which adjoins the house full in view across the 
 garden. "1 will have no mushroom faith at Coton End," 
 the knight continued warmly. "It sprang up under King 
 Henry, and how long did it last? A year or two. It came 
 in again under King Edward, and how long did it last? 
 A year or two. So it will be again. It will not last, Fer- 
 dinand." 
 
 "I am of that mind," the younger man answered, nod- 
 ding his head gravely. 
 
 "Of course you are!" Sir Anthony rejoined, as he rested 
 one hand on the sundial. "For ten generations our fore- 
 fathers have worshiped in that church after the old fashion 
 — and shall it be changed in my day? Heaven forbid! 
 
SIR ANTHONY'S PURPOSE. 255 
 
 The old fashion did for my fathers; it shall do for me. 
 Why, I would as soon expect that the river yonder should 
 flow backward as that the church which has stood for cen- 
 turies, and more years to the back of them than I can count, 
 should be swept away by these Hot Gospelers! I will have 
 none of them! I will have no new-fangled ways at Coton 
 End!" 
 
 "Well, I think you are right!" the younger brother said. 
 By what means he had brought the knight to this mind with- 
 out committing himself more fully, 1 cannot tell. Yet so 
 it was. Ferdinand showed himself always the cautious 
 doubter. Father Carey even must have done him that jus- 
 tice. But — and this was strange — the more doubtful he 
 showed himself, the more stubborn grew his brother. 
 There are men so shrewd as to pass off stones for bread; 
 and men so simple-minded as to take something less than 
 the word for the deed. 
 
 "Why should it come in our time?" cried Sir Anthony 
 fractiously. 
 
 "Why indeed?" quoth the subtle one. 
 
 "I say, why should it come now? I have heard and read 
 of the sect called Lollards who gave trouble a while ago. 
 But they passed, and the church stood. So will these Gos- 
 pelers pass, and the church will stand." 
 
 "That is our experience certainly," said Ferdinand. 
 
 "I hate change!" the old man continued, his eyes on the 
 old church, the old timbered house — for only the gateway 
 tower at Coton is of stone — the old yew trees in the church- 
 yard. 'T do not believe in it, and, what is more, I will not 
 have it. As my fathers have worshiped, so will I, though 
 it cost me every rood of land! A fig for the Order in 
 Council!" 
 
 "If you really will not change with the younger genera- 
 tions " 
 
 "I will not!" replied the old knight sharply. "There is 
 an end of it!" 
 
 To-day the Reformed Church in England has seen many 
 an anniversary, and grown stronger with each year; and we 
 can afford to laugh at Sir Anthony's arguments. We know 
 better than he did, for the proof of the pudding is in the 
 eating. But in him and his fellows, who had only the 
 
256 THE- STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 knowledge of their own day, such arguments were natural 
 enough. All time, all experience, all history and custom 
 and habit, as known to them, were on their side. Only it 
 was once again to be the battle of David and the Giant of 
 Gath. 
 
 Sir Anthony had said, "There is an end of it!" But his 
 companion, as he presently strolled up to the house with a 
 smile on his saturnine face, well knew that this was only the 
 beginning of it. This was Friday. 
 
 On the Sunday, a rumor of the order having gone abroad, 
 a larger congregation than usual streamed across the Chase 
 to church, prepared to hear some new thing. They were 
 disappointed. Sir Anthony stalked in as of old, through 
 the double ranks of people waiting at the door to receive 
 him ; and after him Ferdinand and his wife, and Petronilla 
 and Baldwin, and every servant from the house save a cook 
 or two and the porter. The church was full. Seldom had 
 such a congregation been seen in it. But all passed as of 
 old. Father Carey's hand shook, indeed, and his voice 
 quavered; but he went through the ceremony of the mass, 
 and all was done in Latin. A little change would have been 
 pleasant, some thought. But no one in this country place 
 on the borders of the forest held very strong views. No 
 bishop had come heretic-hunting to Coton End. No abbey 
 existed to excite dislike by its extravagance or by its license 
 or by the swarm of ragged idlers it supported. Father 
 Carey was the most harmless and kindest of men. The vil- 
 lagers did not care one way or the other. To them Sir An- 
 thony was king. And if any one felt tempted to interfere, 
 the old knight's face, as he gazed steadfastly at the brass 
 efFigy of a Cludde, who had fallen in Spain fighting against 
 the Moors, warned the meddler to be silent. 
 
 And so on that Sunday all went well. But some one must 
 have told tales, for early in the week there came a strong 
 letter of remonstrance from the sheriff, who was an old friend 
 of Sir Anthony, and of his own free will, I fancy, would have 
 winked. But he was committed to the Protestants, and 
 bound to stand or fall with them. The choleric knight sent 
 back an answer by the same messenger. The sheriff replied, 
 the knight rejoined — having his brother always at his elbow. 
 
SIR ANTHONY'S PURPOSE. 257 
 
 The upshot of the correspondence was an announcement on 
 the part of the sheriff that he should send his officers to the 
 next service, to see that the queen's order was obeyed; 
 and a reply on the part of Sir Anthony that he should as 
 certainly put the men in the duck-pond. Some inkling of 
 this state of things got abroad, and spread as a September 
 fire flies through a wood ; so that there was like to be such 
 a congregation at the next service to witness the trial of 
 strength, as would throw the last Sunday's gathering alto- 
 gether into the shade. 
 
 It was clear at last that Sir Anthony himself did not think 
 that here was the end of it. For on that Saturday afternoon 
 he took a remarkable walk. He called Petronilla after din- 
 ner, and bade her get her hood and come with him. And 
 the girl, who had seen so little of her father in the last 
 month, and who, what with rumors and fears and surmises, 
 was eating her heart out, obeyed him with joy. It was a 
 fine frosty day near the close of December. Sir Anthony 
 led the way over the plank-bridge which crossed the moat 
 in the rear of the house, and tramped steadily through the 
 home farm toward a hill called the Woodman's View, which 
 marked the border of the forest. He did not talk, but 
 neither was he sunk in reverie. As he entered each field he 
 stood and scanned it, at times merely nodding, at times smil- 
 ing, or again muttering a few words such as, "The three- 
 acre piece! My father inclosed it!" or, "That is where 
 Ferdinand killed the old mare!" or, "The best land for 
 wheat on this side of the house!" The hill climbed, he 
 stood a long time gazing over the landscape, eying first the 
 fields and meadows which stretched away from his feet 
 toward the house; the latter, as seen from this point, losing 
 all its stateliness in the mass of stacks and ricks and barns 
 and granaries which surrounded it. Then his eyes traveled 
 farther in the same line to the broad expanse of woodland — 
 Coton Chase — through which the road passed along a ridge 
 as straight as an arrow. To the right were more fields, and 
 here and there amid them a homestead with its smaller ring 
 of stacks and barns. When he turned to the left, his eyes, 
 passing over the shoulders of Barnt Hill and Mill Head 
 Copse and Beacon Hill, all bulwarks of the forest, followed 
 the streak of river as it wound away toward Stratford 
 
258 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 through luscious flood meadows, here growing wide, and 
 there narrow, as the woodland advanced or retreated. 
 
 "It is all mine," he said, as much to himself as to the 
 girl. "It is all Cludde land as far as you can see." 
 
 There were tears in her eyes, and she had to turn away to 
 conceal them. Why, she hardly knew. For he said noth- 
 ing more, and he walked down the hill dry-eyed. But all 
 the way home he still looked sharply about, noting this or 
 that, as if he were bidding farewell to the old familiar ob- 
 jects, the spinneys and copses — ay, and the very gates and 
 gaps and the hollow trees where the owls built. It was the 
 saddest and most pathetic walk the girl had ever taken. 
 Yet there was nothing said. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE LAST MASS. 
 
 THE north wall of the church at Coton End is only four 
 paces from the house, the church standing within the 
 moat. Isolated as the sacred building, therefore, is from 
 the outer world by the wide-spreading Chase, and close- 
 massed with the homestead. Sir Anthony had some excuse 
 for considering it as much a part of his demesne as the mill 
 or the smithy. In words he would have been willing to 
 admit a distinction; but in thought I fancy he lumped it 
 with the rest of his possessions. 
 
 It was with a lowering eye that on this Sunday morning he 
 watched from his room over the gateway the unusual stream 
 of people making for the church. Perchance he had in his 
 mind other Sundays — Sundays when he had walked out at 
 this hour, light of heart and kind of eye, with his staff in his 
 fist and his glove dangling, and his dog at his heels ; and, 
 free from care, had taken pleasure in each bonnet doffed 
 and each old wife's "God bless ye, Sir Anthony!" Well, 
 those days were gone. Now the rain dripped from the 
 eaves — for a thaw had come in the night — and the bells, that 
 could on occasion ring so cheerily, sounded sad and forlorn. 
 His daughter, when she came, according to custom, bring- 
 ing his great service-book, could scarcely look him in the 
 face. I know not whether even then his resolution to dare 
 all might not, at sound of a word from her, or at sight of 
 her face, have melted like yesterday's ice. But before the 
 word could be spoken, or the eyes meet, another step rang 
 on the stone staircase and brother Ferdinand entered. 
 
 "They are here!" he said in a low voice. "Six of them, 
 Anthony, and sturdy fellows, as all Clopton's men are. If 
 you do not think your people will stand by you " 
 
 The knight fired at this suggestion. "What!" he burst 
 out, turning from the window, "if Cludde men cannot meet 
 
26o THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 Clopton men the times are indeed gone mad! Make way 
 and let me come! Though the mass be never said again in 
 Coton church, it shall be said to-day!" And he swore a 
 great oath. 
 
 He strode down the stairs and under the gateway, where 
 were arranged, according to the custom of the house on wet 
 days, all the servants, with Baldwin and Martin Luther at 
 their head. The knight stalked through them with a gloomy 
 brow. His brother followed him, a faint smile flickering 
 about the corners of his mouth. Then came Ferdinand's 
 wife and Petronilla, the latter with her hood drawn close 
 about her face, Anne with her chin in the air and her eyes 
 aglow. "It is not a bit of a bustle will scare her!" Baldwin 
 muttered, as he fell in behind her, and eyed her back with 
 no great favor. 
 
 "No — so long as it does not touch her," Martin replied 
 in a cynical whisper. "She is well mated! Well mated 
 and ill fated! Ha! ha!" 
 
 "Silence, fool," growled his companion angrily. "Is 
 this a time for antics?" 
 
 "Ay, it is!" Martin retorted swiftly, though with the 
 same caution. "For when wise men turn fools, fools are 
 put to it to act up to their profession! You see, brother?" 
 And he deliberately cut a caper. His eyes were glittering, 
 and the nerves on one side of his face twitched oddly. 
 Baldwin looked at him, and muttered that Martin was going 
 to have one of his mad fits. What had grown on the fool 
 of late? 
 
 The knight reached the church porch and passed through 
 the crowd which awaited him there. Save for its unusual 
 size and some strange faces to be seen on its skirts, there 
 was no indication of trouble. He walked, tapping his stick 
 on the pavement a little more loudly than usual, to his place 
 in the front pew. The household, the villagers, the stran- 
 gers, pressed in behind him until every seat was filled. 
 Even the table monument of Sir Piers Cludde, which stood 
 lengthwise in the aisle, was seized upon, and if the two 
 similar monuments which stood to right and left below the 
 chancel steps had not been under the knight's eyes, they 
 too would have been invaded. Yet all was done decently 
 and in order, with a clattering of rustic boots indeed, but 
 no scrambling or ill words. The Clopton men were there. 
 
THE LAST MASS. 261 
 
 Baldwin had marked them well, and so had a dozen stout 
 fellows, sons of Sir Anthony's tenants. But they behaved 
 discreetly, and amid such a silence as Father Carey never 
 remembered to have faced, he began the Roman service. 
 
 The December light fell faintly through the east window 
 on the Father at his ministrations, on his small acolytes, on 
 the four Cludde brasses before the altar. It fell everywhere 
 — on gray dusty walH buttressed by gray tombs which left 
 but a narrow space in the middle of the chancel. The 
 marble crusader to the left matched the canopied bed of Sir 
 Anthony's parents on the right; the Abbess's tomb in the 
 next row faced the plainer monument of Sir Anthony's wife, 
 a vacant place by her side awaiting his own effigy. And 
 there were others. The chancel was so small — nay, the 
 church too — so small and old and gray and solid, and the 
 tombs were so massive, that they elbowed one another. 
 The very dust which rose as men stirred was the dust 
 of Cluddes. Sir Anthony's brow relaxed. He listened 
 gravely and sadly. 
 
 And then the interruption came. **I protest!" a rough 
 voice in rear of the crowd cried suddenly, ringing harshly 
 and strangely above the Father's accents and the solemn 
 hush. "I protest against this service!" 
 
 A thrill of astonishment ran through the crowd, and all 
 rose. Every man in the church turned round. Sir Anthony 
 among the first, and looked in the direction of the voice. 
 'Ehen it was seen that the Clopton men had massed them- 
 selves about the door in the southwest corner — a strong 
 position, whence retreat was easy. Father Carey, after a 
 momentary glance, went on as if he had not heard; but his 
 voice shook, and all still waited with their faces turned 
 toward the west end. 
 
 "I protest in the name of the Queen!" the same man 
 cried sharply, while his fellows raised a murmur so that the 
 priest's voice was drowned. 
 
 Sir Anthony stepped into the aisle, his face inflamed with 
 anger. The interruption taking place there, in that place, 
 seemed to him a double profanation. 
 
 "Who is that brawler?" he said, his hand trembling on 
 his staff; and all the old dames trembled too. "Let him 
 stand out." 
 
 The sheriff's spokesman was so concealed by his fel- 
 
262 THE STORY OE FRANCIS CLUDDR. 
 
 lows that he could not be seen; but he answered civilly 
 enough. 
 
 **I am no brawler," he said. "I only require the law to 
 be observed; and that you know, sir. I am here on behalf 
 of the sheriff ; and I warn all present that a continuation of 
 this service will expose them to grievous pains and penalties. 
 If you desire it, I will read the royal order to prove that I 
 do not speak without warrant." 
 
 "Begone, knave, you and your fellows!" Sir Anthony 
 cried. A loyal man in all else, and the last to deny the 
 queen's right or title, he had no reasonable answer to give, 
 and could only bluster. "Begone, do you hear?" he 
 repeated; and he rapped his staff on the pavement, and 
 then, raising it, pointed to the door. 
 
 All Coton thought the men must go; but the men, per- 
 haps, because they were Clopton, did not go. And Sir 
 Anthony had not so completely lost his head as to proceed 
 to extremities except in the last resort. Affecting to con- 
 sider the incident at an end, he stepped back into his pew 
 without waiting to see whether the man obeyed him or no, 
 and resumed his devotions. Father Carey, at a nod from 
 him, went on with the interrupted service. 
 
 But again the priest had barely read a dozen lines before 
 the same man made the congregation start by crying loudly, 
 "Stop!" 
 
 "Go on!" shouted Sir Anthony in a voice of thunder. 
 
 "At your peril!" retorted the intervener. 
 
 "Go on!" from Sir Anthony again. 
 
 Father Carey stood silent, trembling and looking from 
 one to the other. Many a priest of his faith would have 
 risen on the storm and in the spirit of Hildebrand hurled 
 his church's curse at the intruder. But the Father was not 
 of these, and he hesitated, fumbling with his surplice with 
 his feeble white hands. He feared as much for his patron 
 as for himself; and it was on the knight that his eyes finally 
 rested. But Sir Anthony's brow was black; he got no com- 
 fort there. So the Father took courage and a long breath, 
 opened his mouth and read on, amid the hush of sup- 
 pressed excitement, and of such anger and stealthy defiance 
 as surely English church had never seen before. As he 
 read, however, he gathered courage, and his voice strength. 
 The solemn words, so ancient, so familiar, fell on the still- 
 
THE LAST MASS. 263 
 
 ness of the church, and awed even the sheriff's men. To 
 the surprise of nearly every one, there was no further inter- 
 ruption; the service ended quietly. 
 
 So after all Sir Anthony had his way, and stalked out, 
 stiff and unbending. Nor was there any falling off, but 
 rather an increase in the respect with which his people rose, 
 according to custom, as he passed. Yet under that increase 
 of respect lay a something which cut the old man to the 
 heart. He saw that his dependents pitied him while they 
 honored him; that they thought him a fool for running his 
 head against a stone wall — as Martin Luther put it — even 
 while they felt that there was something grand in it too. 
 
 During the rest of the day he went about his usual em- 
 ployments, but probably with little zest. He had done what 
 he had done without any very clear idea how he was 
 going to proceed. Between his loyalty in all else and his 
 treason in this, it would not have been easy for a Solomon 
 to choose a consistent path. And Sir Anthony was no Solo- 
 mon. He chose at last to carry himself as if there were no 
 danger — as if the thing which had happened were unimpor- 
 tant. He ordered no change and took no precautions. He 
 shut his ears to the whispering which went on among the ser- 
 vants, and his eyes to the watch which by some secret order 
 of Baldwin was kept upon the Ridgeway. 
 
 It was something of a shock to him, therefore, when his 
 daughter came to him after breakfast next morning, looking 
 pale and heavy-eyed, and, breaking through the respect 
 which had hitherto kept her silent, begged him to go away. 
 
 **To go away?" he cried. He rose from his oak chair 
 and glared at her. Then his feelings found their easiest 
 vent in anger. "What do you mean, girl?" he blustered, 
 "Go away? Go where?" 
 
 But she did not quail. Indeed she had her suggestion 
 ready. 
 
 "To the Mere Farm in the Forest, sir,*' she answered 
 earnestly. "They will not look for you there; and Martin 
 says ' ' 
 
 "Martin? The fool!" 
 
 His face grew redder and redder. This was too much. 
 He loved order and discipline ; and to be advised in such 
 matters by a woman and a fool! It was intolerable! 
 
 "Go to, girl!" he cried, fuming. "I wondered where 
 
264 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 you had got your tale so pat. So you and the fool have 
 been putting your heads together! Go! Go and spin, and 
 leave these maters to men ! Do you think that my brother, 
 after traveling the world over, has not got a head on his 
 shoulders? Do you think, if there were danger, he and I 
 would not have foreseen it?" 
 
 He waved his hand and turned away expecting her to go. 
 But Petronilla did not go. She had something else to say 
 and though the task was painful she was resolved to say it. 
 
 *' Father, one word," she murmured. "About my uncle." 
 
 "Well, well! What about him?" 
 
 "I distrust him, sir," she ventured, in a low tone, her 
 color rising. "The servants do not like him. They fear 
 him, and suspect him of I know not what." 
 
 * ' The servants ! " Sir Anthony answered in an awful tone. 
 
 Indeed it was not the wisest thing she could have said; 
 but the consequences were averted by a sudden alarm and 
 shouting outside. Half a dozen voices, shrill or threaten- 
 ing, seemed to rise at once. The knight strode to the win- 
 dow, but the noise appeared to come, not from the Chase 
 upon which it looked, but from the courtyard or the rear of 
 the house. Sir Anthony caught up his stick, and, followed 
 by the girl, ran down the steps. He pushed aside half a 
 dozen women who had likewise been attracted by the noise, 
 and hastened through the narrow passage which led to the 
 wooden bridge ip the rear of the buildings. 
 
 Here, in the close on the far side of the moat, a strange 
 scene was passing. A dozen horsemen were grouped in the 
 middle of the field about a couple of prisoners, while round 
 the gate by which they had entered stood as many stout 
 men on foot, headed by Baldwin and armed with pikes and 
 staves. These seemed to be taunting the cavaliers and 
 daring them to come on. On the wooden bridge by which 
 the knight stood were half a dozen of the servants, also 
 armed. Sir Anthony recognized in the leading horseman 
 Sir Philip Clopton, and in the prisoners Father Carey and 
 one of the woodmen ; and in a moment he comprehended 
 what had happened. 
 
 The sheriff, in the most unneighborly manner, instead of 
 challenging his front door, had stolen up to the rear of the 
 house, and, without saying with your leave or by your leave, 
 had snapped up the poor priest, who happened to be wan- 
 
THE LAST MASS, 265 
 
 deling in that direction. Probably he had intended to force 
 an entrance; but he had laid aside the plan when he saw 
 his only retreat menaced by the watchful Baldwin, who 
 was not to be caught napping. The knight took all this in 
 at a glance, and his gorge rose as much at the Clopton men's 
 trick as at the danger hi which Father Carey stood. So he 
 lost his head, and made matters worse. "Who are these 
 villains," he cried in a rage, his face aflame, "who come 
 attacking men's houses in time of peace? Begone, or I will 
 have at ye!" 
 
 "Sir Anthony!" Clopton cried, interrupting him, "in 
 Heaven's name do not carry the thing farther! Give me 
 way in the Queen's name, and I will " 
 
 What he would do was never known, for at that last word, 
 away at the house, behind Sir Anthony, there was a puff of 
 smoke, and down went the sheriff headlong, horse and man, 
 while the report of an arquebuse rang dully round the build- 
 ings. The knight gazed horrified; but the damage was 
 done and could not be undone. Nay, more, the Coton 
 men took the sound for a signal. With a shout, before Sir 
 Anthony could interfere, they made a dash for the group of 
 horsemen. The latter, uncertain and hampered by the fall 
 of their leader, who was not hit, but was stunned beyond 
 giving orders, did the best they could. They let their pris- 
 oners go with a curse, and then, raising Sir Philip and form- 
 ing a rough line, they charged toward the gate by which they 
 had entered. 
 
 The footmen stood the brunt gallantly, and for a moment 
 the sharp ringing of quarter-staves and the shivering of 
 steel told of as pretty a combat as ever took place on level 
 sward in full view of an English home. The spectators 
 could see Baldwin doing wonders. His men backed him up 
 bravely. But in the end the impetus of the horses told, the 
 footmen gave way and fled aside, and the strangers passed 
 them. A little more skirmishing took place at the gateway, 
 Sir Anthony's men being deaf to all his attempts to call them 
 off; and then the Clopton horse got clear, and, shaking 
 their fists and vowing vengeance, rode off toward the forest. 
 They left two of their men on the field, however, one with 
 a broken arm and one with a shattered knee-cap ; while the 
 house party, on their side, beside sundry knocks and bruises, 
 
266 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 could show one deep sword-cut, a broken wrist, and half a 
 dozen nasty wounds. 
 
 "My poor little girl!" Sir Anthony whispered to himself, 
 as he gazed with scared eyes at the prostrate men and the 
 dead horse, and comprehended what had happened. "This 
 is a hanging business! In arms against the Queen! What 
 am I to do?" And as he went back to the house in a kind 
 of stupor, he muttered again, "My little girl! my poor 
 little girl!" 
 
 I fancy that in this terrible crisis he looked to get support 
 and comfort from his brother — that old campaigner, who 
 had seen so many vicissitudes and knew by heart so many 
 shifts. But Ferdinand, though he thought the event un- 
 lucky, had little to say and less to suggest; and seemed, 
 indeed, to have become on a sudden flaccid and lukewarm. 
 Sir Anthony felt himself thrown on his own resources. 
 "Who fired the shot?" he asked, looking about the room in 
 a dazed fashion. "It was that which did the mischief," he 
 continued, forgetting his own hasty challenge. 
 
 "I think it must have been Martin Luther," Ferdinand 
 answered. 
 
 But Martin Luther, when he was accused, denied this 
 stoutly. He had been so far along the Ridgeway, he said, 
 that though he had returned at once on hearing the shot 
 fired, he had arrived too late for the fight. The fool's 
 stomach for a fight was so well known that this seemed 
 probable enough, and though some still suspected him, the 
 origin of the unfortunate signal was never clearly deter- 
 mmed, though in after days shrewd guesses were made by 
 some. 
 
 For a few hours it seemed as if Sir Anthony had sunk 
 into his former state of indecision. But when Petronilla 
 came again to him soon after noon to beg him to go into 
 hiding, she found his mood had altered. "Go to the Mere 
 Farm?" he said, not angrily now, but firmly and quietly. 
 "No, girl, I cannot. I have been in fault, and I must stay 
 and pay for it. If I left these poor fellows to bear the 
 brunt, I could never hold up my head again. But do you 
 go now and tell Baldwin to come to me." 
 
 She went and told the stern, down-looking steward, and 
 he came up. 
 
 "Baldwin," said the knight when the door was shut, and 
 the two were alone, "you are to dismiss to their homes all 
 
THE LAST MASS. 267 
 
 the tenants — who have indeed been called out without my 
 orders. Bid them go and keep the peace, and I hope they 
 will not be molested. For you and Father Carey, you must 
 go into hiding. The Mere Farm will be best." 
 
 "And what of you. Sir Anthony?" the steward asked, 
 amazed at this act of folly. 
 
 "I shall remain here," the knight replied with dignity. 
 
 "You will be taken," said Baldwin, after a pause. 
 
 "Very well," said the knight. 
 
 The man shrugged his shoulders, and was silent. 
 
 "What do you mean?" asked Sir Anthony in anger. 
 
 "Why, just that I cannot do it," Baldwin answered, 
 glowering at him with a flush on his dark cheek. "That is 
 what I mean. Let the priest go. I cannot go, and will 
 not." 
 
 "Then you will be hanged!" quoth the knight warmly. 
 "You have been in arms against the Queen, you fool! You 
 will be hanged as sure as you stay here!" 
 
 "Then I shall be hanged," replied the steward sullenly. 
 "There never was a Cludde hanged yet without one to keep 
 him company. To hear of it would make my grandsire turn 
 in his grave out there. I dare not do it. Sir Anthony, and 
 that is the fact. But for the rest I will do as you bid me." 
 
 And he had his way. But never had evening fallen more 
 strangely and sadly at Coton before. The rain pattered 
 drearily in the courtyard. The drawbridge, by Baldwin's 
 order, had been pulled up, and the planks over the moat in 
 the rear removed. 
 
 "They shall not steal upon us again!" he muttered. 
 "And if we must surrender, they shall see we do it will- 
 ingly." 
 
 The tenants had gone to their homes and their wives. 
 Only the servants remained. They clustered, solemn and 
 sorrowful, about the hearth in the great hall, starting if a 
 dog howled without or a coal flew from the fire within. Sir 
 Anthony remained brooding in his own room, Petronilla 
 sitting beside him silent and fearful, while Ferdinand and 
 his wife moved restlessly about, listening to the wind. But 
 the evening and the night wore peacefully away, and so, to 
 the surprise of everybody, did the next day and the next. 
 Could the sheriff be going to overlook the matter? Alas! 
 on the third day the doubt was resolved. Two or three 
 boys, who had been sent out as scouts, came in with news 
 
2 68 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 that there was a strong watch set on the Ridgeway, that the 
 paths through the forest were guarded, that bodies of armed 
 men were arriving in the neighboring villages, and that 
 soldiers had been demanded — or so it was said — from War- 
 wick and Worcester, and even from a place as far away as 
 Oxford. Probably it was only the sheriff's prudence which 
 had postponed the crisis; and now it had come. The net 
 was drawn all round. As the day closed in on Coton and 
 the sun set angrily among the forest trees, the boys' tale, 
 which grew no doubt in the telling, passed from one to 
 another, and men swore and looked out of window, and 
 women wept in corners. In the Tower-room Sir Anthony 
 sat awaiting the summons, and wondered what he could to 
 save his daughter from possible rudeness, or even hurt, at 
 the hands of these strangers. 
 
 There was one man missing from hall and kitchen, but 
 few in the suspense noticed his absence. The fool had 
 heard the boys' story, and, unable to remain inactive under 
 such excitement, he presently stole off in the dusk to the 
 rear of the house. Here he managed to cross the moat by 
 means of a plank, which he then drew over and hid in the 
 grass. This quietly managed — Baldwin, be it said, had 
 strictly forbidden any one to leave the house — Martin made 
 off with a grim chuckle toward the forest, and following the 
 main track leading toward Wootton Wawen, presently came 
 among the trees upon a couple of sentinels. They heard 
 him, saw him indistinctly, and made a rush for him. But 
 this was just the sport Martin liked, and the fun he had come 
 for. His quick ear apprised him of the danger, and in a 
 second he was lost in the underwood, his mocking laugh and 
 shrill taunts keeping the poor men on the shudder for the 
 next ten minutes. Then the uncanny accents died away, 
 and, satisfied with his sport and the knowledge he had 
 gained, the fool made for home. As he sped quickly across 
 the last field, however, he was astonished by the sight of a 
 dark figure in the very act of launching his — Martin's — 
 plank across the moat. 
 
 "Ho, ho!" the fool muttered in a fierce undertone. 
 "That is it, is it? And only one! If they will come one 
 by one, like the plums in the kitchen porridge, I shall make 
 a fine meal!" 
 
 He stood back, crouching down on the grass, and 
 
THE LAST MASS. 269 
 
 watched the unknown, his eyes glittering. The stranger 
 was a tall, big fellow, a formidable antagonist. But Martin 
 cared nothing for that. Had he not his long knife, as keen 
 as his wits — when they were at home, which was not always. 
 He drew it out now, and under cover of the darkness crept 
 nearer and nearer, his blood glowing pleasantly, though the 
 night was cold. How lucky it was he had come out! He 
 could hardly restrain the "Ho, ho!" which rose to his lips. 
 He meant to leap upon the man on this side of the water, 
 that there might be no tell-tale traces on the farther bank. 
 
 But the stranger was too quick for him in this. He got 
 his bridge fixed, and began to cross before Martin could 
 crawl near enough. As he crossed, however, his feet made 
 a slight noise on the plank, and under cover of it the fool 
 rose and ran forward, then followed him over with the 
 stealthiness of a cat. And like a cat too, the moment the 
 stranger's foot touched the bank, Martin sprang on him 
 with his knife raised — sprang on him silently, with his teeth 
 grinning and his eyes aflame. ^ 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 AWAITING THE BLOW. 
 
 A MOMENT later the servants in the hall heard a scream 
 — a scream of such horror and fear that they scarcely 
 recognized a human voice in the sound. They sprang to 
 their feet scared and trembling, and for a few seconds 
 looked into one another's faces. Then, as curiosity got the 
 upper hand, the boldest took the lead and all hurried pell- 
 mell to the door, issuing in a mob into the courtyard, where 
 Ferdinand Cludde, who happened to be near and had also 
 heard the cry, joined them. "Where was it, Baldwin?" 
 he exclaimed. 
 
 "At the back, I think," the steward answered. He alone 
 had had the coolness to bring out a lantern, and he now led 
 the v^^ay toward the rear of the house. Sure enough, close 
 to the edge of the moat, they found Martin, stooping with 
 his hands on his knees, a great wound, half bruise, half cut, 
 upon his forehead. "What is it?" Ferdinand cried sharply. 
 "Who did it, man?" 
 
 Baldwin had already thrown his light on the fool's face, 
 and Martin, seeming to become conscious of their presence, 
 looked at them, but in a dazed fashion. "What?" he mut- 
 tered, "what is what?" 
 
 By this time nearly every one in the house had hurried to 
 the spot ; among them not only Petronilla, clinging to her 
 father's arm, but Mistress Anne, her face pale and gloomy, 
 and half a dozen womenfolk who clutched one another 
 tightly, and screamed at regular intervals. 
 
 "What is it?" Baldwin repeated roughly, laying his hand 
 on Martin's arm and slightly shaking him. "Come, who 
 struck you, man?" 
 
 "I think," the fool answered slowly, gulping down some- 
 thing and turning a dull eye on the group; "a — a swallow 
 flew by — and hit me!" 
 
 They shrank away from him instinctively and some crossed 
 themselves. "He is in one of his mad fits," Baldwin mut- 
 tered. Still the steward showed no fear. "A swallow, 
 man!" he cried aloud. "Come, talk sense. There are no 
 swallows flying at this time of year. And if there were, 
 
AWAITING THE BLOW. 271 
 
 they do not fly by night, nor give men wounds like that. 
 What was it? Out with it, now. Do you not see, man," he 
 added, giving Martin an impatient shake, "that Sir An- 
 thony is waiting?" 
 
 The fool nodded stupidly. "A swallow," he muttered. 
 "Ay, 'twas a swallow, a great big swallow. I — I nearly 
 put my foot on him." 
 
 "And he flew up and hit you in the face?" Baldwin said, 
 with huge contempt in his tone. 
 
 Martin accepted the suggestion placidly. "Ay, 'twas so. 
 A great big swallow, and he flew in my face," he repeated. 
 
 Sir Anthony looked at him compassionately. "Poor fel- 
 low!" he said; "Baldwin, see to him. He has had one of 
 his fits and hurt himself." 
 
 "I never knew him hurt himself^'" Baldwin muttered 
 darkly. 
 
 "Let somebody see to him," the knight said, disregarding 
 the interruption. **And now come, Petronilla. Why — 
 where has the girl gone?" 
 
 Not far. Only round to the other side of him, that she 
 might be a little nearer to Martin. The curiosity in the 
 other women's faces was a small thing in comparison with 
 the startled, earnest look in hers. She gazed at the man 
 with eyes not of affright, but of eager, avid questioning, 
 while through her parted lips her breath came in gasps. 
 Her cheek was red and white by turns, and, for her heart — 
 well, it had seemed to stand still a moment, and now was 
 beating like the heart of some poor captured bird held in the 
 hand. She did not seem to hear her father speak to her, 
 and he had to touch her sleeve. Then she started as though 
 she were awakening from a dream, and followed him sadly 
 into the house. 
 
 Sadly, and yet there was a light in her eyes which had not 
 been there five minutes before. A swallow? A great big 
 swallow? And this was December, when the swallows were 
 at the bottom of the horse-ponds. She only knew of one 
 swallow whose return was possible in winter. But then that 
 one swallow — ay, though the snow should lie inches deep 
 in the chase, and the water should freeze in her room — 
 would make a summer for her. Could it be that one? 
 Could it be? Petronilla' s heart was beating so loudly as she 
 
2^2 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 went upstairs after her father, that she wondered he did not 
 hear it. 
 
 The group left round Martin gradually melted away. 
 Baldwin was the only man who could deal with him in his 
 mad fits, and the other servants, with a shudder and a back- 
 ward glance, gladly left him to the steward. Mistress Anne 
 had gone in some time. Only Ferdinand Cludde remained, 
 and he stood a little apart, and seemed more deeply engaged 
 in listening for any sound which might betoken the sheriff's 
 approach than in hearkening to their conversation. Listen 
 as he might he would have gained little from the latter, for 
 it was made up entirely of scolding on one side and stupid 
 reiteration on the other. Yet Ferdinand, ever suspicious 
 and on his guard, must have felt some interest in it, for he 
 presently called the steward to him. "Is he more fool or 
 knave?" he muttered, pointing under hand at Martin, who 
 stood in the gloom a few paces away. 
 
 Baldwin shrugged his shoulders, but remained silent. 
 "What happened? What is the meaning of it all?" Ferdi- 
 nand persisted, his keen eyes on the steward's face. "Did 
 he do it himself? Or who did it?" 
 
 Baldwin turned slowly and nodded toward the moat. "I 
 expect you will find him who did it there," he said grimly. 
 "I never knew a man save Sir Anthony or Master Francis 
 hit Martin yet, but he paid for it. And when his temper is 
 up, he is mad, or as good as mad ; and better than two 
 sane men!" 
 
 "He is a dangerous fellow," Ferdinand said thoughtfully, 
 shivering a little. It was unlike him to shiver and shake. 
 But the bravest have their moods. 
 
 "Dangerous?" the steward answered. **Ay, he is to 
 some, and sometimes." 
 
 Ferdmand Cludde looked sharply at the speaker, as if he 
 suspected him of a covert sneer. But Baldwin's gloomy 
 face betrayed no glint of intelligence or amusement, and the 
 knight's brother, reassured and yet uneasy, turned on his 
 heel and went into the house, meeting at the door a servant 
 who came to tell him that Sir Anthony was calling for him. 
 Baldwin Moor, left alone, stood a moment thinking, and 
 then turned to speak to Martin. But Martin was gone, and 
 was nowhere to be seen. 
 
AWAITING THE BLOW. ^1^ 
 
 The lights in the hall windows twinkled cheerily, and the 
 great fire cast its glow half way across the courtyard, as 
 lights and fire had twinkled and glowed at Coton End on 
 many a night before. But neither in" hall nor chamber was 
 there any answering merriment. Baldwin, coming in, 
 cursed the servants who were in his way, and the men 
 moved meekly and without retort, taking his oaths for what 
 they were — a man's tears. The women folk sat listening 
 pale and frightened, and one or two of the grooms, those 
 who had done least in the skirmish, had visions of a tree 
 and a rope, and looked sickly. The rest scowled and 
 blinked at the fire, or kicked up a dog if it barked in its 
 sleep. 
 
 "Hasn't Martin come in?" Baldwin growled presently, 
 setting his heavy wet boot on a glowing log, which hissed 
 and sputtered under it. "Where is he?" 
 
 "Don't know!" one of the men took on himself to 
 answer. "He did not come in here." 
 
 "I wonder what he is up to now?" Baldwin exclaimed, 
 with gloomy irritation ; for which, under the circumstances, 
 he had ample excuse. He knew that resistance was utterly 
 hopeless, and could only make matters worse, and twist the 
 rope more tightly about his neck, to put the thought as he 
 framed it. The suspicion, therefore, that this madman — 
 for such in his worst fits the fool became — might be 
 hanging round the place in dark corners, doing what 
 deadly mischief he could to the attacking party, was not a 
 pleasant one. 
 
 A gray-haired man in the warmest nook by the fire seemed 
 to read his thoughts. "There is one in the house," he 
 said slowly and oracularly, his eyes on Baldwin's boot, 
 "whom he has just as good a mind to hurt, has our Martin, 
 as any of them Clopton men. Ay, that has he, Master 
 Baldwin." 
 
 "And who is that, gaffer?" Baldwin asked contemptu- 
 ously. 
 
 But the old fellow turned shy. . "Well, it is not Sir An- 
 thony," he answered, nodding his head, and stooping for- 
 ward to caress his toasting shins. "Be you very sure of that. 
 Nor the young mistress, nor the, young master as was, nor 
 the new lady that came a month ago. No, nor it is not 
 you, Master Baldwin." 
 
274 THE ^TORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 "Then who is it?" cried the steward impatiently. 
 
 "He is shrewd, is Martin — 'when the saints have not got 
 their backs to him," said the old fellow slyly. 
 
 "Who is it?" thundered the steward, well used to this 
 rustic method of evasion. "Answer, you dolt!" 
 
 But no answer came, and Baldwin never got one ; for at 
 this moment a man who had been watching in front of the 
 house ran in. 
 
 "They are here!" he cried, "a good hundred of them, 
 and torches enough for St. Anthony's Eve. Get you to the 
 gate, porter. Sir Anthony is calling for you. Do you hear?" 
 
 There was a great uprising, a great clattering of feet and 
 barking of dogs, and some wailing among the women. As 
 the messenger finished speaking, a harsh challenge which 
 penetrated even the courtyard arose from many voices with- 
 out, and was followed by the winding of a horn. This 
 sufficed. All hurried with one accord into the court, where 
 the porter looked to Baldwin for instructions. 
 
 "Hold a minute!" cried the steward, silencing the loud- 
 est hound by a sound kick, and disregarding Sir Anthony's 
 voice, which came from the direction of the gateway. "Let 
 us see if they are at the back too." 
 
 He ran through the passage and, emerging on the edge of 
 the moat, was at once saluted by a dozen voices warning him 
 back. There were a score of dark figures standing in the 
 little close where the fight had taken place. "Right," said 
 Baldwin to himself. "Needs must when the old gentleman 
 drives! Only I thought I would make sure." 
 
 He ran back at once, nearly knocking down Martin, who 
 with a companion was making, but at a slower pace, for the 
 front of the house. 
 
 "Well, old comrade!" cried the steward, smiting the fool 
 on the back as he passed, "you are here, are you? I never 
 thought that you and I would be in at our own deaths!" 
 
 He did not notice, in the wild humor which had seized 
 him, who Martin's companion was, though probably at an- 
 other time it would have struck him that there was no one 
 in the house quite so tall. He sped on with scarcely a 
 glance, and in a moment was under the gateway, where Sir 
 Anthony was soundly rating everybody, and particularly the 
 porter, who with his key in the door found or affected to 
 find the task of turning it a difficult one. As the »*^war(i 
 
AWAITING THE BLOW. 275 
 
 came up, however, the big doors at some sign from him 
 creaked on their hinges, and the knight, his staff in his hand, 
 and the servants clustering behind him with lanterns, walked 
 forward a pace or two to the end of the bridge, bearing him- 
 self with some dignity. 
 
 "Who disturbs us at this hour?" he cried, peering across 
 the moat, and signing to Baldwin to hold up his large lan- 
 tern, since the others, uncertain of their reception, had put 
 out their torches. By its light he and those behind him 
 could make out a group of half a dozen figures a score of 
 yards away, while in support of these there appeared a bow- 
 shot off, and still in the open ground, a clump of, it might 
 be, a hundred men. Beyond all lay the dark line of trees, 
 above which the moon, new-risen, was sailing through a 
 watery wrack of clouds. "Who are ye?" the knight re- 
 peated. 
 
 "Are you Sir Anthony Cludde?" came the answer. 
 
 "lam." 
 
 "Then in the Queen's name. Sir Anthony," the leader 
 of the troop cried solemnly, "I call on you to surrender. 
 I hold a warrant for your arrest, and also for the arrest of 
 James Carey, a priest, and Baldwin Moor, who, I am told, 
 is your steward. I am backed by forces which it will be 
 vain to resist." 
 
 "Are you Sir Philip Clopton?" the knight asked. For 
 at that distance and in that light it was impossible to be sure. 
 
 "I am," the sheriff answered earnestly. "And, as a 
 friend, I beg you. Sir Anthony, to avoid useless bloodshed 
 and further cause for offense. Sir Thomas Greville, the 
 governor of Warwick Castle, and Colonel Bridgewater are 
 with me. I implore you, my friend, to surrender, and I 
 will do you what good offices I may." 
 
 The knight, as we know, had made up his mind. And 
 yet for a second he hesitated. There were stern, grim faces 
 round him, changed by the stress of the moment into the 
 semblance of dark Baldwin's ; the faces of men, who though 
 they numbered but a dozen were his men, bound to him by 
 every tie of instinct, and breeding, and custom. And he 
 had been a soldier, and knew the fierce joy of a desperate 
 struggle against odds. Might it not be better after all? 
 
 But then he remembered his womenkind; and after all, 
 why endanger these faithful men? He raised his voice and 
 
276 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 cried clearly, "I accept your good offices, Sir Philip, and 
 I take your advice. I will have the drawbridge lowered, 
 only I beg you will keep your men well in hand, and do my 
 poor house as little damage as may be." 
 
 Giving Baldwin the order, and bidding him as soon as it 
 was performed come to him, the knight walked steadily back 
 into the courtyard and took his stand there. He dis- 
 patched the women and some of the servants to lay out a 
 meal in the hall. But it was noticeable that the men went 
 reluctantly, and that all who could find any excuse to do so 
 lingered round Sir Anthony as if they could not bear to 
 abandon him ; as if, even at the last moment, they had some 
 vague notion of protecting their master at all hazards. A 
 score of lanterns shed a gloomy, uncertain light — only in 
 places reinforced by the glow, from the hall windows — upon 
 the group. Seldom had a Coton moon peeped over the 
 gables at a scene stranger than that which met the sheriff's 
 eyes, as with his two backers he passed under the gateway. 
 
 "I surrender to you. Sir Philip," the knight said with 
 dignity, stepping forward a pace or two, "and. call you to 
 witness that I might have made resistance and have not. 
 My tenants are quiet in their homes, and only my servants 
 are present. Father Carey is not here, nor in the house. 
 This is Baldwin Moor, my steward, but I beg for him your 
 especial offices, since he has done nothing save by my com- 
 mand." 
 
 "Sir Anthony, believe me that I will do all I can," the 
 sheriff responded gravely, "but " 
 
 "But to set at naught the Queen's proclamtion and 
 order!" struck in a third voice harshly — it was Sir Thomas 
 Greville's — "and she but a month on the throne! For 
 shame, Sir Anthony! It smacks to me of high treason. 
 And many a man has suffered for less, let me tell you." 
 
 "Had she been longer on the throne," the sheriff put in 
 more gently, "and were the times quiet, the matter would 
 have been of less moment. Sir Anthony, and might not have 
 become a state matter. But just now " 
 
 "Things are in a perilous condition," Greville said 
 bluntly, and you have done your little to make them 
 worse!" 
 
 The knight by a great effort swallowed his rage and 
 
AWAITING THE BLOW. I'l'] 
 
 humiliation. "What will you do with me, gentlemen?" he 
 asked, speaking with at least the appearance of calmness. 
 
 "That is to be seen," Greville said, roughly over-riding 
 his companion. "For to-night we must make ourselves and 
 our men comfortable here." 
 
 "Certainly — with Sir Anthony's leave. Sir Thomas Grev- 
 ille," quoth a voice from behind. "But only so!" 
 
 More than one started violently, while the Cludde ser- 
 vants almost to a man spun round at the sound of the voice 
 — my voice, Francis Cludde's, though in the darknesss no 
 one knew me. How shall I ever forget the joy and lively 
 gratitude which filled my heart as I spoke; which turned 
 the night into day, and that fantastic scene of shadows into 
 a festival, as I felt that the ambition of the last four years 
 was about to be gratified. Sir Anthony, who was one of the 
 first to turn, peered among the servants. "Who spoke?" 
 he cried, a sudden discomposure in his voice and manner. 
 "Who spoke there?" 
 
 "Ay, Sir Anthony, who did?" Greville said haughtily. 
 "Some one apparently who does not quite understand 
 his place or the state of affairs here. Stand back, my men, 
 and let me see him. Perhaps we may teach him a useful 
 lesson." 
 
 The challenge was welcome, for I feared a scene, and to 
 be left face to face with my uncle more than anything. 
 Now, as the servants with a loud murmur of surprise and 
 recognition fell back and disclosed me standing by Martin's 
 side, I turned a little from Sir Anthony and faced Greville. 
 "Not this time, I think. Sir Thomas," I said, giving him 
 back glance for glance. "I have learned my lesson from 
 some who have fared farther and seen more than you, from 
 men who have stood by their cause in foul weather as well 
 as fair; and were not for mass one day and a sermon the 
 next." 
 
 "What is this?" he cried angrily. "Who are you?" 
 
 "Sir Anthony Cludde's dutiful and loving- nephew," I 
 answered, with a courteous bow. "Come back, I thank 
 Heaven, in time to do him a service. Sir Thomas." 
 
 "Master Francis! Master Francis!" Clopton exclaimed 
 in remonstrance. He had known me in old days. My 
 uncle, meanwhile, gazed at me in the utmost astonishment, 
 
278 THE STORY OF PR A NCI S CLUDDE. 
 
 and into the servants' faces there flashed a strange light, 
 while many of them hailed me in a tone which told me that 
 I had but to give the word, and they would fall on the very 
 sheriff himself. "Master Francis," Sir Philip Clopton 
 repeated gravely, "if you would do your uncle a service, 
 this is not the way to go about it. He has surrendered and 
 is our prisoner. Brawling will not mend matters." 
 
 I laughed out loudly and merrily. "Do you know, Sir 
 Philip," I said, with something of the old boyish ring in my 
 voice, "I have been, since I saw you last, to Belgium and 
 Germany, ay, and Poland and Hamburg! Do you think I 
 have come back a fool?" 
 
 "I do not know what to think of you," he replied dryly, 
 "but you had best " 
 
 "Keep a civil tongue in your head, my friend!" said 
 Grevillewith harshness, "and yourself out of this business." 
 
 "It is just this business I have come to get into, Sir 
 Thomas," I answered, with increasing good humor. "Sir 
 Anthony, show them that!" I continued, and I drew out a 
 little packet of parchment with a great red seal hanging 
 from it by a green ribbon; just such a packet as that which 
 I had stolen from the Bishop's apparitor nearly four years 
 back. "A lantern here!" I cried. "Hold it steady, Mar- 
 tin, that Sir Anthony may read. Master Sheriff wants his 
 rere-supper." 
 
 I gave the packet into the knight's hand, my own shak- 
 ing. Ay, shaking, for was not this the fulfillment of that 
 boyish vow I had made in my little room in the gable yon- 
 der, so many years ago? A fulfillment strange and timely, 
 such as none but a boy in his teens could have hoped for, nor 
 any but a man who had tried the chances and mishaps of the 
 world could fully enjoy as I was enjoying it. I tingled with 
 the rush through my veins of triumph and gratitude. Up 
 to the last moment I had feared lest anything should go 
 wrong, lest this crowning happiness should be withheld from 
 me. Now I stood there smiling, watching Sir Anthony, as 
 with trembling fingers he fumbled with the paper. And 
 there was only one thing, only one person, wanting to my 
 joy. I looked, and looked again, but I could not anywhere 
 see Petronilla. 
 
 "What is it?" Sir Anthony said feebly, turning the packet 
 over and over. "It is for the sheriff; for the sheriff, is it 
 not?" 
 
AWAirmC THE BLOW. 279 
 
 **He had better open it then, sir," I answered gayly. 
 
 Sir Philip took the packet and after a glance at the address 
 tore it open. "It is an order from Sir William Cecil," he 
 muttered. Then he ran his eye down the brief contents, 
 while all save myself pricked their ears and pressed closer, 
 and I looked swiftly from face to face, as the wavering light 
 lit up now one and now another. Old familiar faces for 
 the most part. 
 
 ' Well, Sir Philip, will you stop to supper?" I cried with 
 a laugh, when he had had time, as I judged, to reach the 
 signature. 
 
 "Go to!" he grunted, looking at me. "Nice fools you 
 have made of us, young man!" He passed the letter to 
 Greville. "Sir Anthony," he continued, a mixture of pleas- 
 ure and chagrin in his voice, "you are free! I congratu- 
 late you on your luck. Your nephew has brought an am- 
 nesty for all things done up to the present time save for any 
 life taken, in which case the matter is to be referred to the 
 Secretary. Fortunately my dead horse is the worst of the 
 mischief, so free you are, and amnestied, though nicely 
 Master Cecil has befooled us!" 
 
 "We will give you another horse, Sir Philip," I answered. 
 
 But the words were wasted on the air. They were 
 drowned in a great shout of joy and triumph which rang 
 from a score of Cludde throats the moment the purport of 
 the paper was understood; a shout which made the old 
 house shake again, and scared the dogs so that they fled 
 away into corners and gazed askance at us, their tails be- 
 tween their legs; a shout that was plainly heard a mile away 
 in half a dozen homesteads where Cludde men lay gloomy 
 in their beds. 
 
 By this time my uncle's hand was in mine. With his 
 other he took off his hat. "Lads!" he cried huskily, rear- 
 ing his tall form in our midst; "a cheer for the Queen! 
 God keep her safe, and long may she reign!" 
 
 This was universally regarded as the end of what they still 
 proudly call in those parts "the Coton Insurrection!" 
 When silence came again, every dog, even the oldest and 
 wisest, had bayed himself hoarse and fled to kennel, think- 
 ing the end of the world was come. My heart, as I joined 
 roundly in, swelled high with pride, and there were tears in 
 my eyes as well as in my uncle's. But there is no triumph 
 after all without its drawback, no fruition equal to the 
 
28o THE STORY OF PRAlSTCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 anticipation. Where was Petronilla? I could see her 
 nowhere. I looked from window to window, but she was 
 at none. I scanned the knot of maids, but could not find 
 her. Even the cheering had not brought her out. 
 
 It was wonderful, though, how the cheers cleared the air. 
 Even Sir Thomas Greville regained good humor, and 
 deigned to shake me by the hand and express himself 
 pleased that the matter had ended so happily. Then the 
 sheriff drew him and Bridgewater away, to look to their 
 men's arrangements, seeing, I think, that my uncle and I 
 would fain be alone awhile; and at last I asked with a trem- 
 bling voice after Petronilla. 
 
 "To be sure," Sir Anthony answered, furtively wiping 
 his eyes. "I had forgotten her, dear lad. I wish now that 
 she had stayed. But tell me, Francis, how came you back 
 to-night, and how did you manage this?" 
 
 Something of what he asked I told him hurriedly. But 
 then — be sure I took advantage of the first opening — 1 
 asked again after Petronilla. "Where has she gone, sir?" 
 I said, trying to conceal my impatience. "I thought that 
 Martin told me she was here ; indeed, that he had seen her 
 after I arrived." 
 
 "I am not sure, do you know," Sir Anthony answered, 
 eying me absently, "that I was wise, but I considered she 
 was safer away, Francis. And she can be fetched back in 
 the morning. I feared there might be some disturbance in 
 the house — as indeed there well might have been — and 
 though she begged very hard to stay with me, I sent her 
 off." 
 
 "This evening, sir?" I stammered, suddenly chilled. . 
 
 "Yes, an hour ago." 
 
 "But an hour ago every approach was guarded. Sir An- 
 thony," I cried in surprise. "I had the greatest difficulty 
 in slipping through from the outside myself, well as I know 
 every field and tree. To escape from within, even for a 
 man, much less a woman, would have been impossible. She 
 will have been stopped." 
 
 "I think not," he said, with a smile at once sage and 
 indulgent — which seemed to add, "You think yourself a 
 clever lad, but you do not know everything yet." 
 
 "I sent her out by the secret passage to the mill-house, 
 
AWAITING THE BLOW, 281 
 
 you see," he explained, "as soon as I heard the sheriff's 
 party outside. I could have given them the slip myself, had 
 I pleased." 
 
 "The mill house?" I answered. The mill stood nearly 
 a quarter of a mile from Coton End, beyond the gardens, 
 and in the direction of the village. I remembered vaguely 
 that I had heard from the servants in old days some talk of 
 a secret outlet leading from the house to it. But they knew 
 no particulars, and its existence was only darkly rumored 
 among them. 
 
 "You did not know of the passage," Sir Anthony said, 
 chuckling at my astonishment. "No, I remember. But 
 the girl did. Your father and his wife went with her. He 
 quite agreed in the wisdom of sending her away, and indeed 
 advised it. On reaching the mill, if they found all quiet 
 they were to walk across to Watney's farm. There they 
 could get horses and might ride at their leisure to Stratford 
 and wait the event. I thought it best for her; and Ferdi- 
 nand agreed." 
 
 "And my father — went with her?" I muttered hoarsely, 
 feeling myself growing chill to the heart. Hardly could I 
 restrain my indignation at Sir Anthony's folly, or my own 
 anger and disappointment — and fear. For though my head 
 seemed on fire and there was a tumult in my brain, I was 
 cool enough to trace clearly my father's motives, and dis- 
 cern with what a deliberate purpose he had acted. "He 
 went with her?" 
 
 "Yes, he and his wife," the knight answered, noticing 
 nothing in his obtuseness. 
 
 "You have been fooled, sir," I said bitterly. "My 
 father you should have known, and for his wife, she is a bad, 
 unscrupulous woman! Oh, the madness of it, to put my 
 cousin into their hands!" 
 
 "What. do you mean?" the knight cried, beginning to 
 tremble. "Your father is a changed man, lad. He has 
 come back to the old faith and in a dark hour too. He ' ' 
 
 "He is a hypocrite and a villain!" I retorted, stung 
 almost to madness by this wound in my tenderest place; 
 stung indeed beyond endurance. Why should I spare him, 
 when to spare him was to sacrifice the innocent? Why 
 should I pick my words, when my love was in danger? He 
 had had no mercy and no pity. Why should I shrink from 
 
282 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 exposing him? Heaven had dealt with him patiently and 
 given him life; and he did but abuse it. I could keep 
 silence no longer, and told Sir Anthony all with a stinging 
 tongue and in gibing words ; even, at last, how my father 
 had given me a hint of the very plan he had now carried 
 out, of coming down to Coton, and goading his brother into 
 some offense which might leave his estate at the mercy of 
 the authorities. 
 
 "I did not think he meant it," I said bitterly. "But I 
 might have known that the leopard does not change its 
 spots. How you, who knew him years ago, and knew that 
 he had plotted against you since, came to trust him again — 
 to trust your daughter to him — passes my fancy!" 
 
 "He was my brother," the knight murmured, leaning 
 white and stricken on my shoulder. 
 
 "And my father — heaven help us!" I rejoined. 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 IN HARBOR AT LAST. 
 
 WE must first help ourselves," Sir Anthony answered 
 sharply ; rousing himself with wonderful energy 
 from the prostration into which my story had thrown him. 
 "I will send after her. She shall be brought back. Ho! 
 Baldwin! Martin!" he cried loudly. "Send Baldwin 
 hither! Be quick there! " 
 
 Out of the ruck of servants in and about the hall, Bald- 
 win came rushing presently, wiping his lips as he ap- 
 proached. A single glance at our faces sobered him. 
 "Send Martin down to the mill!" Sir Anthony ordered 
 curtly. "Bid him tell my daughter if she be there to come 
 back. And do you saddle a couple of horses, and be 
 ready to ride with Master Francis to Watney's farm, and 
 on to Stratford, if it be necessary. Lose not a minute ; my 
 daughter is with Master Ferdinand. My order is that she 
 return." 
 
 The fool had come up only a pace or two behind the 
 steward. "Do you hear, Martin?" I added eagerly, turn- 
 ing to him. My thoughts, busy with the misery which 
 might befall her in their hands, maddened me. "You will 
 bring her back if you find her, mind you." 
 
 He did not answer, but his eyes glittered as they met 
 mine, and I knew that he understood. As he flitted silently 
 across the court and disappeared under the gateway, I knew 
 that no hound could be more sure, I knew that he would 
 not leave the trail until he had found Petronilla, though he 
 had to follow her for many a mile. We might have to pur- 
 sue the fugitives to Stratford, but I felt sure that Martin's 
 lean figure and keen dark face would be there to meet us. 
 
 Us? No. Sir Anthony indeed said to me, "You will go 
 of course?" speaking as if only one answer were possible. 
 
 But it was not to be so, "No," I said, "you hj\d better 
 
284 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 
 
 go, sir. Or Baldwin can be trusted. He can take two or 
 three of the grooms. They should be armed," I added, in 
 a lower tone. 
 
 My uncle looked hard at me, and then gave his assent, no 
 longer wondering why I did not go. Instead he bade Bald- 
 win do as I had suggested. In truth my heart was so hot 
 with wrath and indignation that I dared not follow, lest my 
 father, in his stern, mocking way, should refsue to let her go, 
 and harm should happen between us. If I were right in my 
 suspicions, and he had capped his intrigue by deliberately 
 getting the girl I loved into his hands as a hostage, either as 
 a surety that I would share with him if I succeeded to the 
 estates, or as a means of extorting money from his brother, 
 then I dared not trust myself face to face with him. If I 
 could have mounted and ridden after my love, I could have 
 borne it better. But the curse seemed to cling to me still. 
 My worst foe was one against whom I could not lift my 
 hand. 
 
 "But what," my uncle asked, his voice quavering, though 
 his words seemed intended to combat my fears, "what can 
 he do, lad? She is his niece." 
 
 "What?" I answered, with a shudder. '^I do not know, 
 but I fear everything. If he should elude us and take her 
 abroad with him— heaven help her, sir! He will use her 
 somehow to gain his ends — or kill her." 
 
 Sir Anthony wiped his brow with a trembling hand. 
 •'Baldwin will overtake them," he said. 
 
 "Let us hope so," I answered. Alas, how far fell fru- 
 ition short of anticipation. This was my time of triumph ! 
 "You had better go in, sir," I said presently, gaining a 
 little: mastery over myself. "I see Sir Philip has returned 
 from settling his men for the night. He and Greville will 
 be wondering what has happened." 
 
 "And you?" he said. 
 
 "I cannot," I answered, shaking my head. 
 
 After he had gone I stood a while in the shadow on the 
 far side of the court, listening to the clatter of knives and 
 dishes, the cheerful hum of the servants as they called to 
 one another, the hurrying footsteps of the maids. A dog 
 crept out, and licked my hand as it hung nerveless by my 
 
IN HARBOR AT LAST. 285 
 
 side. Surely Martin or Baldwin would overtake them. Or 
 if not, it still was not so easy to take a girl abroad against 
 her will. 
 
 But would that be his plan? He must have hiding-places 
 in England to which he might take her, telling her any wild 
 story of her father's death or flight, or even perhaps of her 
 own danger if her whereabouts were known. I had had 
 experience of his daring, his cunning, his plausibility. Had 
 he not taken in all with whom he had come into contact, 
 except, by some strange fate, myself. To be sure Anne 
 was not altogether without feeling or conscience. But she 
 was his — his entirely, body and soul. Yes, if I could have 
 followed, I could have borne it better. It was this dread- 
 ful inaction which was killing me. 
 
 The bustle and voices of the servants, who were in high 
 spirits, so irritated me at last that I wandered away, going 
 first to the dark, silent gardens, where I walked up and down 
 in a fever of doubt and fear, much as I had done on the last 
 evening I had spent at Coton. Then a fancy seized me, 
 and turning from the fish-pond I walked toward the house. 
 Crossing the moat I made for the church door and tried it. 
 It was unlocked. I went in. Here at least in the sacred 
 place I should find quietness ; and unable to help myself in 
 this terrible crisis, might get help from One to whom my 
 extremity was but an opportunity. 
 
 I walked up the aisle and, finding all in darkness, the 
 moon at the moment being obscured, felt my way as far as 
 Sir Piers' flat monument, and sat down upon it. I had been 
 there scarcely a minute when a faint sound, 'which seemed 
 rather a sigh or an audible shudder than any articulate word, 
 came out of the darkness in front of me. My great trouble 
 had seemed to make superstitious fears for the time impos- 
 sible, but at this sound I started and trembled; and holding 
 my breath felt a cold shiver run down my back. Motion- 
 less I peered before me, and yet could see nothing. All was 
 gloom, the only distinguishable feature being the east win- 
 dow. 
 
 What was that? ,A soft rustle as of ghostly garments 
 moving in the aisle was succeeded by another sigh which 
 made me rise from my seat, my hair stiffening. Then I saw 
 the outlme of the east window growing brighter and 
 
286 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE, 
 
 brighter, and I knew that the moon was about to shine clear 
 of the clouds, and longed to turn and fly, yet did not dare 
 to move. 
 
 Suddenly the light fell on the altar steps and disclosed a 
 kneeling form which seemed to be partly turned toward me 
 as though watching me. The face I could not see — it was 
 in shadow — and I stood transfixed, gazing at the figure, half 
 in superstitious terror and half in wonder; until a voice I 
 had not heard for years, and yet should have known among 
 a thousand, said softly, "Francis!" 
 
 "Who calls me?" I muttered hoarsely, knowing and yet 
 disbelieving, hoping and yet with a terrible fear at heart. 
 
 "It is I, Petronillal" said the same voice gently. And 
 then the form rose and glided toward me through the moon- 
 light. "It is I, Petronilla. Do you not know me?" said 
 my love again ; and fell upon my breast. 
 
 She had been firmly resolved all the time not to quit her 
 father, and on the first opportunity had given the slip to her 
 company, while the horses were being saddled at Watney's 
 farm. Stealing back through the darkness she had found 
 the house full of uproar, and apparently occupied by strange 
 troopers. Aghast and not knowing what to do, she had 
 bethought herself of the church and there taken refuge. 
 On my first entrance she was horribly alarmed. But as I 
 walked up the aisle, she recognized — so she has since told 
 me a thousand times with pride — my footstep, though it had 
 long been a stranger to her ear, and she had no thought at 
 the moment of seeing me, or hearing the joyful news I 
 brought. 
 
 And so my story is told. For what passed then between 
 Petronilla and me lies between my wife and myself. And 
 it is an old, old story, and one which our children have no 
 need to learn, for they have told it, many of them for them- 
 selves, and their children are growing up to tell it. I think 
 in some odd corner of the house there may still be found a 
 very ancient swallow's nest, which young girls bring out and 
 look at tenderly; but for my sword-knot I fear it has been 
 worn out these thirty years. What matter, even though it 
 was velvet of Genoa? He that has the substance, lacks not 
 the shadow. 
 
IN HARBOR AT LAST. 287 
 
 I never saw my father again, nor learned accurately what 
 passed at Watney's farm after Petronilla was missed by her 
 two companions. But one man, whom I could ill spare, 
 was also missing on that night, whose fate is still something 
 of a mystery. That was Martin Luther. I have always 
 believed that he fell in a desperate encounter with my 
 father, but no traces of the struggle, or his body were ever 
 found. The track between Watney's farm and Stratford, 
 however, runs for a certain distance by the river ; and at 
 some point on this road I think Martin must have come up 
 with the refugees, and failing either to find Petronilla with 
 them, or to get any satisfactory account of her, must have 
 flung himself on my father and been foiled and killed. The 
 exact truth I have said was never known, though Baldwin 
 and I talked over it again and again; and there were even 
 some who said that a servant much resembling Martin 
 Luther was seen with my father in the Low Countries not a 
 month before his death. I put no credence in this, how- 
 ever, having good reason to think that the poor fool — who 
 was wiser in his sane moments than most men — would never 
 have left my service while the breath remained in his body. 
 
 I have heard it said that blood washes out shame. My 
 father was killed in a skirmish in the Netherlands shortly 
 before the peace of Chateau Cambresis, and about three 
 months after the events here related. I have no doubt that 
 he died as a brave man should ; for he had that virtue. He 
 held no communication with me or with any at Coton End 
 later than that which I have here described ; but would 
 appear to have entered the service of Cardinal Granvelle, 
 the governor of the Netherlands, for after his death word 
 came to the Duchess of Suffolk that Mistress Anne Cludde 
 had entered a nunnery at Bruges under the Cardinal's 
 auspices. Doubtless she is long since dead. 
 
 And so are many others of whom I have spoken — Sir 
 Anthony, the Duchess, Master Bertie, and Master Lind- 
 strom. For forty years have passed since these things hap- 
 pened — years of peaceful, happy life, which have gone by 
 more swiftly, as it seems to me in the retrospect, than 
 the four years of my wanderings. The Lindstroms sought 
 refuge in England in the second year of the Queen, and set- 
 tled in Lowestoft under the Duchess of Suffolk's protection, 
 and did well and flourished as became them; nor indeed did 
 
288 THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE, 
 
 they find, I trust, others ungrateful, though I experienced 
 some difficulty in inducing Sir Anthony to treat the Dutch 
 burgher as on an equality with himself. Lord Willoughby 
 de Eresby, the Peregrine to whom I stood godfather in St. 
 Willibrod's church at Wesel, is now a middle-aged man and 
 my very good friend, the affection which his mother felt for 
 me having descended to him in full measure. She was 
 indeed such a woman as Her Majesty; large-hearted and 
 free-tongued, of masculine courage and a wonderful tender- 
 ness. And of her husband what can I say save that he was a 
 brave Christian — and in peaceful times — a studious gentle- 
 man. 
 
 But it is not only in vacant seats and gray hairs that I 
 trace the progress of forty years. They have done for Eng- 
 land almost all that men hoped they might do in the first 
 dawn of the reign. We have seen great foes defeated, and 
 strong friends gained. We have seen the coinage amended, 
 trade doubled, the Exchequer filled, the roads made good, 
 the poor provided for in a Christian manner, the Church 
 grown strong; all this in these years. We have seen Hol- 
 land rise and Spain decline, and well may say in the words 
 of the old text, which my grandfather set up over the hall 
 door at Coton, *' Frustra, nisi Dominus.'^ 
 
 THE END. 
 
♦• A DANGEROUS AND DIFFICULT SUBJECT FOR A NOVEL." 
 
 — The American WomarCs Illustrated World. 
 
 THE HEAVENLY TWINS. 
 
 By SARAH GRAND. 
 
 In one large i2mo volume of nearly 700 pages. Extra cloth, 
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A Superfluous Woivian. 
 
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 the system more than the individual, and the reform of the system 
 undoubtedly rests with the women. The author of this work — 
 whether man or woman does not appear — deplores the state of things 
 which educates a girl for no purpose, which teaches her that accom- 
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 if carried out, leaves her without an object in life, and reduces her 
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 •' The story has genuine and undeniable power." — Boston Daily 
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 "Ah, it is pitiful, is this education of the superfluous — ^how pitiful 
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 "... It is one of those lessons which need to be taught, of which 
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 lesson of heredity — the lesson that the sins of the parents are vis- 
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BROKEN LINKS 
 
 A. Love Story 
 By Mrs. ALEXANDER 
 
 Author of " The Snare of the Fowler," " The Wooing O't,'* 
 "Her Dearest Foe" etc., etc. 
 
 One volume, i2mo, Cloth, $i.oo 
 
 The simple announcement of a new novel by Mrs. 
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A FAIR JEWESS 
 
 By B. L. FARJEON 
 
 Author of '"'' The Last Tenant" " Bread and Cheese and 
 Kisses ^^ " Grify* etc.^ etc. 
 
 i2mo, Cloth, $1.00 
 
 " One of his best, if not indeed his very best.'* — Boston Advertiser. 
 
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 Francisco Chronicle. 
 
 '* A novel with a sound moral to it ; worthy its author, who is one 
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 " An exciting tale of wrong and treachery which is thwarted in the 
 end by justice and love. The Jewish character in some of its noblest 
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 " ' A Fair Jewess,' by B. L. Farjeon, puts the Jewish character 
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 . . . The plot is too good to anticipate in this notice, but we are 
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 of his novels have ever met with in this country." — Rochester Herald.. 
 
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UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
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 OCT 21 1916 
 
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 5 1925 
 
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