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 THE 
 DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 In the Dene of Taunton, the loveliest region of that lovely 
 western shire which has been maliciously, and, we sincerely 
 hope, untruly slandered, as *' remarkable for the fatness of 
 its soil and the folly of its gentry," there stood, towards 
 the close of the seventeenth century, a cottage occupied by 
 a gentleman of Scottish birth, and bearing the name of 
 Fullarton. He had followed, together with an only brother, 
 the fortunes of the unfortunate Earl of Argyle, suspected 
 of being implicated, as his father had been before him, in 
 the projects of the now far-famed Covenanters. On the 
 earl's flight to Holland, the FuUartons took opposite courses. 
 Sidney, the elder, who was unmarried, a thorough Scottish 
 Whig, full of the prejudices of his party, doubly indignant 
 at the actual wrongs they had endured, and personally 
 devoted to the earl, accompanied that nobleman to the 
 Continent. The younger brother, encumbered with a sickly 
 wife (with whom he had lived in happineia until their l^te 
 "misfortunes had impaired her health) and with the cares of 
 a family, could aot so easil v follow toe a^mp course ; nciiuer 
 
4 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 did he share so deeply as bis brother ia the antif athies and 
 predilections of his party, 
 
 " Farewell, Gaspar !" said the latter, as he shook his 
 brother's hand at parting ; " take care of thy wife, and do 
 not forget the earl. You shall hear from me when I reach 
 Eotterdam, where, I'm told, many a stout liberty-man is 
 keeping port these stormy times, in expectation of fairer 
 weather. As to Arthur, it is just as well, and may be 
 better, he should rest under his father's roof at present. 
 The times may change before the Duke is fairly seated in 
 Whitehall." 
 
 Gaspar Fullarton did but wait to see the ship set sail 
 that bore his brother from the island, when he turned his 
 course to the West of England, where a family of the name 
 of Kingsly, relatives of his wife, resided in the thriving 
 borough of Taunton. Even at that period, this celebrated 
 vale was distinguished by the same luxuriance and fertility 
 that still excite the admiration of the tourist, and the same 
 salubrity and mildness of climate that continue to attract 
 the footsteps of the laiiguishiug invalid. After passing the 
 lonesome wilds of Salisbury, the family party began to enter 
 upon a species of rui-al scenery new to most of its members. 
 The luxury of a coach was in those days still beyond the 
 reach of persons even higher in rank and fortune than 
 the Fullartons. P'irst came the sickly lady in a kind of 
 litter, beside which rode the husband, a man already be- 
 ginning to exhibit marks of age, accelerated perhaps by 
 the anxiety and fatigue he had undergone in the service of 
 his country and his patron. His son, a healthy mountain- 
 bred young Scot, was continually galloping in advance of 
 or loitering behind the party, to reconnoitre the road, or to 
 address a query to some sleek-faced yeoman or rustic 
 labourer, whose " z's," and " v's," and " ow's," " ooa's," 
 rwere sorely perplexing to the northern ear. At times he 
 trotted up to communicate some newly-acquired piece of 
 information to his sister, a fine young womau, appai'ently 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. , 5, 
 
 about his own age, who, satisfied with the quiet enjoyment 
 of what she saw, or wrapped ia interesting thoughts, rode 
 close behind her parents. The whole group was followed 
 by a waggon, conveying a female servant, and a quantity, 
 of household furniture, such as might not be immediately 
 procured in the retreat to which they were about removing. 
 
 To the eye of the mountain-bred Scot, the display of 
 fertility, of luxuriance, and of agricultural wealth, which 
 the country soon presented far and near, had rather the 
 character of a region of enchantment, such as he might 
 have found in the gorgeous romances of the preceding cen- 
 tury, than that of a soil made prolific by human husbandry.' 
 The numerous sheep-pens in the fields on either side the 
 road, the thick woods that clambered to the very summit 
 cf the neighbouring heights, the hop-gardens, and extensive 
 fields of grain that chequered the face of the surrouuding 
 lands ; and diversity of scene through which the road con- 
 ducted them, now winding up a height overarched wilh 
 thickest verdure, now leading down on a small cluster of 
 farmhouses close nestling in a woody hollow, now oflferings 
 a wide view of som,e highly cultivated champaign, noWi 
 running through a sharp and narrow defile, — all afforded a 
 continual subject of admiration to Mr. Fullarton and his 
 children, and of silent satisfaction to his wife, who wai 
 herself a native of the country into which they were 
 advancing. 
 
 Although enlisted on the side of the Covenanters, it has 
 been already intimated that the family of Gaspar Fullarion 
 were somewhat elevated above that rank in which the 
 gloomy enthusiasm of their sectarian leaders had the widest 
 influence, and added perhaps as much to their real suflfer- 
 ings, as even the baibarous weapons of their enemies, or 
 the treachery of the rulers against whom they had arisen. 
 They had, it is true, their share of pohtical as well as of 
 religious prejudices (alas ! how fow are wholly free from 
 either ! and perhaps even the boooni of the reader who 
 
6 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 piqoes himself on being one of the few. entertain?, in a 
 Cfiitemptuous indifference a still more fatal inmate). They 
 believed with justice of the Duke of York, that he was 
 precipitate and despotic in his notions of government \ bat 
 they believed also, without so much reason, that he was 
 actually a blood-thirsty Nero, who took a kind of animal 
 delight in the infliction of personal cruelties, and that bis 
 probable accession to the throne should be regarded as a 
 national calamity as deeply to be feared as that of the most 
 capricious of the Roman Caesars. Their minds had been 
 opened to such impressions partly by stories related of his 
 government in Scotland, as unfounded, in all likelihood, as 
 those which attributed to him the murder of Godfrey and 
 the fire of London. 
 
 In ^e western shire in which they were now about to 
 take up their residence, the Fullartons were destined to find 
 similar sentiments prevailing far and wide. His share of 
 a patrimonial inheritance, assisted by the fortune of his' 
 wife, and his acquaintance with the science of agriculture, 
 bad enabled Gaspar FuUarton at all times to maintain an 
 easy competence, and even to afford his son and daughter 
 an education more than adequate to their rank in life. The 
 circumstance of the children being twins, added force to 
 the interest which nature gave them in the hearts of the 
 parents. The latter also had the satisfaction to observe, as 
 their years advanced, that a strong similarity of disposition, 
 and the mutual dependence occasioned by the narrowness 
 of their domestic circle, gave rise to a more than nsual 
 esteem and tenderness between the brother and sister. 
 Both were gay, generous, and good, — a hearty mountain 
 lad and lass, who wore their prepossessions with a grace, 
 and were as good-humoured to all the world as they were 
 warm in the cause which they believed to be that of their 
 country, and to which their parents bad sacrificed so much 
 of peace and fortune. 
 
 It had been the earnest wish of Arthur FuUarton to 
 
THE DUKE OF MOKMOUTH. 7 
 
 accompany his uncle to the Contiaent, the place of refuge 
 to so many names distingnished both in the good and bad 
 report of either country. He was ovemiled, however, for 
 the present, by the counsel of Sidney Fuliartoo, as well as 
 by the wishes of his own family, who could with difficulty 
 dispense with his assistance and protection in the present 
 posture of affairs ; and he was at last entirely silenced by 
 the injunction of the fugitive earl himself, who knew the 
 circumstances as well as be valued the attachment of 
 the Fullartons. 
 
 CHAPTER ir. 
 
 Towards nightfall, the two handsome steeples wbicb grace 
 the borough town of Taunton (the final destination of the 
 travellers) began to appear above the trees. From the 
 road which wound along a neighboiii lag height, the eya 
 wandered with delight over fields of tillage or pasture land, 
 extending far beyond the limits of distinctness, all bounded 
 by close hedges or by ranks of stately trees, and spotted 
 with clusters of farmhouses, country seats, acd groves of 
 spreading wood, which gave warmth and richness to the 
 prospect. , Amid the whole, the gentle placid Tone pursued 
 its winding course, its shining surface chequered with cots 
 or lighters, sunk almost level with the waters by their 
 lading of coal or other merchandise, ^or with the shadows of 
 the majestic elms and oaks that grew along its banks. 
 
 It was market-day, and the travellers as they drew near 
 the town were met by numerous groups of country people 
 returning from the scene of rustic commerce. Sometimes 
 one of those itinerant preachers, who at that time were di- 
 versifying the surface of the island with almost as many 
 sects as there were individuals to preach them, rode by the 
 pai'ty, casting on the sick lady as he passed a sidelong gaze. 
 
8 THE DUKE OF UONJIOUTE. 
 
 and darting a scowl .of scrutiny from beneath his lovr- 
 brimmed hat upon her vigorous and healthy relatives. Some- 
 times a troop of yeoiuaury, returning at their ease from 
 exercise, overtook and passed them on their way to town. 
 Sometimes a "varmer's" daughter, arrayed* in all her best, 
 and bearing on her arm a basket filled with minor articles 
 (/f dress or of domestic luxury and use, went by them, not 
 as now, in handsome cape of fur, or bonnet of foreign plait 
 displayed from the exaltation of a side-saddle, but mo- 
 destly on foot, and with a new kerchief for her greatest 
 finery. Nor did even all the comfortable yeomanry make 
 their short journeys to market then, as in our own day, 
 mounted on long-tailed steeds as sleek and as plump as their 
 riders, but were content to trudge thither in wooden shoes, 
 and with an oaken cudgel for theh* own assistance on the 
 way. Nor had the waggons which went by them yet reached 
 tlie prodigious length of those enormous vehicles which may 
 now be seen on market evenings conveying almost the whole 
 population of some neighbouring hamlet to their several 
 firesides ; nor (to the disgrace of modern manners) were 
 they so often under the necessity of keeping their horses off 
 the reeling track of the half-inebriated clown, whose 
 " zar'nat" exhibiting marks of the road almost as palpable 
 as his wooden shoes, made it appear as if he desired to make 
 use of both extremities in his journey homeward. 
 
 The streets were yet thronged with people and with vari- 
 ous kinds of cattle, so that it was with some difficulty they 
 were enabled to roach the Three Crowns — an inn where 
 they proposed remaining for the night, and deferring uatil 
 the following day the communicating of their arrival at the 
 house of Captain Kingsly. 
 
 The landlord of the Three Crowns, a bustling active per- 
 sonage, not yet sufficiently independent to treat his custo- 
 mers with indifference, was soon busy in the accommodation 
 of the new-comers. At first, when the horses stopped at 
 his door, he had received the party with an officious aud 
 
THE DUKE OF MOKMODTH". 9 
 
 obseqaious air, then hearing them ask for the residence of 
 Captain Kingsly, he became morose on the sudden, and 
 short and surly in his answers, as if they were about doing 
 him an injury by passing his door ; but then again, finding 
 that they proposed remaining with him for the night, all his 
 civility and his officiousness returned upon him with re- 
 doubled vivacity. The females of the party were presently 
 ushered into their bed-rooms, while a blazing fire, by no 
 means unwelcome after the chill of the autumn evening, was 
 lighted for the use of the whole group in a small private 
 sitting-room. 
 
 " Thee be'st, I war'nd," said the landlord, addressing 
 Caspar Fullarton with an inquisitive smile, " the norad gen- 
 nelman tha Capt'n be expectin theaze time back ?" 
 
 Mr. Fullarton answered in the affirmative. 
 
 " Zo I thought, maester. Ye '11 vind tha awld Cap'n at' 
 whim shower enough ; bit Maester Harry be in Lunnun." 
 
 " Indeed ! and does he soon return to Taunton ?" , 
 
 " Aw, eese, a b'lieve. The Cap'n can niver bear ta have 
 en long out of iz zight. Here, Hester ! why dwon't ye 
 right tha vier vor the gennelman ? Zit ye down, zu*. Jimmy, 
 ye meechin trubagully, why dwon't ye goo vooath un zee 
 ta tha bosses ?" 
 
 The dwelling of Captain Kingsly, so entitled from his 
 having held a commission in his younger days in the Devon- 
 shire Militia, was one of the handsomest mansions in the 
 town. Its owner had been always a staunch adherent of 
 the royal party, and was accustomed to dwell, with more 
 particularity than his hearer always thought essential, on 
 all that had fallen under his own observation in the eoarse 
 of the great civil war. He now lived in retirement with an 
 only son and a daughter, whose education had been since 
 the death of Mrs. Kingsly (an event which occurred about 
 eleven years before) a source to him of incessant torment 
 and anxiety, more especially in all that regarded their fu- 
 ture and undeviatiag adherence to the coyal house, in whose 
 
 I . 
 
10 , THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 service the most active portion of his youth had been em- 
 ployed. Loyalty, indeed, however eminent a virtue in it- 
 self, had become in Captain Kiugsly's character a species of 
 maatal malady. It outgrew and swallowed up all other 
 virtues and all other duties, until every faculty of his mind 
 and every impulse of his heart became dkected to the one 
 absorbing predilection. " Thou shalt not speak ill of the 
 king," was a precept which he not only strictly enforced 
 within the circuit of his influence, but it almost seemed in 
 his thought to supply the place of every other, and to com- 
 prise within itself a complete epitome of religion and mo- 
 rality. 
 
 On the morning after the Fullartons had arrived in Taun- 
 ton, he had risen at an earlier hour than usual, in order to 
 prepare for their earlier reception. 
 
 *' What, Henry!" he exclaimed to his son, as the latter 
 entered his room while he was dressing, after an absence of 
 some weeks in the metropolis, " thou art welcome. Thou 
 art just arrived in time to meet our friends from the North." 
 
 " What, sir ! The Fullartons are come then ?" 
 
 " Aye — so this note gives me to understand, and that 
 we may expect some of them here ere this — so be prepared 
 to receive them." 
 
 " I am delighted to hear they have arrived." 
 
 *' Aye, but by your leave, sir, yon must take yonr delight 
 "Vi'itb a caveat along with it. You will please to rido your 
 ecstacy in a martingale or so." 
 
 " Why, sir, has any misfortune " 
 
 " Sir, who talked of misfortune ? Aqd yet there is mis- 
 fortune too, but too long past to mend. Look ye, HaiTy, 
 I have often told you that there is no quality — that is to 
 say, no ha man or earthly quality — no quality whose scope 
 and effect are bounded to this span of mortal life, that be- 
 comes the subject better than his loyalty. Loyalty is the 
 flower, and, I may say, light and ornament — or, as it were, 
 the ciown of the subject ; if there be uothmgiudeoorous in 
 
THE DDKE OF MOKMOCTH. ll 
 
 saying that a subject may wear a crown — bnt I mean a 
 crown metaphorical or figorative, such as trenches nothing 
 (Heaven guard it should !) on the especial right and prero- 
 gative of his most gracious majesty. But, in truth, loyalty 
 is, as I have said and do maintain, the bond, and, as it were, 
 tie — or as you may say, knot, which binds together the 
 great frame of civil society, and, so to express it, pre- 
 serves, as it were, the union — or, as you might say, the 
 harmony of the state, inviolate." 
 
 " You have often impressed this upon me, sir," said 
 Henry. 
 
 "As who should say, * To what end this lecture upon 
 loyalty now?* Attend and thou shalt learn. Give and 
 take. Give thy attention, take the information thou re- 
 quirest. These Fnllartons, they are in affliction, and more- 
 0Ter> in some distant manner, connected by affinity with our 
 family— therefore they must be suitably received and enter- 
 tained. But while thou dealest with them as becomes a 
 friend, remember v?ho they are with whom thou dealest. 
 They are not without a taint. All evil is disease— and dis- 
 loyalty is evil — and disease is oft infectious, and therefore 
 thou mayest become infected with their disloyalty: which 
 were to say, thou mayest become an alien to my house and 
 my affection — not to speak of thy birthright. Mark me, 
 Harry ! they are Whigs — which is to say, they are aught 
 but what they should be — dost thou conceive ? They have 
 openly favoured, if not borne arms for, the Scottish rebels — 
 therefore beware — do yon mark me ?" 
 
 " I trust, sir," said Henry Kingsly, " there is no necessity 
 for saying much to me on that subject. Your instructions, 
 my general education, and my own reflections, have not left 
 me without a motive for my allegiance. I honour my king, 
 and love my country, and am at all times ready to peril life 
 and limb for both. But, at the same time, sir, I must say 
 .that I have been too well tutored in my duties to fear that 
 a courteous intercourse with half a do*en individuals, 
 
12 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 who happen to think differently, should lead me to forget 
 them." 
 
 " Eight nobly spoken, in truth. Thou art staunch — T seo 
 it in thee — my own glory revives in my posterity; the loyalty 
 which I received unblemished from my fathers, unblemished 
 I transmit to thee — receive it and maintain it. It was my 
 highest grace, both in my days of action and retirement. 
 Captain Kingsly was in the camp another word for Fidelity ; 
 yet there's a danger in this case which I almost fear to touch 
 upon, for the thought of it revives disastrous recollections. 
 Oh, my dear boy, I do not fear that either Gaspar Fullartou 
 or his son will ever put thy principles in jeopardy. !Man may 
 meet man upon the ground of controversy on fair and evert 
 terms, there are no deluding and degrading tendernesses to sap 
 the foundation of independence ; even pride itself, for lack of 
 better motive, will keep the pugnacious spirit up and save 
 the reason from slipping in the mire of sloth and pleasure. 
 But there is a Miss Fullartou, Hairy ; an accomplished, I 
 am told, and estimable person : it is against her influence 
 that I would mainly caution thee. Kemember — remember 
 Cleopatra. I say no more — enough : the wisest have be- 
 come as fools — the bravest as cowards — the best as villains 
 — and the most loyal and true-hearted have been led to 
 embrace treason and rebellion by such means. Thou art 
 not wiser than Solomon — nor braver than Julius CiEsar — ■ 
 nor better than the King of Israel — Verbum sapientihus 
 satis. I am dumb. Keflect upon it. Disloyalty is worse 
 than death or poverty." 
 
 " Sir," answered Henry, " all I can tell you once more is, 
 that I love my country, and defy the Whigs to make me do 
 otherwise." 
 
 " Give me thy hand ; thou art thy father's son." 
 
 " That is a proposition, sir, which you too might defy the 
 Whigs to controvert." 
 
 '•None of your sneering, sir! Ah, Harry, would you 
 think it ? — I, even I, have known in my time what it is tu 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 13 
 
 undergo sncb inflaence as that against which I seek to cao- 
 tion thee." 
 
 " You, sir ! Is it possible ? — Did you ever do anything 
 disloyal ? Well, after that ! " 
 
 " Hut, tat ! disloyal ? What do you mean, sir ? No. 
 Bat there was a circumstance, Harry — I have never spoken 
 — I could hardly bear to think of it, but I mention it now 
 for thy warning and instruction. It was in the time of the 
 troubles, when, as you know, I had the honour to hold a 
 subordinate command in the Devon Militia. Intelligence 
 was secretly brought that a notorious Roundhead lay con- 
 cealed in Farmer Swaffield's orchard, near thetown of Chard. 
 It was an advantageous position, well chosen, defended on one 
 side by a quantity of close bramble and brushwood, on ano- 
 ther by an extensive goose-pond, and on the two remaining 
 by a quick-set hedge, sufficiently thick to prevent either him 
 from getting out, or any one else from getting in. Report 
 stated that he was provided with cutlass and pistols for de- 
 fence ; a scout brought us intelligence of the nature of the 
 ground, and our colonel, who knew me to be, like most 
 young fellows in the ardonr of early life, desirous of acquiring 
 distinction by some perilous service, despatched me with six 
 of the most undaunted of our troop, as a forlorn hope, to 
 apprehend him dead or living. Of course I instantly obeyed. 
 Your mother, with whom I had then but lately become ac- 
 quainted, lived in a pretty cottage about a musket shot from 
 the high road. I feared not to die in the service of my 
 king, but methought I could meet with greater resignation 
 any fate that awaited me after having bid her farewell. 
 Accordingly I divided my force, and sent three of the men 
 before to lorm a causeway, by placing stepping stones across 
 the goose-pond, as the easiest mode of approaching to the gate- 
 way on that side, while I went to pay a flying visit to your 
 mother. Would I could bury^he remainder for ever in obli- 
 vion ; the time flew by — 1 took the road again. On th« 
 st&y to the oichai'd I met two ol my advanced guard, one 
 
1 4 THE DUKE 0» MONMOUTH. 
 
 of whom carried the third behind him with a kerchief to his 
 face. Too soon I learned the cause of their return. White 
 they were busy in forming the causeway, their horses and 
 arms at a little distance, the enemy had suddenly darted 
 from his cover, giving the next at hand a bloody nose, and 
 seizing one of the horses, gallopped off unmolested towards 
 the woods ; while they, seeing the uselessness, not to say 
 danger of pursuit, returned homeward with the wounded. 
 Often since have I thought of Actium and Marc Antony. 
 Yonr poor mother never could forgive herself; and as for 
 Will Benson, you see his nose is crooked to this day. 
 woman I woman ! — But what's the news in London ?" 
 
 "The best and happiest, sir, is, that the king is well and 
 merry." 
 
 " Heaven keep him so 1 Heaven bless his merry heart!'* 
 " And the next is, that a whisper prevails of his having 
 some intention of recalling the young Duke of Monmouth 
 from the Continent." 
 
 " No — by your leave, no — no — ^I do not relish that so 
 well. The Duke's a traitor — a convicted traitor : were ho 
 fifty kings' sons, he is a ttaitor — an Absolom who would 
 have pushed his father off his seat. I'll have naught to 
 say to him ; a fellow without a spark of loyalty ; he has 
 got a taint — a taint — no, by your leave, had I been of the 
 council, he should not have had ray word for the recalling 
 of the Duke. Was there anything else a- foot ?" 
 " Lord Shaftesbury is dead in Amsterdam." 
 " Ah, the false knave ! is that the end of all his shifts 
 and tricks ? — had he no comer to turn — no quip of his 
 devilish cunning to escape the shaft of death ? So all must 
 look to fall who plot with the brain and rebel with the hand 
 against their sovereign. Harry, be thou content to serve 
 thy king and country, dnd seek no other earthly reward 
 than the memory of duty faithfully discharged. Our times 
 seem to promise trouble and turbulence enough — cling thou fur 
 ever to the standard of thy prince, be loyal like thy father." 
 
THE DUKE OF MOKHOUTBT. ~" 15 
 
 ** In the mean time, sir, would it not be well if I were to 
 call upon the Fnllartons ?" 
 
 *' By all means. It will be but courteous, and there is 
 no better mode of keeping questionable characters at a dis- 
 tance than by marked and punctual civility. Familiarity is 
 the parent and the child of rudeness ; by failing in respect 
 to others you teach them to use an equal liberty with you, 
 and courtesy is due to all, for courtesy is love, and love is 
 everybody's right ; but familiarity is only safely founded on 
 esteem, which we must not bestow unless it is deserved. 
 But of this another time ; I see then art impatient of my 
 counsel. Ah, for the good old times when youth gathered 
 wisdom like honey at the feet of age ! Farewell ! and re- 
 member my hint about the Fnllartons — remember the goose- 
 pond — remember Marc Antony, and Will Benson's bloody 
 noae." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The reader has been already sSightly introduced to tl:e 
 family of Captain Kingsly, of whom 'it will be necessary to 
 famish a somewhat more minute account. Of the earlier 
 life of Mr. Kingsly an incident was related far and wide, 
 which, without vouching for its authenticity, we shall faith- 
 fally and fearlessly record, regarding with indignation com- 
 mensurate with his own blindness the contempt of the in- 
 credulous. 
 
 The young yeomanry captain had, said the gossips of 
 Tanuton, in his younger days been distinguished by other 
 and less laudable characteristics of the cavaliers than their 
 indomitable loyalty. In order to evince his dislike of their 
 puritanical manners, he endeavoured, by the irregularity of 
 bis own life and conversation, to set the stamp of hia iudi- 
 
16 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 viclual condemnation as deeply as it was possible on theirs ; 
 and by this demeanour it almost appeared as if he thought 
 the very virtues should be avoided which could be practised 
 in common with a Roundhead. 
 
 His marriage, for a time, occasioned something like a 
 change in the extravagant habits to which this overwrought 
 loyalty led. It was (of course) at an assembly, bat not 
 (of course) in Taunton, that Mr. Kingsly and his lady be- 
 came first acquainted. Sarah Milman, as the latter waa 
 then called, was of good family, and not without fortune ; 
 but it was the opinion of many, as regarded both parties, 
 that if tb« gold were put into one scale and common sense 
 in another, the former would far outweigh any stock of the 
 latter which had fallen to the lot either of the one or the 
 other. Those who pretend to be very wise, and to know 
 a great deal about the matter, would have their youngers 
 be very circumspect about the motives on which they enter 
 on the duties of that condition which Mr. and Mrs. Kingsly 
 contemplated at this period. They will have it, for in- 
 stance, that a man's turning a pretty tune, or a lady's 
 touching her musical instrument with a peculiar grace, are 
 not always unerring indications that either possesses all the 
 qualities essential for the proper management of a house- 
 hold, and that festina lente is a motto not to be despised 
 in any case. If so much had been actually suggested to 
 Captain Kingsly and to Mistress Milman, it is probable 
 they would have said, they knew all that before ; such being 
 the usual form of rejecting an advice against which no other 
 objection can be raised. Captain Kingsly could see no 
 reason to doubt of the perfections of one who could sing so 
 sweet a madrigal as Sarah Milman ; and if the latter had 
 boon called upon truly to say what quality in Mr. Kingsly 
 she had thought worthy of the honour which she intended 
 him, she could not in conscience, at any rate, have omitted 
 all mention of his slashed doublet and periwig. Whether 
 each were possessed of the more solid qualities necessary to 
 
THE DHKE OF Mu.NAlutiH. I? 
 
 the due performance of the duties of their state, were points 
 about which they did not seem to think it necessary to in- 
 quire. 
 
 There is no severer test, however, of the genuineness of 
 a regard foiinded on such claims than the lapse of a little 
 time. Sudden impulses of generosity are not the true marks 
 of a disiuterested affection. There is something in making 
 a great sacrifice which flatters one's self-esteem ; but it is 
 only the true and generous who are capable of that inces'- 
 eant attention, and of those minute forbearances, which, 
 while they tax our self-denial almost as heavily, do little to 
 elevate us either in our own opinion or in that of others. 
 For the first two or three months after their marriage, Mr. 
 and Mrs. Kingsly saw no reason to alter the sanguine ojii- 
 nion each had formed of the other; but time brought out 
 a secret that was before unknown to both. As they had 
 discovered all the perfections at first sight, nothing now re- 
 mained except to find out the faults, which began soon to 
 be discerned in great abundance. Before a year elapsed it 
 was too plain that both were doomed to strive with mutual 
 disappointment ; and as they made no secret of the fact, it 
 was easy to see that the esteem on both sides was not so 
 firmly rooted as they had supposed. An occurrence, how- 
 ever, which afterward became -a standard narrative in tlie 
 neighbourhood, contributed to save them from declining 
 farther towards the opposite extreme. Again we stai d 
 not in the verity of the tale, but relate it faithfully as it is 
 delivered. 
 
 Soon after the birth of Thomasine, or, as she was more 
 commonly called, Tamsen Kingsly, it happened that a dif- 
 ference of opinion arose between the parents respecting the 
 propriety of having her instructed in French ; those worthy 
 persons not nflectiug on the little necessity there was of 
 coming to a decision while it must yet be many months 
 ^ before she could utter the first syllable of her native tongue. 
 The argument waxed warm ; and the warmer it grew, the 
 
l8 THE DUKE OF MONMODTH. 
 
 farther from coming to au amicable adjustment. At length 
 Captain Kingsly went out of the house protesting that the 
 first word of French he heard Tamsea speak he would dis- 
 own her. 
 
 In the course of the day Will Benson came running in 
 great fright to let him know that Mrs. Kingsly had been 
 taken suddenly ill. After his departure, she too had been 
 indulging sundry indignant thoughts on the conversation, 
 or rather altercation, which had passed. In the height of 
 her injured feeling, she said in her own mind, that it would 
 be well done to grow very sick, and even almost to die, on 
 purpose to punish him. While she was engaged, however, 
 with these romantic notions, the trouble and sin of carrying 
 them into effect were unexpectedly saved her. A sudden 
 faintness seized upon her frame. Slie started up alarmed 
 — repented a thousand times her wicked thoughts, but in 
 vain, for the indisposition continued to increase. A flViglitcd 
 to excess, Mrs. Kingsly called her servants and sent one for 
 the physician ; while Will Benson was despatched to find 
 her husband, in order that they might speedily exchange 
 forgiveness. « 
 
 This was more than he had calculated on. He liurripd 
 to the house, but the case was even worse than he expected 
 to find it. There lay his young, and, as he lately thought, 
 too talkative companion, a silent, lifeless form. The captain 
 was distressed beyond what he could have expected. He 
 had but an hour before, in his angpr, had the impiety to 
 lament the unhappy fate which bound him to a spouse so 
 little calculated to promote his happiness, and now this 
 sudden release from the tie against which he had rebelled 
 seemed to fall upon him like a judgment. He accused him- 
 relf aloud of his ingratitude, and for the first time in his 
 life became acquainted with the taste of hopeless woe. 
 Dnrii g the following day and night, he remained by the 
 bedside, refusing all consolation, and consuaiing his heart 
 with self-repro8'*Ji. W'heu tha body was about to be 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 1§ 
 
 coffined, the unhappy husband advanced and placed upon 
 one of the dead fingers a ring which he had purchased some 
 months before as a present for his wife, but which the con- 
 tiaual recurrence of topics of dissension had left him without 
 the opportunity of appropriating as he intended. The 
 strongly refracted lustre of the gem cast a gleam on the 
 discoloured hand and on the sable decorations of the coffin, 
 — a mournfal smile at human vanity ! Its light fell too 
 upoa the eye of the undertaker's assistant, who stood wait- 
 ing to shut out for ever from the dead the last ray that* was 
 to shine upon her from an earthly sun. 
 
 " Take it, Sarah," said the heart-broken widower, as he 
 leaned upon the side of the coffin, and gazed on the cold 
 inmate with a smi!e of anguish, — " take it from him who 
 now repents that he has ever angered thee. It comes late, 
 but it has long since been thine, and I hope thou wilt for- 
 give, though thou canst not see nor thank me for it now. 
 We were parted in our anger ; it was a just stroke, and it 
 i.i quite irreparable ; yet it is some comfort to look upon thee 
 as thou liest there so motionless, and to ask thee to forgive 
 me, though thou never more canst answer word of mine. 
 S;iut down the coffin now, for I have taken my last farewell 
 of happiness on earth." 
 
 There were few amongst the spectators who were not 
 moved by the grief of the repentant husband. The doctor 
 of the place, who was his friend and a worthy kind of man, 
 remained with him during the night after the funeral, 
 endeavouring as well as he could to moderate the excess of 
 l^is a^iction. 
 
 la the mean time, (so runs the tale,) the undertaker's 
 man did not forget the glitter of the gem which was en- 
 closed within the lady's coffin. He was, in addition to his 
 occupation in the service of his employer, one of the greatest 
 rogues in Taunton, and' could hardly reconcile to his mind 
 the idea of this valuable brilliant remaining for ever buried 
 in the gloom of Mrs. Kingsly's sepulchre. There, it could 
 
20 THE DtTKE OF VONHOUTB. 
 
 be of BO nse whatever, and he knew of many to which it 
 might be applied if he had it in his possession. Accord- 
 ingly he commnnicated his ideas upon the Fiibject to 
 another ruffian like himself, who readily entered into a plot 
 for plundering the grave. At midnight, having provided 
 themselves with the necessary instruments, they proceeded, 
 under favour of an iuterlunar light, to the small churchyard 
 within a quarter of a mile from town where the body had 
 been interred. One kept watch outside the gate ; while 
 the other, with the assistance of the pickaxe and wrenches 
 which they had brought, found little difficulty in disclosing 
 the unconscious object of their search, and the envied ring 
 was already glittering in the light of the dark-lantera 
 which he ca:rried beneath his cloak. 
 
 All now was silent, and, except where the lantern cast a 
 shortened gleam, as dark as midnight and a starless sky 
 could make it. The undertaker's man, rogue as he was, 
 had not yet arrived at that state of graceless indifferenco 
 which Shakspeare ascribes to Macbeth when, desiring to 
 depict the consummation of moral ruin, he makes hia hero 
 say that " he has almost forgot the taste of fears." Still 
 busy at the grave, he began to hasten his work, urged on 
 as much by supernatural terrors as by the fear of detection. 
 He had never been before engaged in plunder of such a 
 nature, and all the dread associations connected with the 
 place and time began to crowd, !n spite of all his efforts, oa 
 his mind. Grim faces began to stare upon him from the 
 darkness, and awful sounds were mingled with t^e rushing 
 of the midnight wind. He hurried with his task. The 
 ring was now grown tight upon the finger, and he felt some 
 difficulty in removing it. In his terror he used force 
 instead of dexterity ; but to his hoiTor, instead of yielding 
 to his effisrts, the cold hand stirred in his. A low moaa "' 
 broke from the lips of the dead, and the robber stayed tw ' 
 hear no more. Leaving lamp and all behind, he scampered 
 towards the town, followed by his comrade, who, thongh 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOCTH. 21 
 
 anaLIe to ascertain the cause of his flight, conjectured that 
 it was not without a motive. 
 
 lu the mean time, poor Mrs. Kingsly, who had only 
 fallen into what is commonly called a trance, became per- 
 fectly conscious. It may be imagined with what astonish- 
 ment she found herself seated by an open grave, wrapped 
 in the garments of death, a lantern at her side, and the 
 gusts of the night driving cold upon her frame. Scarcely 
 yet alive, she arose from the ground on which she lay, and 
 taking the lantern in her hand, endeavoured to find her 
 way along the little path which crossed the burying- 
 ground. By degrees, as her understanding became more 
 awake, and some familiar objects presented themselves to 
 her observation, a confused idea of the truth began to rush 
 upon her mind. She remembered, but without distinct- 
 ness, some circumstances of the quarrel with her husband, 
 and of her subsequent illness, and the conclusion that she 
 bad been buried alive was readily inferred; but how 
 she came thus disinterred at midnight, or whether in 
 truth she were alive or dead, or sleeping or awake, cy 
 whether all that had passed and was passing before hei" 
 mind, were not some hideous dream, — was more than she 
 found herself yet competent to determine. Whether she 
 woke or slept, however, the I'oad was one which she re* 
 membered well, and she pursued her way to town, directing 
 her steps by means of the light which the robbers had left 
 behind them, and scaring out of their senses the few indi- 
 viduals whom she happened to meet upon the way. 
 
 It was now near one o'clock, and Caj tain Kingsly and 
 his comforter (the physician already spoken of) were seated 
 by a blazing sea-coal fire, with some wine and other 
 refreshments on the tabic between them, — the friend 
 endeavouring from time to time to find arguments of con- 
 solation, and Mr. Kingsly combating every suggestion of 
 peace with some new ground of sorrow. 
 
 " You should not sjpeak," said the frieud, as he sip^ei 
 
22 THE DUKE OP MONMOUTH. 
 
 his wine, "so despondingly of your future life. You can 
 form no judgment as to what happiness, even earthly 
 happiness, Providence may have yet in store for you, pro- 
 •vided you only exercise a little patience. It is not so much 
 on the number of our worldly blessings as on the state of 
 our own minds that our real peace depends. How often 
 do we find that a misfortune which, when contemplated a^ 
 barely possible, seemed utterly intolerable, has, when 
 actually encountered, become far easier and lighter than it 
 was in fancy ! Whenever I hear of some unhappy indivi- 
 dual ungratefully and cowardly yielding to the temptations 
 of despair, and flinging away the existence which he fan- 
 cied for him was now grown bare of promise, I have said 
 in my own mind, ' If that man had but waited one day 
 longer, he might have found all his trouble at an end, aud 
 the good he coveted within his reach.' " 
 
 Here he put the glass to his lips with a eelf-coa- 
 tented air. 
 
 " It is easy to theorise," said Kingsly, " where one has 
 no experience." 
 
 '• Nay, by your leave, Captain Kingsly," said the 
 doctor, " not so wholly without experience neither. When 
 poor Andromache, my first partner in the dance of life, 
 departed from the set and left me single, I felt, as you do 
 now, entirely hopeless, and doomed, as I supposed, to eke 
 out the figure in solitary awkwardness, or retire altogether 
 from the maze, to sit apart on the chair of loneliness, in 
 the corner of afiSiction, behind the door of despondeacy. 
 And yet nine months had not rolled by, when good Pene- 
 lope even more than supplied to me the heavy loss I had 
 sustained. Nor when Penelope herself in turn departed 
 was my affliction less ; nor when her place was filled again 
 by my present excellent helpmate, was my satisfaction 
 more. Say not, therefore, that I am a man whose patience 
 has not been tried, nor that it is without cause I advisa 
 thee to look for comfort even out of the depths of woe." 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 23 
 
 ** Thy counsel is in vain," said Kingsly ; " for thou 
 talkest of a kind of hope which is to rae more hideous thaa 
 even my grief itself. 1 grant the duty and the necessity 
 of patience, but it is not by persuading me I have little 
 cause for dejection that thou caust hope to lighten it. It 
 is by being resigned to my affliction, and not by under- 
 rating it, that 1 best can hope to avoid the crime of 
 murmuring." 
 
 " Why, true," said the friend, " that is as a man 
 measures it in his understanding. Let every one deal 
 with his enemy as he sees the fairest prospect of success. 
 Qtiot homines, tot sententice — 
 
 Many men of many minds, 
 Many birds of various kinds. 
 
 This man's beard is yellow — t' other's black — the next is 
 red, and so forth. So it is with the mind and disposition : 
 we may arrive at the same end by different routes, and, 
 provided both be lawful, the variety is of little consequence. 
 Wherefore it is of no importance whether thou consider 
 thy calamity of great or trivial import, provided thou dis- 
 cover motive of adequate consolation." 
 
 " Once more," answered Captain Kingsly, " speak not 
 to me of consolation. To be consoled is not my duty. I 
 do not murmur, but thou canst not persuade me that I 
 have reason to be happier than if Sarah had not died. 
 And for my worldly hope, I tell thee there is none. I am 
 not presumptuous enough to suppose that Providence will 
 work a miracle in order to give me my desire, and in the 
 course of nature it is impossible I can obtain it. Speak 
 not of comfort, then, unless thou canst bid Sarah leave her 
 grave to second thee." 
 
 At this moment, a low tapping was heard at the window 
 of the room, and a mournful voice, whose accents were well 
 known to both the watchers, said, in a soft tone : — 
 
24 T}fE DUIE or MONMOITTH. 
 
 " Edward Kingsly — dear Edward, will yon not open 
 the door to your own Sarah ?" 
 
 The faces of both speakers grew at least once ami a 
 half as long as nsnal. Their eyes seemed starting froni 
 their sockets, and their pale cheeks and chattering teeth 
 declared the extremity of their affright. As for the doc- 
 tor, he saw more Captain Kingslys than he had power to 
 count. The latter, in the meantime, went to the hall-door; 
 which he had no sooner opened, than the poor shivering 
 lady entered, almost frozen to death, and still bearing the 
 lantern in her hand. At sight of her, the comforter, with 
 a yell of despair, cast himself upon the ground, and creep- 
 ing nnder the table, buried his face between his han«ls. 
 It was not without some hesitation that even the husband 
 recovered presence of mind sufBcient to address her ; nor 
 did he feel altogether at his ease when this sepulchral 
 figure approached with outstretched arms to greet him with 
 an affectionate embrace. But what indeed were his asto- 
 nishment and delight when he found that it was, in point 
 of fact, his real living spouse who was thus unexpectedly 
 restored to him ! He deeply repented of all his past irre- 
 gular itit», and his want of generous reliance on that Provi- 
 dence which had thus evinced its power by taking away 
 the happiness he had not deserved, and its mercy by re- 
 storing it. The heart which affliction might have only 
 dejected was softened into gratitude by unexpected joy, 
 and, from that time forward, his observant neighbours 
 said that a considerable reformation was effected in the 
 captain's habits of life. Nor does it appear that any 
 further difference of opinion arose respecting the education 
 of the young Kingslys, who, from the time of their mother's 
 death (which occurred some years after) continued to be 
 instructed with almost equal attention beneath their father'* 
 cue. 
 
THE i>vcK OF Koxncoura. 25 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Hekrt KiNGSLY, frank, bold, and honourable, was intimate 
 with his new friends almost as soon as he became known 
 to them^ Captain Kingsly also subdued his loyal preju- 
 dices so far as to receive them with kindness, and was active 
 in assisting Caspar FullartOB to accomplish his pre^nt 
 wishes with regard to the settlement of the family in 
 Taunton Dene. In less than a fortnight after their arrival 
 he had procured for them a handsome cottage, situated 
 (as has been already intimated) in one of the prettiest 
 glades that opened on the banks of the Tone. 
 
 "Farewell, then, faction I" said Caspar Fullarton in bis 
 own mind, as he stood at the door of his new dwelling, 
 and gazed in admiration on the beautiful landscape which 
 lay before it. " This valley, if it offer no path to distinc- 
 tion or to fortune, at least will afford to me a shelter 
 against the fury of oppression, and to my children a walk 
 in life secure, though humble, and free from the thorny 
 perplexities that infest the track of the ambitious." 
 
 In the principal hope, however, which led him to select 
 this part of the country as a residence, the aged Scot was 
 doomed to suffer disappointment. The fatigue of the 
 journey contributed more to accelerate the4)rogress of Mrs. 
 Fallarton's disease,, than the ah- of her native valley to 
 retard it ; and within a few weeks after taking possession 
 of the cottage, her family had to perform the duty of depo- 
 piting her remains in the vault used by her relatives in a 
 neighbouring churchyard. 
 
 It happened that Arthur Fullarton and Henry Kingsly 
 were amongst those who, on the day of the funeral, 
 descended into the spacious family vault which was destined 
 to bo the last home of all the loyal captain's race. While 
 there, young Kingsly pointed out to Arthur a recess iu 
 wliich, be said, it was rumoured that a celebrated cavalier 
 
^ THE CUKE OF UOKMOUTH. 
 
 had lain concealed for a considerable time during the 
 course of the civil wars, while a close and unavailing search 
 was made for him throughout the neighbourhood. During 
 the whole of that period he had stirred from his hiding- 
 place only at midnight, when provisions T»ere brought him 
 by a little girl scarcely twelve years old, the only confidant 
 to whom his secret was intrusted, and by whose means he 
 was at length enabled to effect his escape to the Continent. 
 
 Arthur Fullarton could not at the time account to him- 
 self for the strange and deep effect which this story took 
 upon his mind. He gazed long upon the place, van over 
 hi his memory all that he l.cJ heard of the history of those 
 eventful times, and fancied he beheld the little heroine of 
 the tale in the act of making one of her nocturnal visits to 
 the luiking-place of the cavalier, looking fearfully around, 
 from time to time, lest some unfriendly eye might watch 
 her steps, and shuddering as the night-blast suddenly 
 shook the wavering boughs that overshadowed the place of 
 tombs. In some months after he related the incident to 
 his sister, Aquila Fullarton ; after which, as it often hap- 
 pens, having disburdened his mind of the story, it was 
 soon forgotten. 
 
 Every day, however, brought fresh reason to believe 
 that the troubled waters of those eventful times were yet 
 far from being restored to a condition of permanent repose. 
 From evident causes, although no longer mingling in the 
 cares of party, the FuUartons continued to retain a strong 
 sympathy with the opponents of the court. The phantoms 
 of the Popish Plot still danced before the eyes of the good 
 people of the West; even the blood of the venerable 
 Stafford had not wholly laid the evil spirit ; they could still 
 see plots and raijiifications between the Stuarts and the 
 court of Rome ; fire, slaughter, black bills, and Tewkesbuiy 
 mustard pills, still haunted the imaginations of the mnlii- 
 tnde ; nor were the Fnllartons by any meaas exempt from 
 the general prepossession. 
 
TOffi DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 27 
 
 Desirous, in common with many aronnd him, to catch at 
 any pi'etencc which might favour the exclusion of the Duke 
 of York from the throne to which he might look forward 
 in the course of time, Gaspar Fullarton lent a ready ear to 
 the rumour, about that time beginning to be circulated, 
 respecting the legitimacy of the Duke of Monmouth. It 
 was true the latter had no great claims either in his public 
 or private character on the admiration of the Scot ; but 
 anything seemed better than the Duke of York, invested 
 with all the terrors which party had ascribed to him. It 
 was on a market-day in Taunton, whither he had gone for 
 the purpose of seeing some stock disposed of, that old 
 Fullarton first heard the rumour spoken of. 
 
 " What say you, sir ?" he exclaimed to the individual 
 (a comfortable-looking grazier from the Parret side) who 
 happened to mention the circumstance in the parlour of the 
 Three Crowns — a general rendezvous on market-days not 
 only for the townsfolk, but for the neighbouring yeomen, 
 who frequently stepped in to conclude their bargains or 
 discuss the news over a glass of Taunton " yal." " How 
 can ye think that such a story will go down ? The King 
 married to Lucy Walters ?" 
 
 " Ay, sir, they say it's downright sarten shower. So, by 
 consequence, there are to be two words to the crown o* these 
 kingdoms, as they say ; but I say nothin one way or t'other, 
 bein a man of naw porty nor faction, nuther Petitioner nor 
 Abhorrer, Whig or Tory, Exclusionist or Non- exclusionist, 
 seeing that in the way o' my business I have to commune 
 with persons of every ^" 
 
 The general murmur of surprise and pleasure cut short 
 the grazier's speech : the news appeared to give universal 
 satisfaction. 
 
 '* The Duke of Monmouth the King's awn lawful zon !" 
 said Masther Grimes, the verger — '• I always thought 
 there was zummat at tha bottom o' this afi'air. 1 had 
 my awn thought about it, though I zed nothia to no- 
 
28 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 body. I can zee as var into a quern stone as mo6t 
 withers." 
 
 " As vor me," said Godfrey Bunn, a noisy baker, who 
 seldom missed an opportunity of taking a share in any public 
 tumult in the town, but was not equally remarkable for con- 
 sistency, " it war iver my opinion tha Duke o' York has 
 naw moor right ta be King ov England than I to be Mayor 
 o' Bedgwater ; an nif it war ta come to tha zwoord " 
 
 " Husht ! neighbour," said another, " theaz-amy be'nt 
 aafe words." 
 
 " I dwon't care a burn't crowst vor safety 1 I ?ay, an' 
 I'll n>aintain it, it is ivery man's duty to support tha Duke 
 o' Monmouth." 
 
 " Well," said his friend Setright, the pacific miller — 
 " there's a time vor all things." 
 
 A few days after threw a damp upon the sanguine thoughts 
 which had been excited by this agreeable piece of news. 
 The King himself had come down to the council in order to 
 extinguish at the outset a delusion so full of danger. He 
 there formally and plainly contradicted the common rumour, 
 and notwithstanding his well-known fondness and partiality 
 for Monmouth, put a decided bar between him and the ac- 
 complish meut of his ambitious schemes, by plainly declaring 
 his illegilimacy. 
 
 It happened (no uncommon occurrence) that one side of 
 the question only, and that of course the one most favour- 
 able to their own feelings and prejudices, was discussed in 
 the household of Gaspar Fullarton. Every circumstance 
 which could give plausibility to the rumour was there in- 
 itiated on and enforced with eagerness by Arthur and his 
 father, Aquila Fullarton, who was warmly interested in 
 such discussions, partly from love of her native country, and 
 partly also because they absorbed almost the whole attention 
 of her brother, became thus convinced, not only that the 
 Duke of York was all she had ever been led to believe him, 
 but that the young Duke of Monmouth, his rival of long 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 29 
 
 standing, was in point of law and right the actual heir to 
 the crown. She heard her father and brother dwell on the 
 storj of the secret marriage of the King, the contract signed 
 and deposited in a black box still in existence : but she 
 heard nothing of those facts which tended to throw discredit 
 on the tale ; of the rumours respecting the character of Lucj 
 "Walters which made the idea of a marriage incredible, and 
 of the solemn denial made bj the King himself. Insensibly, 
 therefore, she became wholly enlisted on the side of the 
 exiled Duke, and shared in the wishes of the greater portion 
 of the inhabitants of the Dene, that an opportunity might 
 be ere long afforded of restoring him to his country and his 
 inheritance. Such thoughts and such conversations were 
 of oourse suppressed in the presence of the Kingslys, who, 
 on their side, were equally sparing of their loyalty in the 
 hearing of their Scottish friends. 
 
 It was in the same place in which he had heard the re- 
 port of the King's marriage, and surrounded by a somewhat 
 similar company, that old FuUarton heard it contradicted. 
 For some time after a blank and defeated silence seemed to 
 have tied up the tongues of the listeners. Master Grimes,, 
 the verger, was the first to speak. 
 
 " I say nothing, masters, but I have my private opinion 
 on that matter. I can see summat at the bottom of it. It 
 is i>ot every one has got a lynx's eyes, I say nothing." 
 
 For some time no further remark was made. On many 
 of the company the declaration of the King seemed to have 
 the same effect as a burst of thunder heard unexpectedly 
 overhead, 
 
 " Well," exclaimed the baker, to whom it now seemed 
 a£ if all had changed their minds, " tha King knows beat. 
 He that's bound a must awbey, 
 Bit he that's vree can him away. 
 
 Passive obedience is tha subject's duty as laid down by act 
 o"* parliament in zeventy-fower, Thira's law aa' scripture 
 
8© THE »UKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 " It Strikes me, masters," said Gaspar FuIlartoB, " that 
 the questiou is not here so much, whether the power may 
 be laAvfuUy resisted, as, which is the lawful power ? If the 
 Duke of Monmouth be the King's legitimate son, there is 
 no man here but will agree, that whatever the actual power 
 may be, the lawful power is in him." 
 
 " Ye zay true — not one, Maester FuUarton," cried several 
 v.jice.3. 
 
 *• Cum what ool cum," said the baker, " we here in 
 Taunton an tha West ool stau by the house an the liberties 
 o' the nation." 
 
 " Talk o' the Duke o' York !" cried another ; " I tell ye I 
 aid a gennelman myzel, that was awver in Roam whaur tha 
 Pooap da live, an I ha hired en zay vor zarten shower 
 tha Pooap has horns — ay, an a tail as long as a walkin- 
 stick. A zeed it with iz awn eyes curlin out under his long 
 gowud, vor all tha wordle like a black zarpeat, at a zingin 
 mass." 
 
 " Nooa, bit a did'n though ?" 
 
 " Eese, a did, I tell ye ; an I believe en I* 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 I» a corner of the room in which the foregoing converaation 
 passed, were some individuals who did not appear to take 
 the average share of interest in what was going forward. 
 At one table, sipping his glass of Taunton ale alone, and 
 seeming desirous as much as possible to avoid observation, 
 gat a person whose length of beard, and other peculiarities 
 as well of person as of attire, announced the Jew. Those 
 who watched him closely, however, could observe that he lis- 
 tened with an acute sharpness of attention whenever the con^ 
 versation turned on the intentions of the Court or the claims 
 «if the exiled Dako ; and that^ wUcq Gaspar FuUarton spokt 
 
THE DUKE OF MOKMOUTH. 31 
 
 m tlie manner above related, he turned his heafl sufficiently 
 to cast a piercing backward glance over his shoulder at the 
 speaker, and to peruse his figure and countenance w^th a 
 keen and active eye. 
 
 At another table sat two persons who did not manifest 
 even the same degree of furtive interest in what was passing. 
 By the tight-fitting or nether garment of many hues, in the 
 waist-belt or girdle of which M'cre inserted a short skene or 
 knife, and the dark-green barrad-cap, it appeared that they 
 were inhabitants of the neighbouring island. An ash-han- 
 dled pike which stood near one of them, added probability 
 to the conjecture, and the style of their conversation put the 
 case beyond dispute. 
 
 " Well, Shamus," said he who seemed the more authori- 
 tative of the two, addressing his companion in an under tone, 
 "• now that we have our dinner ate an' all, what are we to do 
 next ?" 
 
 " To pay for it, Morty, I'm thinkin," 
 
 " That's aisier said than done. How mnch have you ?" 
 
 " Sarrow cross." 
 
 '' An* it's the same way with meself. We'll be skivered 
 alive before we lave the place. What'll we do at all ?" 
 
 " How duv I know ?" 
 
 " That's just the way with you, always. You're never 
 any good for thinkin of a ha'p'orth. How well you thought 
 t' comin in an' atin it." 
 
 " Why not, when I was hungry ? What would yoa 
 have a man to do ?" 
 
 " I'll tell you what it is, Shamus, this won't thrive witu 
 13 long ; an' if there hain't a stop put to it shortly 'twas 
 betther for us we never left the bog o' Ballyhahill. This 
 may be called seekin our fortune, but I'm sure 'tis very far 
 short of findin it. How in the airthly world are we to 
 manage now !" 
 
 " I'll tell yon," answered Shamns. " Let ns get up an* 
 walk out, au' maybe they'd take no notice of uz." 
 
82 THE duke; of mokuocth. 
 
 *' Never say k again. That's a cfood thocrht. Wait till T 
 see the bottom o' tiiis dhrop, au' I'll be alouy witb you." 
 
 They both arose, a<ad with An ui>concerRed leok and pace 
 were walking quietly towards the door, wbea the laadlord 
 espied the movement. 
 
 " Ho J ho] come bact aad pay yomr bill, my friefld !" h« 
 eried, laying his hand upoa the arm of Sham-as Delaaey; 
 " you have forget to settle for the dinaer." 
 
 "SeUie?" repeated Shamus, looting over his sboalaer 
 with a fitare ef affected dullness and simplicity ; " I couldn't 
 ate any more, I'm obleest to you, sir." 
 
 " I don't waot ye to eat more^ I want ye t» pay for 
 what ye had." 
 
 *' Pay, woo ? A' what talks it isl — what pay, maa?'* 
 
 ^' Come, -come, friend — pay for the dinner." 
 
 "For my dinaerJ Pay for atiu my diHaer? Is that 
 the way you keep open house ? Thai's more than ever I 
 seen io Ballyhahill any way, bad as it is, wfcer« you might 
 walk ittto a«y house ia the -counthi-y for Hothiii' but the 
 trouble o' liftin the latch, an' ate your bellyfuU wiihout bein 
 axed so tnoch as to say '' thanky,' if yoa .dida'c like your- 
 self" 
 
 " Come, friend," said the host, " there's too mach o' this 
 Boasense — let's see the inside o' your purse." 
 
 " Morty," said Shamus, iurning to his compaBion. "did 
 you ever hear of so shabby an act as thati*" 
 
 ■" Oh, 'tis disgraceful, " aaswered Morty. 
 
 *' Well, since you insist ou payment," resamed Shamus, 
 *' let «s knew the oost." 
 
 The iandlofd gave him the bUl, which the Intshman, with 
 a poKt« obeisauce, handed to Caspar Fullartoa. 
 
 *' I'd thank your honour," he said, " since yon seem a 
 jlntleman o' ciphers, if you'd let me kaow the contents «* 
 that, in ordlier that I may see it is correct." 
 
 Gaspar Fullarton, emiling ^ood-hamoBredly, read tlie 
 items of iliC accouau 
 
THE DUKE OF UONUOUXU. , 33 
 
 *' loiprimis, two pounds of beef, four peace." 
 
 *' I confess the beef — it was choice." 
 
 " Item, bread, a penny." 
 
 *' You'd get a skiogh o' piatez for half tbe mooey in 
 BallyhahiU." 
 
 " Item, ale for two, three-pence." 
 
 " I wouldn't give a mouthful of usquebaugh for a lake of 
 it. I humbly thank your honour. Well," he continued, 
 folding the bill and depositing it ia the pocket of Lis 
 trnis, " I admit the correctness o' the contents, an' whea 
 I'm next comia back this way it is my design to pay the 
 amount." 
 
 " That won't do," said the landlord ; " you must pay this 
 bill at once." 
 
 " Oh, but that's impossible, my fiiend; mu$i is for the 
 King, and not for you." 
 
 " How say you ?" 
 
 *' I haven't any money, man, I tell y»u.** 
 
 " Well, your friend, I suppose, is purse-bearer ?** 
 
 " He may bear a purse, but I declare 'tis a long time 
 since there was anything in the inside of it." 
 
 " Then, what business bad you and he to eat what you 
 couldn't pay for ?" 
 
 " A', d'ye hear this ? — What bnsiaess had we to ate our 
 dinner ? What would you do yourself if you were hungry ? 
 I'm surprised at your want o' sense." 
 
 The sang-froid with which these answers were delivered 
 created general laughter in the room, aided, as they were ia 
 effect, by the disconcerted look of the landlord. 
 
 " I believe," said the latter, " that you are little better 
 than you should be, the one and t'other of ye." 
 
 " Little betther 1 Is it to us you are speakia?" exclaimed 
 Morty, turning quickly round. 
 
 " Don't sthrike him, Morty ?" 
 
 " Is it because jintleracn happen to have their pockets 
 desolate of siuall change, that it should come to your tura 
 
 C 
 
34 THE DtTKE OF MONMOUTH^ 
 
 to run us down? If our pockets be empty, our word ia 
 good for more tlsan the amount o' that 1" 
 
 " Morty, don't sthrike him !" 
 
 " Let him go, I tell you, Shamus ! I'll do what 1 think 
 proper. I hope I know how to conduct myself like a jintle- 
 man. Doesn't he desarve it, if I sthruck him itself ?" 
 
 " What hurt, what hurt, if he does ? Be quiet an' never 
 mind him." 
 
 " Little betther than we should be ! — " 
 
 " Come, host,** said Gaspar Fullarton, who had enjoyed 
 the scene, " you must let this pass. I'll take care you are 
 no loser." 
 
 " May I beg to know your honour's name ?" said Morty. 
 
 Old Fullarton informed him. 
 
 " Then never mind," said Morty ; " I never'Il sit by to 
 hear thsit name ill spoken of, any way, while I'm in com- 
 pany. The jintleman is aisy seen." 
 
 Gaspar Fullarton thanked him for the care he promised 
 to take of his reputation, and then requested to know what 
 were their views in coming so far from home without money. 
 
 "Why, then, sir," said Morty, "the raison we come 
 without money was, because we hadn't it to bring with us, 
 you may be sure." 
 
 " Then, why did you come at all ?" 
 
 " Oh, then, that's the very question I'm axin meself an' 
 Shamus here a'most ever since 1 parted Ballyhahill ; an' not 
 a word o* answer he or I can give to it, excepiin that w& 
 wor a pair o' fools.*' 
 
 " We're two poor boys, sir," said Shamus, 
 
 " Twins, sir — two twin brothers" — interposed Morty. 
 
 "That had father an' mother, house an' home, kilt an' burn; 
 about us by the ould thief Cromwell an' the English " 
 
 " Howl your whisht, man !" whispered Morty, drawing him 
 aside and cautioning him in the ear — " you're desthroyin 
 us. Don't give it out at all that we were ever fightin again 
 the English. Don't you know, yon fool, 'tis all English 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. S5 
 
 we're talkin to ?" And he concluded this adrice with a 
 friendly nudge in the elbow. •» 
 
 " Tell it yourself, man," whispered Shamns. 
 
 *' An' so, sir," said Morty, striding before his brother wiih 
 a superior air, " having nothin left at home, we all took it 
 in our heads to go and seek our fortunes elsewhere. There 
 was betther than half a dozen of us brothers an' sisthers an' 
 as we wor ; so, afther the paarents goin, we began to think 
 o' Jack an' his eleven brothers, an' what loock they got seekin 
 their fortunes abroad in foreign parts an' picken up oceans 
 o' goold on every high road. So startin from the ould place 
 always we wished one another good-b'ye, after makin a 
 match to meet again upon the same spot Aisther Sathurday 
 four years ; an* all took different roads, exceptin Shamns an' 
 meself, as bein twins. That's what brought us to Taunton ; 
 an* as for corain without money, I stated our raison for that 
 before — namely, that we hadn't it. Eb, Shamns ?" 
 
 " It's the thruth you're tellin, Morty." 
 
 "We're on the ould business now, sir, lookin for a 
 masthcr. Although it's ourselves that says it, we might be 
 worth our hire. Both of us understands the pike, elegant, 
 besides dancin." 
 
 While the attention of the company was engaged by the 
 singular history and no less singular dress and language of 
 the t«o Irishmen, a shout was heard in the street, and 
 presently the sound of a fife and drum announced the ap- 
 proach of a recruiting party. The window of the inn gave 
 those who stood within a view of the proceedings outside. 
 The clattering of bandeliers, and the novel appearance of 
 the men, armed with the newly-invented firelock, instead of 
 the tedious and awkward match-gun formerly in use, at- 
 tracted around the party a considerable number of idlers. 
 
 " Who's for the Moors, my lads ?" exclaimed a hale and 
 blnflf recruiting-sergeant. " Who's for the land where gold 
 grows wild, and diamonds and rubies are to be had for the 
 gathering ?" 
 
3$ THE DUKE OF MONMODTH. 
 
 Tn answer to a qnestiaa from Gaspar Fullarton, tli« 
 landlord informed him that the party belonged to a regi- 
 ment but lately come to town for the purpose of recruiting. 
 It was tinder the command of the well-known Colonel 
 Kirke, whose services at Tangiers in Morocco were matter 
 of general notoriety. The regiment had suffered mucii 
 from the tropical climate in which it had been stationed, 
 and a large bounty was offered, but few recmits as yet 
 could he indsced to accept of it. The cruel character of 
 the colonel, he said, tended still more to deter them from 
 -enlisting flnder his command, than their dread of the climate 
 in which he served. Of the pa-oofs which the colonel had 
 given of the disposition ascribed to bim, the landlord related 
 many horrible stories, reported to hav-e oc-curred not only 
 daring his residence amongst the Moors, {of whose manners 
 he had shown himself so apt a follower,) but even since 
 bis return to England. In the mean time tie sergeant 
 continued his alluring speeches. 
 
 " The country is hot, and it is troublesome stooping,"^ 
 said be, taking off his hat and arranging the feather with 
 great nonchalance : ^' but fw that, I tell ye, I might often 
 have filled my pouch with emeralds and carbuncles as I 
 tk^alked tiie roads." 
 
 Here the t^vo Irishiiiea Jduod the erowd Around the 
 speaker. 
 
 " Have you never heard of the Emperor of Morocco, my 
 masters ? or of the Mountains of the Moon, where yoa ca« 
 Shave a waggon-load of green cheese at any time better 
 than tfae choicest Stiltoa or Gloucestei'shire, for the trouble 
 of slicing it off? " 
 
 ^' A', Shamus, d'ye bear that ?" said Morty. 
 
 " A', don't mind him, man ; 'tis only inveiglia he is.** 
 
 ** Or tlie Ivory Coast, where all the roads are paved 
 with elephants' teeth, and the women can fill their apions 
 with oombs ai»d housewifes as they walk along the water- 
 «ideP Or of the -Gold €oa^ of Guinea, where )eUo«r 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 37 
 
 kings' beads are found in greater plenty than flints in a 
 
 chalk-pit in the Dene ?" 
 
 " There's no use in talkin, Shanans, but I'll list." 
 
 " A' howl, man I Is it to demain your family to go list 
 
 yon would ?" 
 
 " Don't you hear where he's goin ? to the Coast erf 
 
 Guinea, An isn't that the very spot we're lookin for 2** 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 "While the sergeant continued bis harangue, a superior 
 officer, mounted on a splendid charger, accompanied by a 
 subaltern and half a dozen carbineers also on horseback, 
 made his appearance before the windows of the inn. 
 
 " There now I" cried the landlord in eagar tone; " now 
 ye can zee the colonel." 
 
 A moment y«revious, the Jewish-looking wayfarer already 
 alluded to was about to steal unnoticed from the room, 
 having already settled his account with the landlord, when, 
 on this new interruption, he drew back and occupied a seat 
 in a corner still more obscure and less exposed to observa- 
 tion than that in which he had taken up his place before. 
 By this time nearly all the guests, except Gaspar Fullarton, 
 had left the room. Colonel ICirke, with the officer in 
 attendance, alighted at the inn door, and entering, called 
 for writing materials, apparently with the view of arranging 
 some account with the officer. 
 
 Gaspar Fullarton, who had heard much of Kirke even 
 before the landlord made him acquainted with the stories 
 in circulation respecting his character, surveyed the person 
 and countenance of the new-comer with a strong and yet 
 repulsive interest, Neither was in anj high degi-ee conso- 
 
38 THE DUKE OF MOKMODTH. 
 
 nant with his preconceived notion of the owner's character. 
 Be beheld before him a man somewhat over the middle 
 •ize, and rather spare than otherwise ; his features not ill- 
 luoking, but marked by that expression of malign placidity 
 which is no less characteristic of the genuine tyrant than 
 all the ogre-like contortions and grimaces vulgarly asso- 
 ciated with the idea of habitual cruelty. There was 
 something like a smile upon his lips ; but it was a smile 
 that spoke not of benevolence at the heart, and held out no 
 light of promise to the hope of the supplicant. His very 
 courtesy, all easy as it was, seemed the refined dissimulation 
 of a callous nature. There was a kind of sternness in his 
 very courtliness of manner, a severity even in the smooth- 
 ness and gentleness of his demeanour and discourse, that 
 was more withering than the open violence of the unmasked 
 and ruffian oppressor. At times too, it was said, he could 
 be all the savage ; but it was only where the security of 
 his position afforded a free scope to liceuse. His hair was 
 already tinged with grey, though in so slight a degree as 
 to be scarcely perceptible. His complexion had much of 
 the sallowness, but little of the languor, usually acquired 
 by long residence in tropical countries ; and as he stood 
 glancing rapidly over the paper which he held in his hand, 
 it might be judged, from the keenness and concentration of 
 his look, that his mind in like manner had lust nothing 
 of its activity beneath the enervating influence of an 
 African sun. 
 
 Rumour had moreover assigned to him vices of the 
 iuxarious kind, the frequent concomitants of a cruel dispo- 
 sition, as the history of the generality of tyrants too clearly 
 testifies. Yet all this was by no means ready to strike 
 the beholder on a first acquaintance with the person and 
 flcmeanour of the individual in question. There were many 
 on whom the external show of calmness and placidity was 
 talculated to make a favourable impression, and even old 
 Haliartou wondered, as he gazed upon him, if a persou uf 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 39 
 
 SO unruffled an exterior could indeed have been guilty or 
 could even be capable of the atrocities which were ascribed 
 to him by common fame. 
 
 While Kirke was yet engaged in looking over the 
 account, the sergeant appeared at the open door, and 
 painting the former, said, 
 
 " An't please your honour, here's a fish at the hook.'* 
 
 " A flounder, I suppose ?" 
 
 *' An Irish one, please your honour,'* 
 
 " Let me see hiin." 
 
 The sergeant withdrew. 
 
 In the mean time a sharp remonstratory dialogue was 
 carried on between the two brothers already sp'ken of. 
 
 " A', Morty, man," said Shamus, plucking the former by 
 the arm, " is it talkin o' listiu you are in aiinest ?" 
 
 " Why, what hurt ? Why wouldn't I ?" 
 
 "A', man, think o' yourself. There never was one o' 
 the name demained themselves so far as to go list for a 
 soger. Remember the stock you sprung from. murther! 
 I wondher how the thoughts of it could come into your 
 mind ! AVhatever becomes of uz, let uz bear in mind that 
 we were born jintlomen, any way." 
 
 " I'll tell you what it is, Shamus, that was all very well 
 at home, where our people an' ourselves was known ; but 
 in foreign parts there's no one passes for a jintleman only 
 them that has the mains, an' that's what neither you nor 
 I can boast of. I'm tired o' this genteel starvation. You 
 wouldn't let us do a sthroke o' work in the way o' thrade, 
 an' now you wouldn't let me list, although 'tisn't half an 
 hour since we had like to be starved together. Say no 
 more. I bequeath you my share o' the gentility, since j ou 
 make so much of it ; an' I'd sthrongly recommend you to 
 slip it into your brogues, an' folly my example." 
 
 " Me list !" exclaimed Shamus. " Ah, no, Morty ; 
 there's ore o' the family any way that has some regard for 
 the name." 
 
40 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 Here the sergeant returned to conduct Morty to the 
 presence of Kirke. 
 
 " So, sir," said the latter, after surveying for some mo- 
 ments the person of the recruit, " yon have a mind to sei"ve 
 tic king ?" 
 
 " I have, plase your honour," 
 
 *' Well, what can yon do for him ?" 
 
 "I'll meet any man he'll name, fair play an' a clear gronnd, 
 Skene, pike, or battle-axe, in airnest, if my cause be good, 
 or o' purpose if he plases, for a thrial o' parts." 
 
 " Say you so ?" cried Kirke. *' Thou art ready at the 
 tongue, at all events. Take him under your charge, 
 sergeant. What say yon, sirrah ?" he added, addressing 
 Shamns, who had followed his brother at some distance and 
 with a downcast air ; " have you a mind to take a carbine 
 and become a gentleman ?" 
 
 " If I wasn't a jintleman already, sir," replied Shamus, 
 " I might take your offer." 
 
 " Don't ax him, plase your honour," said Morty ; " I'd 
 just as lieve he didn't list. Luck goes single, they sa\'. I'm 
 cure we never had much of it while we were together." 
 
 " Well, settle with the sergeant as yon will," cried Kirke, 
 as he left the inn. 
 
 " So, Morty, now you're listed," said Shamus, turning to 
 his brother. 
 
 " I am, or next door to it, which is the same." 
 
 *'WeD, I say no more, but I'm sorry we're partin: 
 go seek your fortune your way, an' I'll seek mine my way. 
 Maybe we'd meet again, an' maybe we wouldn't. Let us 
 remember any way that we're to be upon the cross o' Bally- 
 hahill upon last Aisther Saturday four years. So, good- 
 b'ye, till then." 
 
 "Good-b'ye, Shamus!" 
 
 Embracing cordially, they parted, Morty following the 
 
 The inn was presently cleared of all but the landlord, 
 
THE DUKB OF MONMOUTH. 41 
 
 who liad stepped into an adjoining room, and the Jewish 
 gaest, who still remained in the parlour. The lattsr seized 
 the opportunity of making bis exit unperceived. 
 
 " What, bo&ht V he said in a loud whisper ; " mine coot 
 sir, hosht !" 
 
 The laadlord re-entered, surveying the Jew with a sos- 
 picions air. 
 
 " Can yon tell n:>e,'' said the latter, touching the hrndTord's 
 arm in a familiar manner with the head of his cane, " vhcre 
 dosh that shentleman live — that Misther Fnllarton ?" 
 
 " Um I — You needn't ask. That gentleman is no bite, 
 I can tell you ; he's a Scotchman, an' more than a match 
 vor any Jew ont o* Lunniin." 
 
 " I know dat ; bat tell, vhere dosb he live ?* 
 
 " Go ask himself," said the landlord in a surly tone, as 
 be turned away. " I like none of yon Jews, I promise 
 thee : I have lost money to your brethren myself, ere now." 
 
 "Stay a bit!" cried the stranger, seizing him by the 
 arm ; " maybe I could say something in your ear would 
 make you like me better." 
 
 " I defy thee !" cried the landlord ; " I know your tribe 
 too well.'* 
 
 " Mavbe yon know myself ?'* 
 
 " Know thee !" 
 
 The stranger gazed full in bis face for some moments, 
 and then stooping over his shoulder, whispered him in the 
 ear. The words seemed to operate like a charm on the 
 mind of the listener ; he started back and gazed on the 
 speaker with the liveliest expression of astonishment and 
 pleasure. 
 
 " What I thee!" he said — " thee here in Taunton ! beo'sk 
 thee not afeerd ? Hast thee vcffgot so soon the land of 
 Cock-an-Mwile ?"* 
 
 " Hisht, hisht ! I have now no time to answer questions. 
 The times are changing fast, and tbon shalt see it ere long, 
 « QuA. 
 
42 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 I promise thee : in a few days thoa shalt know more. And 
 now thou wilt give me the information I sought ?" 
 
 The landlord complied, and the stranger after laying the 
 top of his staff against his lips in sign of secrecy took his 
 departure from the iua. 
 
 " Well," exdaimed the landlord after he had a little re- 
 covered from his surprise, " there be some folks make no 
 more of a halter than if it were a French cambric neckcloth. 
 A change m the times, qsoth-a ? It will be a change in- 
 deed, when the very bell-wether of all the rantypole Peti- 
 tioners in Zummerzet can walk the streets o' Tauntov at 
 noonday in the sigbt of the king^s dragoons. Well, tuere 
 are some folks that are gallas-raad ; they hover about it as 
 naatal as if they wor goin a sweetortin. If there beaii't a 
 match o' the kind in Taunton avore long, it on't be the 
 fault of a body that I could name.'* 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 Gaspar Fullakton was destined to meet again wltb Colonel 
 Kirke sooner than he had expected. As he left the inn in 
 order to return to the cottage, the day began to change, and 
 before he reached home the raia and wiad were diiving fast 
 across the Dene. Towards night, the storm increased, and 
 the family, as they sat around their cheerful fireside, could 
 hear from the public road, which ran by their dweliiag at a 
 moderate distance, the hurried gallop of a benighted horse- 
 man, or the rapid whirl of a wheeled vehicle making all 
 speed upon its homeward journey. Old FuUartoa entertained 
 his children and young Kingsly (who now spent oKwre of 
 his time than the loyal captain could have wished with his 
 new acquaintances) by relating all that he had witnessed 
 dming the day, dwelling more especially on the description 
 of Colonel Kirke, of whom there w^i^ no ittdividual present 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 43 
 
 bnt had heard epiwgh to feel a kind of repnlsive interest in 
 what was said. While all were still engaged in the dis- 
 cussion which arose when the old Scot had ended, they were 
 surprised to hear the tramp of horses coming down the little 
 avenue leading from the public road, and soon after by the 
 sound of voices close outside the windows. 
 
 " Have you found the door yet, Stephens ?" was asked 
 in an authoritative voice which could not be heard distinctly 
 from the parlour. " Make haste and knock, for there is no 
 travelling in such rain as this, more especially for a 
 Barbary habit. I hope the good folks will not refuse us 
 shelter." 
 
 A loud knock at the cottage door followed this speech. 
 Taking a candle in his hand, Arthur Fullarton, at his 
 father's desire, went himself to receive the travellers. The 
 door had been already opened by Donald the old Scottish 
 servant, and the light of Arthur's candle streaming out into 
 the darkness, revealed in a partial manner two military 
 figures, heavily cloaked and glistening with wet. One was 
 still seated on horseback ; the other stood at the door hold- 
 ing the reins of his charger. To their application for shelter 
 until the storm should pass away, or, at least, abate so far 
 as to allow them to continue their joarnej to the town with- 
 out the risk of being thoroughly drenched, Arthur replied 
 by inviting them to enter the cottage, while Donald, 
 assisted by the military servant who attended on the 
 strangers, should look to the comfort of the horses. 
 
 The strangers accepted the invitation with many polite 
 acknowledgments and apologies. The wet cloaks were taken 
 to the kitchen, and after having taken a little pains in re- 
 adjusting their attire, the officers entered the little parlour in 
 which the family were expecting them. Caspar Fullarton, 
 who thought he had already recognised the voice which 
 spoke without, had his surmise changed to certainty when 
 he looked upon the travellers. They were Colonel Kirke, 
 the subject of the conversation which had just been inter-» 
 
44 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 rnpted by his arrival, and the subaltern officer whom old 
 Fullarton saw vith him at the Three Crowns in Taunton. 
 
 The polite and easy address with which the colonol intro- 
 duced himself to the farmer's fireside circle, unconscious as 
 he was of the prepossessions afloat against him, contributed 
 in some degree to take off the edge of the prejudice under 
 which he suffered. This was more especially the case with 
 respect to Arthur, who, naturally frank and generous, was 
 somewhat over hasty in judging for good or evil by external 
 appearances. 
 
 The old farmer reiterated his son's expressions of welcome, 
 and felt himself called upon to say that his cottage could 
 afford a sleeping chamber, in case they preferred spending 
 a night beneath so humble a roof, to the venturing out again 
 in 80 wild a storm. The proposal was accepted by Kirke 
 without hesitation, and he had suflacient address, before half 
 an hour had passed, to render his new acquaintauces and 
 himself as much at ease as could be expected in the time, 
 considering their simple rural manners, his own inauspicious 
 fame, and the difference of rank, which was suflScient to 
 occasion at first some slight restraint on the part of the. 
 younger members of the circle. The evening passed in con- 
 versation chiefly on the perils and adventures of the field, 
 and Colonel Kirke contrived to recommend himself still fur- 
 ther to the good opinion of Arthur Fullarton by the conde- 
 scending manner in which he described the manners, customs, 
 and climate of the kingdom of P^ez. In that country he 
 had served long, until King Charles, not thinking the town 
 of Tangiers (part of the dowry of his Lusitanian queen) 
 worth preserving, ordered the works of the place to be blown 
 up, and the garrison to be recalled to England. He de- 
 scribed the towns, religion, arts, and commerce of the Moors 
 — the splendid mosques and palaces of Old and New Fez, 
 their mosaics, paintings, hospitals, baths and colleges, in 
 such a manner as to interest all the listeners ; while he 
 showed no less affability in answering the frequent qnes- 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 45 
 
 tions of Arthur with respect to the practical science of the 
 field. He had the dexterity likewise (for in him unfortu- 
 nately it was nothing more) to avoid the ostentatious show 
 of condescension put on by some puffed-up children of rank, 
 who, when they speak freely with an iuferior, do so with 
 an air as if they would say, ' See how humble I am ! I even 
 stoop to speak with you /' What he did, he did as thoroughly 
 as it could be done by one in whom the head alone, and not 
 the heart, was the directing principle. 
 
 In the course of the evening, Aquila, as if to terminate 
 the animated discussions which had arisen on military affairs, 
 being called on by her father to enliven the evening's en- 
 tertainment with a song, accompanied herself in the follow- 
 ing words : — 
 
 I. 
 
 Fan, fan the gay hearth, and fling back the batx'd door ; 
 Strew, strew the fresh rushes around on our floor ; 
 And blithe be the welcome in every breast. 
 For a soldier — a soldier to-night is our guest. 
 
 II. 
 AH honour to him who, when Danger afar 
 Had lighted for ruin his ominous star. 
 Left pleasure and country and kindred behind. 
 And sped to the shock on the wings of the wind. 
 
 IIL 
 
 If we value the blessings that shine at our hearth — 
 The wife's smiling welcome, the infant's sweet mirth — 
 While they charm us at eve, let us think upon those 
 Who have bought with their blood our domestic repose. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then share with the soldier your hearth and yonr home, 
 And warm be your greeting whene'er he shall come; 
 Let love light a welcome in e\'ery breast. 
 For a soldier — a solidi«r to-night is our guest 
 
 ■ At a late hour the family party separated, and early on 
 the foUowiug morning their military guests took their 
 
46 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 departnre. The acquaintance, however, thus accidentally 
 commenced was not allowed so soon to terminate. Colonel 
 Kirke became a frequent visitor at the cottage of the Ful- 
 lartons, and every day recommended himself more strongly 
 to the esteem of Arthur. His sister, however, who had 
 more penetration, was not so easily led to alter the impres- 
 sion of his character which she had derived from common 
 fame. There seemed even something peculiar and ana&- 
 countable in the repugnance and disrelish with which she 
 regarded all his conduct and demeanour, and she acknow- 
 ledged to her brother, with anxiety of mind, that she could 
 not herself explain the nature of her feehngs when in his 
 company. It more resembled, she said, what she had been 
 accustomed to read in ancient legends of the mysterious in- 
 fluence exerted over the minds of others by one who deals 
 with evil spirits, than any feeling of dislike for which she 
 could assign a natural cause. 
 
 " The very qualities which you admire in him," she said, 
 " move my repugnance. His very calmness has to my mind 
 an air of sedate malignity more horrible than all the furious 
 cruelty of a savage. Even his smile, and the artful syco- 
 phancy of his looks and gestures, have something dry and 
 heartless about them, which would make rudeness and in- 
 civility infinitely preferable. There is an appearance of 
 insincerity in all that he says and does, even when most 
 he seeks to please, that seems to repel the very idea of cor- 
 diality, and makes you imagine you never see his mind as 
 it really is." 
 
 " Seems — imagine — an appearance — an air — " re- 
 peated Arthur, with a smile. '' What a perfect picture you 
 have just drawn, Aquila, of the effects of prejudice ! Did 
 you ever look in your own mind for the colouring you give 
 to his demeanour ? You have heard horrible stories of him 
 — perhaps without a word of truth in them, — and by that 
 light it is that you read his words and actions. As to his 
 giiificial manner, that is the (&nU of the circle in which 
 
THE DUKE OT MONMOUTH. 47 
 
 he moves; yon quarrel with him for haying lired at 
 court." 
 
 " It may be as you say," replied Aquila, " and I hope 
 it is so ; but I cannot grant you that it is necessary to be 
 insiucere in order to be courtly. I have seen some of higher 
 place than bis who knew how to be obliging a3ad unaffected 
 at the same time.** 
 
 An incident whieh took plaee "within a few days after the 
 foregoing eonveisation, and which, with a scantier share of 
 prudence, might have Iwonght on disastrous consequences, 
 obliged Arthur to acknowledge that bis sister had taken the 
 ju5ter view of the character of their new acquaintance. 
 
 'ilie two families, forming a small party, had gone on a 
 short excursion to visit one of those old monastic ruins 
 which now serve no other purpose than of beautifying a 
 demesne, cr affording alight to the researches of the archi- 
 tect or the antiquary. On their return^ Arthur Fullarton 
 accompanied the Kingc-lys to their house, leaving Aquila at 
 the cottage gate to walk along the avenue without an escort. 
 Siie had scarcely elianged her attire when Colonel Kirke was 
 aunoaneed. 
 
 He seemed gratified to find lier alone, and talked much, 
 but with an occasional air of absence, which made it appear 
 to Aquila as if there were something on his mind which he 
 felt a difficulty in communicating. So far, as it afterwards 
 appeared, sbe judged eorreetly. 
 
 With :dl hiscimning, Kirke was deficient in real penetra- 
 tion of character. He knew the world well, he knew its ways, 
 its maxims, its iatrigues ; he had even a degree of aecurate 
 insight into minds and hearts of a morbid or vicious tem- 
 perament. He could trace in the countenance, the tone, or 
 the demeanour, the working?, however laboriously eoaceakd, 
 of jealousy, of hate, of euvy — of all the gloomy passioria 
 of the soul. But a pure and innocent heart was to him a 
 fountain sealed — a book illegible. Where vice andpassioa 
 ended, to his vitiated mind, dulUiess and insipidity began ; 
 
48 ' THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 and he couli not imagine the absence of crime and sel- 
 fishness without supposing weakness or folly in their 
 stead. 
 
 It was thus that, with all his knowledge of the world, 
 he had yet formed no true estimate of the character of his 
 new aoquaiatancea, He looked upon them as a simple 
 rustic household, as plain in mind as they were unaffecte<l 
 in mamiers, and as deficiemt in aatural sagacity as they 
 were in worldly wisdom. Still, there was that about 
 Aquila Fullarton, the unconscious, unlaboured dignity of a 
 guileless mind, which, in spite of his efforts at contempt, 
 raised her as far above him in the moral scale as she stood 
 confessedly below him ia the worldly. Frequently was be 
 about to speak, aad as frequently the calm collectedness of 
 her manner compelled him to be silent. He quarrdled 
 with himself for a weakness so new to him — he despised 
 himself even for the shght remains of honest shame. 
 What I should he, a courtier and disciple of the " merry 
 monarch,^' allow himself to be disconcei-ted by the daughter 
 of a coautiy farmer i* What jests might he not anticipate 
 from the 
 
 libald king tod coutt, 
 
 amongst whom the greater portion of his time was spent it 
 London ? There was, moreover, a degree of meanness la 
 the reasoning used by Kirfce on the occasion, ft occurred 
 to him that the proposal he designed to make, should Aquila 
 actually reject it, might be perilous. She had a father and 
 a brother — and here be paused. But he had sharpness 
 enougn to observe the affection which subsisted betweea 
 the brother and sister, and he did not think that in any 
 event the latter would deem it prudent an the whole to 
 reveal what he desired to say to ber. 
 
 Accordiiigly, he determiaed at all hasards not to miss 
 the present opportunity of setting his doubts at rest. 
 What passed at the interne w was scarcely ever kjuna to any 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 49 
 
 besides the persons engaged ; bat it did not escape remark 
 that Kirke was never again a guest at the cottage, and that 
 no interchange of courtesy passed betweien him and the 
 Fullaitons during the remainder of his stay in Taunton. 
 Some said that the oflFence had originated with Kirke ; 
 gome with the Fullartons, and that at all events Arthur 
 Fnllarton it was who had signified to the colonel that his 
 visits might in future be dispensed with. Others added, 
 that Arthur's intimation to that effect had been accompa- 
 nied with words, and they even hinted actions too, which 
 by no means redounded to the glory of the Barbary colonel. 
 Others doubted the addition, inasmuch as it was known 
 that Arthur was as remarkable for steadiness and prudence 
 as he was for resolution, and that it was more likely he 
 shonld content himself with doing all that was necessary 
 to secure the honour of his family, without needlessly pro- 
 voking a most formidable foe. Whatever degree of troth 
 might be in those rumours, it was certain that on his return 
 to Taunton, immediately after the interview, Kirke wore an 
 aspect of tenfold malignity and supercilliousness. He 
 spoke little, and his countenance had a pale and morti- 
 fied air, though still marked by the same expression of 
 constrained placidity, and the revengeful smile that seemed 
 to say, " 'Tis now your turn, but it may yet be mine." 
 
 Such, as Aquila afterwards acknowledged to her brother, 
 was the expression which his features wore when, hurried 
 beyond herself by natural indignation, she reproached his 
 insolence, and taxed him with the base return he had made 
 to her father and brother for the open hospitality and good- 
 will with which they had received him. In the vehemence 
 of her upbraiding, she had suflFered all her previous judg- 
 ment of his character to become more apparent than after- 
 wards in her cooler moments she coold have wished ; for 
 her habitual dread of Kirke was rather increased than 
 c^imiflished by this interview. All her reproaches he had 
 received with his f;ustoiuarj stoical calmness. A few 
 
 J> 
 
50 -rHK nUKE CF JIONUOUTH. 
 
 words of menace only he had dropped ; yut they wera 
 shortly checked, and he listened to all that followed with 
 the air of one whose purpose was too deeply seated to 
 allow him to yield it vent in useless speech. Long after 
 did Aqdla Fullarton remember that settled smile of ven- 
 geance, and often and deeply did she regret the accident 
 which had procured them so dangerous an acquaintance. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 In the mean time the public affairs began to assume an 
 aspect which rendered all prudent persons no way desirous 
 of adding to the number of their personal enemies. Dis- 
 putes regarding the succession, the royal prerogative, and 
 other topics of dissension, threatened every day to throw 
 the nation into a state of confusion similar to that from 
 which it had yet scarce well emerged. Kirke was recalled 
 to London within a few weeks after the occurrence above 
 mentioned, and the attention of both families was soon 
 directed into another chaiibel. 
 
 The FuUavtons, as it has been already intimated, had 
 not long resided in Taunton Dene, before a close intimacy 
 arose between their family and that of Captain Kingsly : 
 even the latter, who often rode or walked to the cottage, in 
 order to pick up bints from the Scotsman's style of farming, 
 was heard to speak of its inmates in terms of high esteem 
 and friendship ; his commendation, however, being gene- 
 rally followed by a deep sigh, as he recollected the only 
 ban-ier which seemed to him to lie between them and 
 human perfection. When any of the Kingslys were pre- 
 sent, Caspar Fullartou refrained from his customary 
 morning invective against Lauderdale and the Duke of 
 York; and in the hearing of the Fullartons, Captain 
 Kingsly was moderate enough to restrain his usual pane- 
 
THE rUKE OF MONMOUTH. ?! 
 
 ^ics on the court. Before many months, the latter haH 
 evpn been known to check in some displeasure an ovtf 
 eatnest denunciation of the Scottish Whigs by a zealori 
 nej.shbour loyalist. So persuasive is friendship, and so 
 easily oftentimes does the head yield when the heart baa 
 once been gained. 
 
 Apart from politics, which, when they happened to be 
 agitated, absorbed all other interests, there were few cir- 
 cumstances which occasioned more general satisfaction in 
 the neigh bonrhood than the rumour which now begat* to 
 gain belief of an .approaching union between Henry Kingsty 
 aud Aquila FuUarton. So entirely by this time had the 
 thought of political differences given way to private esteem, 
 that to young Kingsly the remembrance of them, as an 
 obstacle, did not arise until he was reminded of them by 
 hi3 father. 
 
 " Bless thee, Harry !" he said, after a long pause, being 
 cot«e\vhat stunned, notwithstanding all his admiration of 
 the FuUartons, at the point-blank proposal of receiving 
 the daughter of a Whig into his family, " thou hast taken 
 U3 somewhat by surprise: and yet — the FuUartons, indeed, 
 are good and kind : but this is more than I anticipated. 
 ?*listress Fullarton is indeed, to all appearance, an excel- 
 lent young woman — exceeding pleasant and amiable, so 
 far as the surface goes — ^nd a good daughter, too, if one 
 could judge by outward show; and Gaspar Fullarton, too, 
 if his goodnature be not all put on — a mere cloak to some 
 private views — one would say, was a very estimable person. 
 And Master Arthur, too — yes — ^yes — the family keep up a 
 crtain show of amiability, and I don't wonder a young 
 person should be caught by it." 
 
 " Is there any ground, sir," said Henry, " to lead you 
 to suspect that they are other than they seem ?" 
 
 " No — no, sir ; did I say there were such grounds ? I 
 tell you, I like them, sir, well enough ; — they are very 
 obliging, whatever motive may lie at the bottom of it — and 
 
62 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 they hava liad the dexterity to procure theni'clvea alroad/ 
 a very good name in the neighbourhood. Yes — yes — they 
 have got a speech and a manner that is, no doubt, exceed- 
 ing dangerous to unsuspecting people ; and if it be not all 
 acting, as I confess it requires a great deal of penetration 
 to see through it, it entitles them, no doubt, to a great deal 
 of — of — deference — and — and — circumspection." 
 
 " They seem, sir," said Henry, who perceived the folly 
 of arguing against such prejudices, "much altered in their 
 sentiments since they became acquainted with our family." 
 
 " Aye, say you ? that may be indeed — that may be, sure 
 enough ; but I tell thee, Harry, they yet have much to 
 unlearn. Ah, I tell thee, there is more treason befieath old 
 Gaspar's smile when he asks after the king's health, always 
 next to my own, in a morning, than in all the loud fanatical 
 raving of all the Whigs in Taunton. He looks through his 
 half-closed lids into my face, as if the honest zeal he dis- 
 cerned in my features to him were matter of amusement. 
 No — no — the more I think of it, the less my hope of any 
 favourable change in the Fullartons ; and though 1 like 
 many things in them, yet if thou withdraw from this alfiance 
 and seek one in which there might be an unbroken harmony 
 of thought in all things " 
 
 *' I am afraid, sir, it is now too late for that." 
 
 " Well — say no more — my blessing on thee ! — only 
 provide as thou canst against all possibility of future 
 danger." 
 
 Young Kingsly hurried from the house. The morning 
 was beautiful ; the Tone ran smoothly along its banks, the 
 winds were whist as sleep itself, the wild birds sang their 
 morning carol to the spring. All seemed to promise joy 
 and certain hope ; and Henry, as he hastened along the 
 fields, began to indulge in the happiest anticipations of the 
 future. It is enough to say, that he was successful in his 
 buit both to father and daughter. The marriage was fixed 
 for the ensuing month ; but, a week before the time ap- 
 
THE DtTKE OF JWNMOUTH. 53 
 
 pointed, an accidental circnmstance occasioned its postpone- 
 ment to a more distant day. 
 
 Abont sunset, Aquila and her friend Tamsen Kingsly 
 were seated at work on a rustic bench before the cottage 
 windows ; and while they were thus engaged, made the time 
 })as8 pleasantly away by joining in a pastoral duet, which 
 we will here <^^ranscribe as i*: was sung. 
 
 AQUILA. 
 
 Dewy dimmet!* silent hour! 
 
 Welcome to our cottage bow'r ! 
 
 See, along the lonely meadow 
 
 Ghost-like falls the lengthen'd shadow, 
 
 While the sun with level shine 
 
 Turns the stream to rosy wuie, 
 
 And from yonder busy town 
 
 Vale ward hies the lazy clown. (■ 
 
 BOTH. 
 
 Lovely dimmet ! pleasing hour I 
 
 Welcome to our lonely bow'r! - :' 
 
 Hark ! along the dewy ground ' 
 
 Steals the sheep-bell's drowsy sound— , , 
 
 While th<j ploughman home returning 
 Sees his cheerful faggot burning, 
 And his dame with kindly smile * 
 
 Meets him by the rustic stile, ■? 
 
 While beneath the hawthorn muto [^ 
 
 Swells the peasant's merry flute. • ^ 
 
 BOTH. ft 
 
 Tuneful dimmet ! mirthful hour 1 J 
 
 Welcome to our cottage bow'r I 
 
 AQUILA. 
 
 Lass, from market homeward speed « 
 Traveller, ui-ge thy lagging steed, 
 
 • Dimmet - the natne given to the twilight in parts of the We«t of England. 
 
64 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 Fly the dark wood's lurking danger ; 
 Churl, receive the 'nighted stranger- 
 He with merry song and jest 
 Will repay thy niggard feast, 
 And the eye of heaven above 
 Smile upon the deed of love. 
 
 Dusky dimmet ! dewy hour ! 
 Welcome to our lonely bow'r I 
 
 TAM8EN. 
 
 Hour of beauty I hour of peace f 
 Hour when care and labour cease- 
 When around her hushed dominion 
 Xature spreads her brooding pinion, 
 While a thousand angel eyes 
 Wake to watch us from the skies, 
 Till the reason centre there, 
 And the heart is moved to pray'r ! 
 
 Lovely dimmet ! witching hour! 
 Welcome to our cottage bow'r ! 
 
 While the young ladies were thus engaged, the sinking 
 son threw the lengthened shadow of a man along the sward 
 on which they were standing. On turning, they observed 
 a strange figure, which had passed the gate and was ap- 
 proaching the cottage. It was that of a Jew, well-favoured 
 and of middle age, with a beard and hair as black as 
 coal. 
 
 " Mine goot ladish," he said, taking off his hat with great 
 respect, and bowing very low, " ish it Tone Cottage ? Isb 
 Mashter Gaspar Fullarton's ?" 
 
 Aquila answered in the affirmative. 
 
 " Here ish den," said the stranger, taking a packet from 
 his bosom, " lettersh, mine fair shweet young lady, from 
 Masther Sidney Fullarton, — look yon, for Mashter Gaspar 
 his brodcr." 
 
THZ DDKE OF MONMOUTH. 55 
 
 " Come in — come in," said Aquila oagerl)', " and you 
 Bhall see my father." 
 
 "Nay, I think you, mine goot yonng lady, 1 have iiot 
 times ; but it youhave lettersh for Mashter Sidney Fullar- 
 ton, or persons, let them be at Lyme on the sea-coast at the 
 tuU of the moon, and he shall find one ready to convey them." 
 
 He hurried 5,way ; while Aquila went in equal haste to 
 place the letter in her father's hands. It was, as the 
 stranger had stated, from Sidney Fullartou, and ran as follows : 
 
 " This will inform you that I am still in Holland, await- 
 ing the time when it shall please Heaven to restore our 
 injured patron to his lost inheritance, and our wi-etched 
 country to her old estate of independence. In the mean 
 time we live well and merrily here, and our circle of adven- 
 turers daily augmented by new comers, driven abroad by 
 their own discontent or the suspicion of their enemies. 
 Argyle is well, and not less so the young Duke of Monmouth, 
 who is here awaiting the turn of the tide which has wafted 
 liim so far seaward of his royal father's favour. The knave 
 who takes this commands a vessel, in which I should gladly 
 hear that my nephew Arthur had embarked, for the space 
 of one short month, in order that 1 might make him known 
 to some of our noble friends. Let Arthur and you consider 
 of it ; and if it can be, make me L_.ppy in your compliance. 
 Let my sweet niece Aquila (whom with these words I 
 tenderly embrace) be content for so brief a space to know 
 that her good brother is in safe keeping. Farewell ! 
 
 " Sidney Fullarton.'' 
 
 This letter occasioned a strange tuiu in the posture of 
 affairs. It was settled that Arthur should spend a month 
 on the Continent, and that the marriage should be 
 jiostponed till his return. In the mean time let us follow 
 the bearer of the letter. On reaching a convenient spot on 
 the roadside after leaving the ladies, he blew a small whistle, 
 when two men in the dress or those fishermen who pi! d 
 tlifiir trade on the sonthem coast appeared ujion the road. 
 
56 THE DUKE OP MONMOUTH. 
 
 " Here," said he, plucking off his false beard and tossing 
 it to one ; " that has served my turn for the present, so, 
 take it, and my gaberdine along with it — and now atteniJ 
 to my instructions. For at least one fortnight I must be 
 absent,^ on some private business of the Duke, in the inte- 
 rior of the country. At the full of the moon you shall 
 find me at the Cobb of Lyme, and be sure that you have 
 all in order for immediate sailing. If you order this com- 
 mission right, yon are made men every soul." 
 
 Giving them the garments which he had used in his 
 former character, they hastily departed, and he pursued his 
 way to Taunton, a total change effected in his appearance. 
 Walking now erect, a man of middle age and respectable 
 appearance, he entered the town, where none of these with 
 whom as a Jew he had transacted business in the day 
 could now recognize their customer. Knocking confidently 
 at the door of a decent-looking house in one of the narrovv 
 streets leading to the church of St. Mary Magdalen, he 
 demanded if Master Grimes the verger were within. 
 
 " My body is here, friend, whosoever thou art," cried the 
 parish functionary, thrusting his head from an inner cham- 
 ber as he heard the voice of a stranger asking for him, 
 " but not so my office. The hour has passed for business ; 
 and though I be Master Grimes the verger in the morning, 
 at such an hour as this I am but simple Master Grimes." 
 
 " Nay, master," said the stranger, " this used not to be 
 thy wont in answering a friend, and an old one too. Dost 
 thou not remember Ephraim Dirges ?" 
 
 The verger started forward. 
 
 " Ephraim !" he exclaimed, and then suddenly drew 
 back to contemplate the person of the stranger with atten- 
 tion; "but Ephraim was killed at Tangiers, under 
 Kirke." 
 
 *' Thou art but an inconclusive reasoner," said the 
 stranger, "not to know that if I had been slain at Tangiers, 
 I could not now be conversing here with thee." 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. .57 
 
 " Nay," said the verger, *' there's sense in that, let thee 
 be who thou wilt — but there are stranger changes than I 
 can easily account for. Thou art tall and well-favoured ; 
 and Ephraim, when he and I were close companions, was a 
 little mortal, without a tolerable feature in his face." 
 
 " Time — time, my friend," said the stranger, — " time 
 will make wondrous changes." 
 
 " But will time turn red hair black?" said the verger. 
 
 "If not," replied the stranger, "remember how strong 
 are the effects of climate. Consider how long I have beeu 
 amongst the Moors, who are black to the finger-nails." 
 
 " Hum," said the verger, " there is something at the 
 bottom of all this. I say nothing. Thou art a different 
 Ephraim from him who broke the window of the vestry- 
 room with a cricket ball : but time, to b» siire, and 
 climate " 
 
 " True, master verger, and therefore let me have the 
 thing I came upon — a certificate of my birth, which thou 
 niayest easily procure me by getting the proper persons to 
 refer to the parish register. I am travelling further east ; 
 and there be rogues abroad, I would gladly be provided 
 with the means of putting a stop to tedious questions. I 
 know the hour is late, but I am willing," he added, pro- 
 ducing two pieces of gold, " to make allowances for extra 
 trouble." 
 
 " Well, Ephraim," said the verger, '' since thon wilt 
 have it thou art he, — and surely none have a better right 
 to know whether thou art or no than thyself, ^-come hither 
 in a quarter of an hour, and thou shalt have what then 
 requirest." 
 
 While this conversation was passing between the verger 
 and his visitor, the latter was alluded to more than once 
 in a discourse which passed at the Three Crowns amongst 
 some fortuneless young men of the neighbourhood, 
 
 " Dost thou suppose, Andrews," said Caryl, a discarded 
 apothecary's shopman from the neighbouring town of Chard, 
 
58 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 " that Garten Mowbray will be one with us in this trip to 
 the Duke of Monmouth ?" 
 
 " Is it certain then that this great man, who, as the Jew 
 told us, is to make our fortunes only for allowing him to 
 set whom he will to cut our throats, is no other than the 
 exiled Duke of Monmouth ?" 
 
 *' He privately assured me of it. So I give thee a toast 
 in a glass of Taunton ale. Here's to our Jew-captain, and 
 snccess to his suit in the West !" 
 
 " West and East, all points of the compass, I pledge 
 thee with all my heart," said Andrews ; ** and just in time 
 to have Mowbray join us, for I hear his exquisite sound 
 outside." 
 
 At this momenta voice was heard singing ia aloud tone 
 in the hall without : 
 
 " Now the lusty spring is green, 
 Golden yellow, gaudy 
 
 ^ WTiat, host ! Are any of the gentlemen wiihm ? 
 
 " Golden yellow, gaudy blue, 
 Daintily invite the view 
 Everywhere, on every green, 
 Eoses blushing as they blow, 
 And enticing men to pull ; 
 Lilies whiter 
 
 *' In the parlour, say you ? 
 
 " Lilies whiter 'than the sbow, 
 Woodbines of sweet honey fulL 
 
 " Good even, gentlemen ; good even, both. What i where'8 
 
 your Jew seducer ?'' 
 
 " Do you desire a spice of his seduction also ?** 
 "Why, I have been thinking of it, and I know not 
 
 what else I have to do ; I am as houseless a fellow as 
 
 either of yourselves." 
 
 "Turn player with me," said Andrews, "and let us 
 
 leave the Duke to play his own part v.itUout our assistance." 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 59 
 
 " Aye," said Caryl, " thou wouldst deal with poor 
 Mowbray as thou didst with me, — coax him to quarrel 
 with his friends for the sake of getting hissed and pelted 
 on a barn stage. Thou thinkest he would do rarely for 
 the crook-backed tyrant ?" And he ranted in a theatrical 
 attitude : 
 
 *• A thousand hearts are great within my bosom, 
 Advance our standards ! set upon our foes 
 Our ancient word of honour, fair St. George, 
 Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons ! 
 Upon them ! Victory sits on our helms ! 
 
 " What say you, Mowbray ? The pavilion is in town and 
 set up the sessions -house in the Castte-yard. What think 
 you of turning Turk or emperor, or clown or vice ?" 
 
 " I am for real adventures," answered Mowbray, " let 
 who will be for fictitious ones." 
 
 ''The crooked-back tyrant!" exclaimed the player, still 
 regarding the second last speaker with a look of pity. 
 " It is easy to see in what sort of school thou hast been 
 educated. Better thou hadst never left thy gallipot and 
 pestle, than live to spout Shakspeare to a gentleman." 
 
 " Shakspeare!" cried Mowbray ; " thou a West-countiy- 
 mauj, and run down Shakspeare ?" 
 
 " Pish, sir, he did well enough to fill a pit in his time, 
 but now we know that his works are fit for little better. 
 His plays are little more than rubbish in the hands of the 
 present generation, and before another half-century his 
 very name will be forgotten. Read Dryden, sir — read 
 Dryden ; he will show you that Shakspeare was not fit to 
 snuff a foothghtVor the author of the Duke of Guise." 
 
 At this moment the door was partly opened, and a wild- 
 looking head was thrust through the aperture. 
 
 " Bless all here !" exclaimed the uew-comer. 
 
 This strange salutation, and spectral appearance of ilie 
 head from which it proceeded, excited a general roar cf 
 lau'ibter amon;rst tho listeners. 
 
60 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 " Ye're welcome to ye'r game, gentlemen — ye're welcome 
 to ye'r game," said Shamus Delaney, now fully opening the 
 door and entering the room. " It may be manners in these 
 parts to laugh at a civil word ; but I know a place where 
 it wouldn't be wishin to ye for a dale ye show'd no betther." 
 
 " 'Tis onr Irish comrade," said Andrews ; " we mustn't 
 quarrel with him. Come in, come in, man, and sit down ; 
 ^'twas a mistake. How could you suppose we should know 
 you, when you only put your head into the room ?" 
 
 " I'm sure," said Shamus, "it was the most knowledgable 
 part of me." 
 
 He had hardly taken his seat, when the Jew, having once 
 more resumed that cbaracter, made his appearance, followed 
 by half a dozen individuals of much the same description as 
 those already in the room. In the course of the evening 
 some more dropped in from time to time, until the numbei- 
 appeared considerable. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the Jew, " I have told you already 
 the conditions on which your company is desired at the other 
 side of the water. You know who is to be your master, 
 and what prospects are held out to you. You have chosea 
 your part : I hope you have no mind to change as yet ?" 
 
 " No, no," cried Caryl ; " we are Monmouth's to the 
 death!" 
 
 " Well spoken, and readily. Then be on the Cobb of 
 Lyme on the fifteenth, and you will find the means of join- 
 ing him. I have some little commission to execute a little 
 further on. In the mean while, let us sit at our ale and 
 cake, like men at ease, and become frieuds at leisure." 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 On the following morning the emissary of the exiled Duke 
 continued his journey on foot. About noon he reached the 
 entrance of a handsome demesne, which, as the game-keeper 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 6 1 
 
 informed him, bore the name of Pembroke-hall, the residence 
 of a young gentleman of high family and fortune, bat lead- 
 ing for some time past a somewhat secluded life. He had 
 been left at an early age in possession of his large estates, 
 and showed in the management of all his affairs an under- 
 standing worthy of grey hairs. Poor or wealthy, there was 
 no one who had not something to say in praise of Edmund 
 Pembroke. Firm w ithout pride, and grave without severity, 
 it was impossible to spend a day in his society without feel- 
 ing for liim a reverence mingled with love. If he detested 
 levity, it was not for want of spirits, but because it was as 
 impossible for him to indulge it, as the oak to quiver like 
 an aspen. On this morning he had risen, as usual, at an 
 early hour, and became occupied till noon in the affairs of 
 his dependants. He then retired, as was likewise his wont, 
 to spend the remainder of the day alone. 
 
 *' It is a different scene," thought he, as he entered the 
 magnificent withdrawing-room, '' from what I hoped it 
 should be six years since, yet what especial privilege have 
 I to murmur ? I am not better nor more deserving than 
 the millions who have been born to misery before, aud the 
 millions who shall be born to misery after me. Six years ! 
 — is i% poSiible that I have passed six years since then? 
 And how easily I wear this disappointment now 1 and how 
 very common-place and level aie the feelings with which 
 I dwell upon that event that once made resignation almost 
 look impossible ! Well, time does wonders. — What's here ? 
 One of my pretty, doleful fancies, while grief was fresh 
 enough fur whining, and not tuo fresh for rhyme. Why, 
 what a fellow was I to dabble in such stuff as this ! — 
 Pish ! that's what comes of sitting in a lazy corner to gulp 
 down melancholy thoughts. Let me see if I recollect the 
 air. I hope no one will come and catch me, after six years' 
 time, singing well-a-day still, after a runaway heroine. 
 What a green- willow scoundrel was I to think of everpeuuiug 
 bucii a howl ?" 
 
62 THi; DUKE OF MuNMOUTH. 
 
 He took down a lute, and running a simple prelude, sang 
 in a low voice the following verses : 
 
 Though lonely here, by Avon's tide^ 
 
 I waste my cheerless hours, 
 And see its silent waters glide 
 
 By thy forsalcen bow'rs ; 
 I'd rather bear the lasting pain 
 
 That breaks this heart of mine. 
 Than pine beneath the golden chaia 
 
 That guilt has flung o'er thine. 
 
 In dreams I deem thee still mine own. 
 
 Unsullied and unchanged, 
 But morning shows the vision flown, 
 
 And thee again estranged ; 
 Oh ! when from some unheeding tongue^ 
 
 I hear that once-loved name, 
 Then — then my inmost heart is wrung, 
 
 To think upon thy shame. 
 
 How lonely, when I wake at dawn, 
 
 Each silent chamber now ! 
 How joyless looks the sunny lawn, 
 
 How droops each weeping bough ! 
 For though the noontide sun shine warm. 
 
 All cheerless fall his beams ; 
 And lonesome now, without that form, 
 
 The gay veranda seems. 
 
 With sinking heart and thoughtful pac^ 
 
 I pass our garden door. 
 And 'mid the leafy stillness trace 
 
 Each haunt of rapture o'er ; 
 The scents that rise, the flowers that bloWf 
 
 The breeze that wanders free, 
 My altered sense can hardly know,-* 
 
 All breathe of death and thee. 
 
 i 
 
TUE UUKE OF MONMOUTH. 68 
 
 Ah, once I thought that mind was fair. 
 
 And void of inward blame ; 
 Old age, I said, and hoary hair. 
 
 Will find our hearts the same. 
 Now soon, oh soon, the churchyard lone^ " 
 
 Sliall hide those cares from me : 
 Ah ! may that turf and cold grey stone 
 
 Best lightly yet on thee ! 
 
 vx 
 Bat not with old affection's slight, 
 
 And love's forgotten day, 
 I charge thee in my song to-niglit, 
 
 Or pleasures past away. 
 No — pledged on yonder sacred sod, 
 
 Thy vows were heard above ; 
 And thou wert falser to thy God, 
 
 Than evsn to Edmund's love. 
 
 " Well ?ang. Master Pembroke. "Well, a man under ago 
 may be excnsed for v.hining a little at been jilted ; but if 
 another now had penned such a ditty a* this, how I could 
 have rated him ! — What, who sends this ?" 
 
 A servant entered and handed hira a packet. 
 
 " From the Duke of Albemarle," said the dompstic. 
 " The courier of his grace, who left the paper, said that 
 yonr honnur would be expected at Taunton early in the 
 next week." 
 
 " What's here ?" said Pembroke, as he broke the seal. 
 " ' Hi? Majesty's commands — disaflfection dreaded in tha 
 West — in the absence of Sir W. B., that Mr. Pembrokii 
 take the command of the miJitia to be immediately called 
 out and exercised;' and a brevet commission, as broad fs 
 the flag of a guild of trades ! With all ray heart! My 
 poor militia majority has lain so long in a comer, thai I 
 almost forget the exercise. — Who's there ?" 
 
 " A stranger, sir," said a servant, " desires to speak 
 with you in private." 
 
 "Not now, not now I" said Pemboke; "I am busy 
 
(B4 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 about public matters, and have- 10 tiuio to sparo for news 
 in private." 
 
 " Dependant always," sua the Jew, thrusting in his 
 face at the half-open door, " on whom the private news be 
 from." 
 
 '* Thou art an impudent fellow, whoever thou art," said 
 Pembroke ; *' and if his messenger's forwardness stand thy 
 employer in any stead, he is surely blessed in thee. Couve 
 in, then, and briefly tell what thou desirest." 
 
 The Jew looked at the servant, who retired at Pembroke's 
 bidding, and produced a letter, which he delivered to the 
 latter. At sight of the handwriting Pembroke turned 
 deadly pale, and paused for some moments in order to 
 suppress all symptoms of emotion. 
 
 " At what place," said he with sternness, " did yoa 
 receive this letter ?" 
 
 " In Holland." 
 
 " At the h«use of James Monmouth ?"" 
 
 " Yes !" and the Jew watclied as he answered in the 
 affirmative the expression of the speaker'-? face, but there 
 ■vvas no flying trace of selfish passion to be distinguished 
 there : he saw only pity and a degree of shame beneath 
 the severely set and motionless features. 
 
 " Art thou aware," said Pembroke, '* of what this con- 
 tains ?" 
 
 " It was partly given me in the ear as well as in the 
 hand," said the Jew, " in ca^o of failure in the carriage ; 
 lor Lady H. was most desirous that if your honour should 
 refuse, I might myself perform what she entreats." 
 
 " Since thou art in her confidence," said Edmund Pem- 
 broke, " I may well admit thee into mine in her regard. 
 Here, friend, put up this letter, and go thy way in peace — 
 since thou canst do what she desires, as well as others, 
 I will read nothing of her letters while they are dated 
 thus. To write to me from Monmouth's house! Out 
 upon her, shameless and impeaiteat l" 
 
THE DUKE OF AIONMOLflL 65 
 
 •' Sir," said the Jew, '* I will be bold to say, if yon ^rill 
 read the letter, yoa will £nd she is neither shameless nor 
 inapenitent" 
 
 " How eomes slie then, good friend, to write to me fron 
 Monmouth's house ? Sunk as she is, if she had sent to m« 
 from the extremest corner of the earth, I still would fly t(» 
 succour and befriend her : but where were the delicacy and 
 feeling I once admired so much, when she wrote from 
 ^Monmouth's hoKse ! Alas ! whei^ are they ? — what s 
 question is that I But I can be rational on any theme save 
 this. I tell tJiee, friend, I will not read her letter ; so go 
 in peace and trouble me no more. I have, at one time, 
 brooded upon this until my reason and my peace were both 
 endangered, and I had well nigh become for ever useless 
 to myself and to my specws ; and now that I am, tbauk 
 Heaven 1 the master of myself again, I will not suffer her 
 to disturb and fool me for her pleasiu'e." 
 
 "Come, come, sir," said the Jew, "you shonld not 
 press too hard upon a penitent woman." 
 
 " Friend." replied Pembroke, " few who commit this 
 crime repent of it. Be that as severe a sentence as it 
 may, it is ti-ue as truth itself. If then have children, 
 therefore, be careful of their innocence, for real penitence 
 is almost as rare. Lost innocence is lost for ever. The 
 victim of shame may so far check her steps in the care^i 
 of evil as to maintain the outward forms of workll} 
 decency ; bat it is only in one instance in a thousand that 
 repentance reaches to the soul. If the writer of this letter 
 were that one in a thousand, she would not date from 
 James of Monmouth's house." 
 
 •' Well," said the Jew, " stu-ely thou knowest best. I 
 would be bat an intermeddler to say more. Give me aa 
 answer then, and I am jgone." 
 
 Thus pressed, Pembroke paused for a time before he 
 spoke. He turned to the window, and leaning his arm 
 against the faeh, and his forehead on his hand, looked out, 
 
 £ 
 
66 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH 
 
 for a long timQ motionless, upon the scene. Above the 
 distant trees he was able to discern the turrets of W. 
 Castle, where yet the family of the absent lady remained 
 almost in ignorance of he? condition. He called to mind 
 the time when their acquaintance had commenced — whea 
 ha knew her bright of heart, and gay as innocence and hops 
 eould make her — and he felt it almost impossible to believe 
 that it could be from the same being he now received this 
 wretched letter. What I she, the beautiful I the spirited I 
 the warm-hearted ! and who to him bad once been all the 
 world ! "Was it for her he heard a stranger pleading as 
 for one almost unknown, and fallen to that si ate from which 
 woman never more can rise on earth ? The poorest 
 peasant-girl who crossed those walks in his demesne, in 
 the pursuit of her daily toil, held now a higher place than 
 Lady H. When they were first acquainted, he had often 
 congratulated himself on the liberty allowed to Lady H. in 
 her education, which made every excellence he had admired 
 seem to flow freely from the will, and excluded all appear- 
 ance of constraint and fear. Now, how much: he would 
 have given that the freedom had been less and the safety 
 more I The result of his reflections was, that he resolved 
 to resd. the letter, and to send such verbal reply as might?.: 
 be of real service to the wi'iter. 
 
 It was such an appeal as he had Judged? the complaint; 
 of a mind that was suffering intensely both from its remorse* 
 and degradation, but without the firmness to extricata* 
 itself from the thraldom which it seemed to feel acutely,' 
 Attaching little importance to words and feelings unaccom-' 
 panied by acts, Pembroke persisted in returning his former 
 answer. 
 
 " Let her leave the house of Monmouth," he said at the 
 close, " and I will fly to serve her ; but until that step be 
 taken, all other news we hear of her are worse than none. 
 Tell me truly, friend, — for I remember thee as one of i)ld 
 'm Monmouth's confiUeuce,— dost thou not think me right 
 
•mt £KJZ£ OP acoioioirrB:. €7 
 
 in saymg, tbat by leaving this fetter wrthonlr repTy, there ia 
 the ^urer hcpe that she may take the first essenUal step to 
 ^r owQ. release ?'*' 
 
 The emissary was- forced to answer in the afErmative. 
 
 " TheUj say in her preseneej" resumed Pfembroke, " aff^ 
 w much as thon wilt of what thou hast now heard from 
 me. Tell her that for her welfare I still would freely 
 ?aciifiee my own — that I wait her orders, ready to fly to 
 their execution when they bear a Afferent date — ^but tbat 
 I never will communicate with Lady EL while she writes 
 Som the abode of James of Monmouth. And now yoa 
 are at liberty to leave me, for I am busy on important 
 natters."" 
 
 The Jew departed, and Pembroke prepared to execote? 
 $b@ comiQfiAda ha had. received respecting the militia.. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 - (Jt th& appoTnted time Gaspar FuUarion accojQpamed bias 
 ■ '>i as far as Lyme, from whence, according to the Jew's- 
 ..ipoiutment, he was to take shipping to the Continent. 
 Btif(M*e day,, on the morning of his departure, the wakeful 
 old man stole into, the chamber of the inn in which young 
 
 allarton lay yet asleep and dreaming of war and. conquest. 
 
 " To the breach ! to the wall, my lads !" he muttered 
 as he clenched his uncovered hand ; and his face and hair,, 
 all damp with, the agitation of his fancy, were pressed 
 against the pillow. 
 
 " Ha !. say you so ? say yon so ?" exclaimed th& father. 
 *' Nay,, then, shame fall on the knave that flinches, and posi 
 hiiu, say I, for a mere feather-bed hero I Up, Arthur, np ! 
 er the town will be taken without thee. I can already see 
 the topsails of your vessel shivering in the dawn. Arise^ 
 toy boy^ and let me see yoa to the ahoreJ' 
 
63 THE nVKZ OF MOKMOUTH. 
 
 EmTjracing each other, the father and son departed firoai 
 the infl and hastened to the ehore, where a small boat al- 
 ready awaited their arrival. In a few minutes the aged 
 Scot beheid his son ascending the side of the small trans- 
 port, and after tarrying to see her under weigh, r^teaced 
 his lonely road to Taunton Dene. 
 
 While Arthur FuUarton continues his voyage, let us, in 
 the briefest manner, place before the reader's eye those 
 events of Monmouth's past career which had brought him 
 to his present situation of disgrace and exile. Seldom 
 does history present us with a more instructive example of 
 that ** vaulting ambition which o'erleaps itself," 
 
 It is well known that James Stuart, or Walters, or Bar- 
 low, or Sidney, or whatever name historians may choose 
 to call him, was the reputed son of Charles, then himself 
 an exile at the Hague — and of Mistress Lucy Walters, or 
 Barlow ; that his mother, on receiving a pension of £400 
 a year from Lords Ormond and Hyde, agreed to take Mm 
 home to England, from whence both were ordered back by 
 Cromwell ; that she soon after lost the favom* of the young 
 prince, and sank into an untimely grave. 
 
 Young James, on being taken from his mother, was con- 
 veyed by Lord Crofts to Paris, and there placed for the 
 purposes of education under the care of the Oratorians, a 
 celebrated religious society, under whose .care he remained 
 until the downfall of the English Commonwealth had placed 
 his reputed father on the throne of his ancestors. 
 
 From the seclusion, the regularity, the obscure tranquil- 
 lity of a conventual life, young Monmouth — not yet, how- 
 ever, the possessor of that title — ^found himself suddenly 
 transferred to the dazzling splendour of, perhaps, the gayest 
 court in Christendom. To even the strongest minds such 
 changes are severely trying — and Monmouth's does not ap- 
 pear to have been one amongst the strong. On his anival 
 at court, one of the first steps required of him by his royal 
 patron and reputed fe,ther, was a professed conformity to 
 
THE DUKS OS MONMOUXH. 69 
 
 the doctrines of the Established Church. Whether the 
 Tonng aspirant experienced any struggles of conscience in 
 making the sacrifice required of him, history does not inform 
 ts. It only lets us know that he obeyed ; and by the ad- 
 vice of Lords Bristol and Castlemaine, and contraiy to that 
 of the Queen-mother and of Clarendon^ he received the title 
 of Duke of Monmouth, and the hand of the young CouBtess 
 of Biiecleugh, the wealthiest heiress of the land from which 
 she derived her fortune. His success at court was such as 
 might be expected for a royal favourite, and one naturally 
 endowed with all the popular graces of person and of mind. 
 Brave, mild, handsome, and aspiring — the original, in a 
 word,^ of Dryden's inimitably beautifnl description — for him 
 to seek applause was to obtain it. Already the scheme of 
 procui'ing to the young adventurer the legitimate inheri- 
 tance of the Stuarts suggested itself to the minds of courtly 
 sycophants. Carlisle and Ashley are said to have whis- 
 pered in the royal ear, that if he desired to acknowledge a 
 private marriage with the mother of the Duke,^ it would be 
 easy to find witnesses. The reply of Chailes was decisive ; 
 He had rather " see him hanged at Tyburn." 
 
 It would be encroaching too far on the province of his- 
 tory to enter into all the details of his subsequent career ; 
 his intrigues at court — his drunken night-trolics in the 
 streets of London, s'ained, in one instance, with the guilt 
 of a barbarous homicide — his services as leader of the Eng- 
 luh auxjliai'^ps under Louis^ the French king — his new 
 intrigues to open a way to the succession, so oft renewed, 
 and so often defeated by the vigilance of the Duke of York, 
 and Charles's own sense of honesty — his campaign in Scot'* 
 land — his subsequent connexion with the English Whigs, 
 and, above all, with Shaftesbury — and the long tissue ol 
 intrigue, discomfiture, disgrace, offence, and pardon, and 
 . offence again, which ended in his present state of exile at 
 the Hague — his desertion of the Duchess his wife, an<| of 
 their coildreo, and adding to the sham« of pa^tUe perfidy 
 
70 ITHS DUKE 0» MONMO JTH. 
 
 tlie gtult <A private fieentionsncss — are already lamiliaT t» 
 the reader of Eoglish history. 
 
 Though often tempted, ^lonmouth had not yet entirely 
 throwa himself into the hands of the exiles, whe, with Ar- 
 gyle at their head, ware watching in Rotterdam the turn 
 of affairs at home. Oa the contrary, lie seemed to keep 
 •aloof, and continued at the Hague, enjoying the hespitaiicy 
 of the Prince of Orange, who knew enough of Charles not 
 to fear offending him by any attention which he might ahcw 
 1;o his banished son. Some 'Of the exiles here had gathered 
 about Monmouth, while the greater number still remaiued 
 cat Potterdam. 
 
 A few days' sail brought the voyagers within sight of 
 the present residence of Monmoutk. Sidney Fullarton ha4 
 come to the Hague to meet his nephew as he landed oa the 
 ■quay, and to conduct him to his own lodgings, at no gre.rt 
 distance from the house of Monmouth, in which the exiles 
 were accustomed to hold their meetings. 
 
 " Thou art arrived at a critical moraeat,^ he €aid, aa 
 they pai'took together of some refreshment which he had 
 ^caused to be prepared with all possible haste. " To-day 
 there is a coundl of the exiles held at Monmouth's house, 
 where thou mayest eee as many as are not in Rotterdau), 
 «nd to-night they are irvited to an entertainment at th« 
 jpalace, where you must make one of the number." 
 
 Without losing time, they went together to the dwelling 
 •of the Duke. It was a building of ordinary appearanct^ 
 small in siae, but containing at the time a great deal of in- 
 trigue and wretchedness. While Sidney Fullarton and hia 
 nephew were hastening toward the house of Momuoath, 
 that nobleman and Lord Grey of Wark were occupied at 
 j)aU-mall in a small enclosure in the rere of the building. 
 The Duke was at this time in the very prime of jouth, witk 
 a character of frankness on his handsome features that gave 
 thesi striking brilliancy, yet somewhat curtailed of their 
 dignitj by a certam sdv of i)oyisi». if not iiem jiiae sefitaesa. 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTB, 7t 
 
 He seemed ever ready for a 'laugh, and ever sending hia 
 mild eyes around as if to see that no one's jest should pass 
 without his affable chorus. By this easiness of dispositioa, 
 it happened that even those who made their fortunes and 
 their measures dependant upon his, were accustomed to use 
 a degree of freedom in their familiar conversation that did 
 not always suit the station of the respective speakers. 
 
 The English nobleman who was occupied in the game 
 with the Duke was very different in appearance from that 
 adventurous prince. -Though scarcely inferior in beauty of 
 person, the character of Lord Grey's countenance was rather 
 forbidding than attractive. His hair hung down in jetty 
 curls upon his shoulders ; his eyes were dark and inquisitive 
 in their expression, and his thin and sunken cheeks be- 
 trayed a bosom not unacquainted with suspicion and with 
 care. Naturally gifted with talents of no ordinary kind, 
 and with a quick and vivacious temperament, he had de- 
 based the first to sensual uses, and allowed the second to 
 degenerate into a quality the least creditable in the eyes of 
 the world that can attach to the manly character. Lord 
 Grey, however, although suspected of some lack of perso- 
 nal courage, had been hitherto prudent enough to avoid 
 affording his enemies any opportunity of pointing more than 
 an inaiuuation at his fame in this respect. His habitual 
 courtesy, his perfect eclf-command, and his ever ready 
 lalent, enabled him to observe a line of conduct free from 
 positive reproach, and those who were most in his society 
 were the very persons who least suspected his feeble poiot. 
 He was, ho^vQver, only a consummate actoi-, and while he 
 laughed and jested amongst his dissolute companions, his 
 breast was secretly tormented with the stings of conscience, 
 and with the miserable fears of death. It was singular 
 that a mind so much above the ordinary standard should 
 share the vulgar subserviency to sensible impressions; yet 
 it was certain that the nature of hia fear resembled more 
 the physical weakness of a woman or a child than that oC 
 
72 TBB DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 a. conscious coward ^ and the fonn in which death appeared 
 was not to him the least important eircunastance attending 
 it. His subtle gift of flattery recommended him to the vain 
 and feeble-minded Monmouth, who was much censured by 
 the more penetrating and experienced amongst the exiles 
 for admitting such a person to his confidence. 
 
 " Well, my lord," said the Duke, throwing down tho 
 ball and mallet, "three defeats in one morning is enough 
 for my stock of patience. Was not this about the hour 
 when our friend Dare the broker was to return ?'^ 
 
 " B is about the time," replied Lord Grey, " and I 
 know the knave too well to doubt his punctuality. He 
 thoroughly understood the part your grace would have him 
 act. He is a rogue, who has snflfered too much already in 
 the cause to think now of playing either the sloven or the 
 traitor. Tis pity he lacks gold l** 
 
 " Ah !" said the Duke, "and that is just the commodity 
 with which we can least afford to furnish him." 
 
 " I have promised him a small mortgage," said Lord 
 Gr^y, " upon my own estate, and he understands business 
 well enough to be perfectly contented." 
 
 " The swallows, methiaks," said the Duke, "do not flit 
 so fast as they were wont. What say you, my Lord Grey, 
 h, while we wait some favourable turn of affairs on the 
 other side of the water, we take horse and weapon again, 
 and fight for the Prince of Orange ? Our sted will be 
 eaten up with rust if we loiter in these flats." 
 
 " If your grace had not higher game in view," replie(i 
 Lord Grey, " I should say '^ arm and to horse' for anybody 
 lather than lie thus inactive* But your gi'ace will bear 
 in mind that in the present junetm'e your life can scarcely 
 be called your own," 
 
 " How mean you, my |lord ?" exclaimed the Duke, a 
 smile of evident pleasure breaking through the aftected 
 stei'oness with which he gazed upon his confidant. 
 
 '■*• It is mine,*' rcpiiad the flatterer, " and Lord Argyle's, 
 
THE DVKE OF MONMOUTH. 73 
 
 and Rnmbold^s, and Fletcher's, and Haekstott's, and FuUar- 
 ton's, and Sir John Cochrane's — ^in a word, it is the property 
 of yotjr country — of England, which tooks to James ot 
 Monmouth for a more genuine restoration than that which 
 placed his royal father in the palace of Whitehall — the 
 restoration of her liberties." 
 
 " Yen say right, my lord," said Monmouth, Jookiog down 
 as If disappointed. 
 
 " And m those liberties,'^ eontmrred Grey, "the restora- 
 tion of his own rights — of the inheritance from which he 
 has been excluded by the force of intrigue and of chicane." 
 
 " Nay, my Lord Grey," replied the Duke, with evident 
 satisfaction,^ struggling through his efforts to repress it, — 
 '' no more of that. I seek the people's welfare, not my 
 own. Remember that it is for their sake?, not my own, I 
 suffer present banishment. My gallant comrades in that 
 unhappy effort were not the men yrho would ha:v& hazarded 
 a nation's peace merely to place James of Monmouth on 
 the throne. No, Grey, I am but a tool in the hands of the 
 people of England. They seek what Hampden sought and 
 died for, and they are welcome to my name and sword in 
 such a cause. I seek, I ask no more. Let them draw 
 nie, use me, conquer with me, and when that is done, 
 return me to the sheath of my obscurity, er fling me away 
 as 3 thing no longer needed. If England be happy, 
 Monmouth is content." 
 
 *^ These are not the sentiments,** said Grey, "which 
 diminish the probability of your grace's eTcntnal success." 
 
 Again Monmouth smiled. " No, Grey,** said he, " yoa 
 gre widely in error. It is not from me that my uncle ol 
 York has anything to fear. We dwell toa near the tomt> 
 of Shaftesbury to indulge ambitious dreams. No more of 
 this ; for I tell thee, one whisper of such treasonable designs 
 would cost me the better portion ©f my friends both here 
 and at home. I have myself renounced ambition. But 
 tlitie is one irom whom the ^luke has more to tear thap 
 
74 TH£ DUKE «F MONMOUTH. 
 
 from any other. You have an interest, my lord, in keeping 
 secrets." 
 
 " I cannot guees," repKed Lord Grey. 
 
 *' What think you of our host ?" 
 
 « How I The Prince himself l" 
 
 "What think yon of it?" 
 
 "Bat that the intimation comes froni yoar gracei, I 
 should say it is wild bejond belief." 
 
 " Be assured I am right," said Monmouth. ■" He ie 
 playing a subtle game, and thinks I do not see the drift ©< 
 it. What say you to his promitjing me some regiments ia 
 case I should be wise enough to meditate a descent ? This 
 is in confidence ! it was not dh-ectly said but strongly inti- 
 mated, and it is easy to perceive with what intent." 
 
 Lord Grey looked astonished, and laid up this confiden- 
 tial intimation to be privately disseminated amongst the 
 exiles tit a fitting opportunity. While they were yet 
 speaking, a door opened in the rere of the building, and 
 fclie expected emissary made his appearance. 
 
 ^* You are welcome,** said the Duke, " what dost thoa 
 bring from England?" 
 
 *' I bring my life, and it please your grace, — ^^I bring ray 
 life," he replied with the looks and gestures of one who has 
 escaped some imminent danger. *' If |it had been any 
 other than your grace's business — And I too — I--who am 
 not like my Lord Grey, a very devourer of fire, who makes 
 no more of a cannon-ball than if it were a school-boj 'a 
 paper pellet ^" 
 
 ^' Come, sir," said Monmouth, *' we know you "ro!! 
 enough, and remember that you were not so mealy tongued 
 befoa-e King Charles with the paper of the Taunton peti- 
 tioners in your hand. You must still remember that y oar 
 name is Dare." 
 
 *' Ah," s£ud the broker, " I beseech yom* grace to spare 
 me the remembrance. J^^ever was pan so deafly bongbt 33 
 
??flE DUKE 0? MONMOUTH. 75 
 
 " Nor truth ncre staunchly verified, I will say that ^i 
 thee," replied the Duke ; " let us have your commands at 
 once." 
 
 Without making any reply in words, Dare (for it was 
 indeed no other than the famous goldsmith of Taunton) 
 unscrewed a hollow cane which he carried in his hand, and 
 took from the interior a roll of paper sealed, which h« 
 handed to the Duke m silence. 
 
 It was penned by some surviving accomplices in the for- 
 mer conspiracy, who resided still in London, and declared 
 their readiness as soon as ever Monmouth should set fuot 
 on any parrof the English coast, to second his eflforts by 
 an insurrection in the metropolis itself. There were still, 
 they said, enough of the old party left to make the double 
 plot successful. 
 
 While this was passing, Sidney Fullarton had conducted 
 his nephew into that apartment in the Duke of Monmouth's 
 residence which was appointed for the meeting of the exiles. 
 Having presented Arthur to a few of those who had already 
 arrived, he led him to a corner from which they could 
 observe the whole assembly, and where they might_^con- 
 verse unheard. 
 
 " What man is that ?" asked Arthur, " gathering his 
 brows with so gloomy an air near the open window, and 
 who looks as if he saw hostile weapons shining in the ail 
 without ?" 
 
 " He is a genuine Covenanter ! Hackston of Rathillet." 
 
 *' Rathillet? he who refused to take a part in the slaying 
 of Archbishop Sharp, lest it should be said he was instigated 
 by motives of personal and private enmity ?" 
 
 '* The self-same dainty conspirator. And he whom you 
 behold in the act of entering with those papers in his hand, 
 is Mr. Fletcher, our countryman likewise, who would be a 
 host' in any cause were it not for his infirmity. He is 
 fiercer than ten thousand furies in his angry moods — and 
 they are not few. It \^ere curious, but that it is lament- 
 
76 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. ' 
 
 able, to observe bow perfectly this one unhappy failing in 
 the temper robs him of all the benefit of his noble qualitiest 
 He is a powerful reasoner ; yet set the veriest dolt who can 
 keep his temper against him in debate, arid give that dolt 
 the wrong side of the argument to boot, and ten to one he 
 will put Fletcher down with the hearers. I have seen the 
 very absurdities brought against him so deprive him of all 
 self-command as to leave him without power to show their 
 folly. There is no man so wise, so learned, so brave, and 
 80 accomplished together, amongst the exiles, — none who 
 joins such extensive reading to so profound a genius : yet 
 all is useless to himself, and sometimes worse than useless 
 to his fi'iends, through mere defect of temper." 
 
 While he was speaking, Monmouth and Lord Grey made 
 their appearance. 
 
 "Well, my lord," said Fletcher, "you are welcome. 
 My Lord Argyle and myself have been proposing the 
 getting up of private theatricals as the best means of 
 passing the time. What think you of ' A King and No 
 King ?' My Lord Grey, perhaps, will help us to a Captain 
 Bessus." 
 
 "And Mr. Fletcher," retorted Grey with a frown, "would 
 furnish us with the gasconading half of Arbaces." 
 
 " And leave the other halt^ — the real valour that redeenas 
 the gasconade, to you, my lord," said Fletcher, " that each 
 may be fitted with what each is most in want of." 
 
 " Gentlemen," said Monmouth, " I have the satisfactiot- 
 to tell you that we are likely to have better occupation soo< 
 in hand than that of mimicking those whose trade is mimicry. 
 The tide is changing in the court at home." 
 
 The exiles listened with the deepest interest while he 
 made them acquainted with the favourable intelligence he 
 had received from England. To hear that the Duke of 
 York was to be exiled from court — for in such light did every 
 one regard his mission to Scotland — and that rumour spoke 
 of an intention on the part of Charles to recall the DokiQ oi 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 77 
 
 Monmonth, was, in trath, for the exiles to say that all was 
 about to go as the friends of the people w ished it. 
 
 " I wan-ant you," said Hume, " this news from England 
 has had something to do with the sudden increase of favour 
 from the Prince of Orange. He has had his share of it, who- 
 ever was the bearer." 
 
 " Gentlemen," said Monmouth, *' let me beseech your at- 
 tention for some moments. I give you hearty joy of this 
 intelligence, which is beyond all comparison the best that 
 has followed us since we left home. There is every pros- 
 pect now of fair play for the country and for ourselves. 
 The King, my royal father, is yet young and healthy, and 
 may live " 
 
 " My Lord 1 my Lord of Monmouth !" said a voice out- 
 side the door. 
 
 " — And may live long enough to " Monmouth was 
 
 continuing without heeding the interruption, when tho door 
 flew open so suddenly that it seemed almost to have burst 
 the lock, 
 
 " My Lord of Monmonth !" 
 
 " What, Helsham ! Has anything befallen ? Speak, 
 sirs ! — has any misfortune " 
 
 All the exiles rose alarmed ; and Monmouth continued 
 to gaze upon the Scot with a look of intense undetiued 
 anxiety. The latter meanwhile seemed collecting himseit" 
 to deliver his news with suitable calmness. , 
 
 " May it please your grace," he said at length, with a 
 voice of which every sound was drunk in a thirsty stillness 
 — " May it please your grace, to pardon me for being tiie 
 bearer of the saddest news that has filled your cms or mine 
 for many a year——'* 
 
 " Lady H. I" cried Monmouth, about to hurry from the 
 Camber. 
 
 *' Hold, my lord ! she is well — at least I know of no- 
 thing to the contrary. Alas ! my lord, forgive me tor 
 saying the blow is heavier £ar than any which could light 
 
78 THE DUKE OF MONMOUXn. 
 
 upon your own immediate honsehold. Yonr royal father, 
 my lord " 
 
 " What of him, Helsham ? How is he ?" 
 
 " As our hopes are — in his grave. The King, my lord, 
 is dead I" 
 
 Monmouth sickened, reeled, and leaned on the shoulder 
 of Lord Grey for aid. Universal dismay and consternation 
 seized upon the circle. It was some momenta before Mon- 
 mouth could recover sufficient composure to inquire iutothe 
 pai'ticulars of this blasting news. Half terrified for the con- 
 soqoences to himself, half smitten at the heart by natural 
 anguish at the loss of a parent who even in his anger was a 
 protector and a refuge, it was impossible for him to main- 
 tain even a moderate degree of self-command. 
 ' " But how, Helsham ? — how ?" he asked, his countenance 
 deadly pale, and every limb trembling as if struck with 
 palsy ; — " the King was well last week." 
 
 " As many others were," said Helsham, " who now like 
 him lie low. It is by this time public in the streets around 
 us. The Power that gives life to monarchs and to clowns 
 can only say why it is thus — we know but that it is so. 
 He died of an apoplectic stroke, as the doctors called it, and 
 w ith the Duke at his bedside, who now is James the Second." 
 
 " Nay, then, all England's up," exclaimed an exile. 
 
 " Far from it. The new monarch and the commons draw 
 together as if they never had a thought divided. So far as 
 could be learned, no summer morning ever broke so fair as 
 this new reign has done. Whether the weather will hold 
 up or no, must take a longer head than mine to tell.** 
 
 " My kind friends," said Monmouth, slowly recovering 
 himself, but yet in utter dejection, " this news has altered 
 all our destinies. I have but one advice to give yon, and 1 
 give it from my heart. It was I who drew you here and filled 
 you with those hopes that now are blasted. Forgive me for 
 it, and disperse again to provide for your own safety. Thera 
 is no hope left for as, or England either. Go, gentlemea 
 
THE »U«B 0? MONJSOCTS. 79- 
 
 — g9 700, my tords^ and seek yonr ©wb security. Forget 
 .he wretched Momnoath, who but ono balf-bonr since 
 Acnght be bad alreadj. reached the point from' whieb ho 
 Boight reqpite your ser/ices and love. My gratitude shall 
 always follow you ;. I shall always bear in mind your xeal 
 sad boaeply in tbe good eaase, though now it be lost beyond 
 all h<^e. Farewellj good friends I we cannot struggle 
 against ths J>ivinity which oan baffle all our projects- by 
 strokes so sudden and so unforeseen a& this." 
 
 Tbe griaf of heart and energy of manner with which the 
 unfortunate nobleman addressed his followers created a strong 
 sensation in the assembly .^ All united in remonstrating, with 
 hira on his extreme despondency. Affairs, they said^wero 
 by no means in so hopeless a condition as he seemed ta take 
 for granted. 
 
 " Trust me, my lord," said Fletcher, with his impatient 
 ff-own, " tbe Duke, though all at present seem to flow so calmly, 
 will not suffer it to be so long. In some way or another he 
 will be certain, by the help of his inborn love of despotism, 
 to a^urd an opportunity hereafter to the Meads <^ Ilngland 
 to redeem what she has lost." 
 
 After sonae further arguments had been urged to the same 
 purpose by other individuals, Monmouth began with the 
 effeminate vaccillation which was natural to him again to 
 to rally bi& spirits,, and even to go beyond the rest in the 
 energy of his reviving hopes. It was agreed to avoid eom- 
 iiig to any decision on what was to be done until they shoold 
 bear more certain news from home, and in the mean time to 
 ose all possible efforts in strengthening their limited force 
 m Holland.. 
 
 Another adverse stroke was dealt against the exiles be>. 
 fore the sun went down.- Tbe Stadtholdsr, alarmed at the 
 events in England, and unwilling to incur the displeasure of 
 tbe new monarch,, took occasion to postpone an intended 
 ttttertainment at the palace, and even intimated to tba Bake 
 ihat it would be neeessary for him and his foUowsistaltavei 
 
80 THE DUKE OF MOKMOUTH. 
 
 the city. This disagreeable announeement is said to have 
 been softened at th« tiioe by piomises of ae^a'eS «'J, whicli 
 were cot to be fulfilled. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 In the mean time, a scene which had less relation to public 
 affairs, but not less to Monmouth, was passing in another 
 apartment of the building. 
 
 On the evening when the ship which bore young Fallarton 
 arrived in Holland, Lady H. was in her chamber expecting 
 the arrival of the messenger to whom she had intrusted her 
 letter to Edmund Pembroke. Her wasted figm'e, and t'r.ia 
 and sallow countenance, showed something of the anxiety 
 with which she expected his arrival. 
 
 " It is the day," said she, " and about the hour, when he 
 bade us to expect him. Run, Alice, to the window in the 
 hall and see. Nay, stay !" she exclaimed, laying her hand 
 on the attendant's arm ; " do not leave me, I cannot endure to 
 be alone. I know not -what to do, what remedy to seek for 
 this continual terror that besets me. I wonder at Monmouth, 
 Have not men likewise consciences as women have, that tell 
 them of guilt incurred, of social duties disregarded, of nature 
 outraged and contemned ? Yet, while my wretched meals 
 are haunted by incessaut, unaccountable feais, Monmouth 
 can jest and laugh as if he knew neither blame nor error." 
 
 *' All men are so, and it please your ladyship," replied 
 the attendant 
 
 ** Not all men — no, not all. I can remember one — and 
 would I could forget him ! — whose mind was of a different 
 mould. Hark 2 is not that a foot upon the staircase ? It 
 is — 'tis he 1 — now hope be my ssppoi-t and strength I" 
 
 The door opened, and Dare the broker appeared. La-ly 
 H. did not wait for him to ai>eak, but with hands clasj«d. 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 81 
 
 and a countenance thai glowed with the fervour of her gra- 
 titude, exclaimed, 
 
 " Friend, thou art punctual to thy word, and a wretched 
 woman thanks thee from her heart. In your hour of distress 
 and need — for all must look in turn for such an hour — may 
 Heaven remember your benevolence to me, and be your 
 friend, as you were mine in my calamity ! Have you spoke 
 with Pembroke ?" 
 
 " Madam, I have.** 
 
 " How looked he ? How does Pembroke ? worthy Pem- 
 broke !" 
 
 " In good truth, madam, the young gentleman, who was 
 shown to me for Edmund Pembroke, is a well-looking young 
 gentleman as ever my eyes alighted on. If fresh cheeks, 
 and well-turned limbs, and a vigorous carriage of body, be 
 signs of health, then he is in good health, and likely long 
 to be so." 
 
 " I am very glad of it," said Lady H. ; " I hope he will 
 live long in the enjoyment both of peace and health. Thou 
 — " she paused for a long time as if expecting that the Jew 
 would speak — " Thou gavest him my letter ?" 
 
 " I did." 
 
 " I thank thee heartily, for I have not another friend 
 now whom I would dare address but Pembroke. What 
 said he in reply ?" 
 
 She looked as if expecting that the brC;&:er would hand 
 her a reply ; and it appeared as if the latter harped her 
 thought aright, for he hastened to put an end to her suspense. 
 
 '* Madam," said he, " you judge right that Master Pem- 
 broke is your friend, for I have seldom heard the language 
 of a truer anw r^euderer regard than he showed in speaking 
 of your ladyabiji.. It went sorely, madam, against his mind 
 that yoar ladyship should have addressed him from his grace 
 of Monmouth's house ; and, to say a truth, it was upon 
 that score he would vouchsafe no manner of written answer 
 to your letter." 
 
 F 
 
82 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 Lady H. seemed not in the least to have expected this. 
 Accustomed as she had been to look on Pembroke as her 
 very worshipper, the seuse of her fall had seldom strack her 
 with more acutene.^s than when reminded of it by hiin. She 
 covered her face with her hands, and did not answer for 
 some time. 
 
 " What were his words ?" she said at length ; " tell me 
 exactly what he said, whatever k may have been." 
 
 " Why, madam," said the emissary, " for that I cannot 
 charge my memory ; but 1 know the burden of the soug 
 was this, that he never would hold any communication with 
 your ladyship while you remained in the house of the Duke 
 of Monmouth." 
 
 " And this was all his answer ?" said the lady in a dis- 
 appointed tone. 
 
 " It was all — or all resolved itself into that," replied tlie 
 broker ; " and, in truth, it was so spoken that I thiuk your 
 ladyship will but lose your pains and time in seeking to 
 alter his resolution." 
 
 " So much for Pembroke !" said Lady H. in a painful 
 whisper, and after a long silence. " Have you seen — my 
 father ?" 
 
 " When I found, madam, that Mr. Pembroke would by 
 no means execute your wishes, as conveyed in the letter, I 
 undertook the task myself. Madam, I have seen your noble 
 parent." 
 
 " I envy thee thine eyes, that were so lately blessed with 
 the sight of his indulgent looks. I can see by thy tone that 
 he is well." 
 
 " He is." 
 
 *' You found some means of letting him hear of his miser- 
 able child ?" 
 
 " Madam, I put it in a train. When I drew near the house, 
 into which I had observed hira entering some time before, I 
 looked out for some face or figure that had a look of ancient 
 •ervitude about it. I did not wait long. An aged woman. 
 
THE DCKE OF MONMOUTH. ' 83 
 
 in a dress that seemed to have descended to her from some 
 grandame of Queen Bess's days, and supporting her old bones 
 ■with a crutch-headed walking cane, crossed me as I stood upca 
 the path. I doffed my hat as she passed, and asked if the 
 
 bhilding I beheld were that of my Lord . She answered 
 
 that it was, and seemed to wait my farther speech. ' I could 
 tell his lordship tidings,' said I, ' of a daughter of his whom 
 I lately saw in Holland.' ' Alack ! sir,' cried the poor old 
 creatm'e, trembling in every limb, aud weepinf as if she 
 were about to fall to pieces from affliction at the sound ; 
 ' do you tell me of our child ?' ' You knew the Lady H. 
 then ?' I inquired. ' Knew her 1' — and she crossed her 
 withered hands upon her breast — ' she was my foster-child. 
 A lonesome house it is since that bright angel left it I She 
 was the light of all our eyes. There has no joy come within 
 our gates since she departed. Even the very laughter that 
 we bear at times, when my lord has visitors to make him 
 merry, sounds just as weeping used before she went. That 
 fatal, fatal day !' And *;hec, madam, she let her old tongue 
 loose in praise of your ladyship, and added more concerning 
 his grace of Monmouth than I would be willing to say after 
 her in his presence." 
 
 " But you gave her my commission ?" 
 
 " Aye, and she pledged her word to see it done, although 
 she shook her head when I talked of my lord being brought 
 to cast all behind his shoulder again. — But, madam, some 
 one knocks ; I must ask your leave to depart. Your lady- 
 ship knows how I may be found when I am needed." 
 
 *' I thank thee," saii Lady H., " most deeply thank thee, 
 for thy zeal and kindness." 
 
 The broker depai'ted, and Lady H. awaited the entrance 
 of the new-comer. It was Monmouth, who came to make 
 her acquainted with the inteUigence which had just arrived, 
 and with the commands of the Stadtholder that they should 
 leave the city. 
 
64 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 The dismay of Lady H. can hardly be conceived when he 
 informed her of the necessity for their speedy separation ; 
 that he must at once retire to Brussels, where the exiles 
 were about to form a plan for the invasion of the English 
 shores. She had penetration enough, however, to see that 
 the arguments which terror first prompted h°r to use, were 
 not thos which would be most likely to alter the determi- 
 nation of the Duke. She made, therefore, for some time 
 an effort to conceal them, while the young nobleman in- 
 dulged in the most extravagant anticipations of success. 
 
 " Yes," he exclaimed, pacing rapidly to and fro in the 
 apartment with gestures of delight ; " these dreadful news, 
 which rung, as I thought, the death-knell to our hopes, will 
 have, ".fter all, the effect of accelerating our success. We 
 have plenty of friends both in the N rth and West, and all 
 we now need wish for is a favourable wind, and some small 
 addition to our funds. Argyle already has all that my poor 
 trinkets could procure him — and " 
 
 " Of course, Monmouth," said Lady H., " my jewels are 
 free to your use for any purpose you may desire. But do 
 I hear aright ? Is it possible, that with a handful of friends, 
 scarce sufficient to eke out a tolerable dinner-party, you 
 think of shaking the throne of one of the greatest sovereigns 
 on earth ?' 
 
 " Consider, Lady H., how numerous are our friends at 
 home." 
 
 ** I do, my lord. I know that they are numerous — at 
 least they were so once, and they may be so still, provided 
 you do not forfeit their attachmerit by such rash and hasty 
 measures as would make the chance of success not even the 
 shadow of an excuse for the risk of general woe and rain 
 that would attend a failare.'^ 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 85 
 
 " There is no danger of a failure," said the Duke impa- 
 tiently. 
 
 " Monmouth," said Lady H., " I am no politician, bnt 
 I know the West of England well. The yeomen are your 
 friends ; and they, poor things, might perhaps be easily 
 embroiled in your quarrel. The gentry favour you likewise ; 
 but it is not now that yon will find them disposed to mani- 
 fest their partiality, and without them what can you effect ?" 
 
 " The gentry will be with us to a man," said Monmouth 
 hastily. '' But there is one expression. Lady H., in what 
 you have said that gives me paiA. You spoke of this as 
 ' my quarrd /' It is the quarrel of the English people, 
 my sweet friend, not mine. It is the quarrel of right against 
 wrong, of liberty against oppression." 
 
 " Clothe it with what names yon will, my lord," said 
 Lady H., " it is still an inciting of the governed against 
 their governor — of a people against the king to whom they 
 have professed a free allegiance ; a measure so repugnant 
 to the natural sense of right, that although tyranny will 
 drive men at times to use it, they have never yet in absence 
 of the immediate provocation agreed to give it formal sanc- 
 tion. Even selfish prudence would suggest delay at least. 
 The new King as yet has not made himself your friend, by 
 any manifest injustice. He is even by your own showing 
 popular. "Wonder not, my lord," continued Lady H., "that 
 the alarm of ray own breast should suddenly have given me 
 light in affairs that are commonly estOvmed too weighty for 
 a woman's strength. Do you imagine for an instant the 
 possibility of your falling into the hands of the Duke of 
 York, or the King, since such he has become ? Do you 
 think in such a case that you would have still to deal with a 
 Charles Stuart ? Believe me, if the chance should ever 
 arrive, you would find the difference between a father and 
 an uncle." 
 
 " My dear Lady H.,"said Monmouth, " your tenderness 
 makes you over apprehensive. It needs but the unfolding 
 
86 niE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 of our standard on the western coast to turn that transient 
 gleam of popularity to lasting storm and gloom." 
 
 " To storm and gloom indeed, my lord," replied the 
 lady with an excited air and manner, " bat against whom 
 to be directed ? Alas ! my lord, liberty and right are spe- 
 cious sounds ; but, like all earthly blessings, they are offea 
 purchased at an expense that they never can repay. Think 
 what it IS, my lord, to embroil a state in civil war, to set 
 the population of a country-side in arms against their rulers, 
 and to bring bloodshed and distraction to the hamlet and 
 the cottage hearth. It is not you, Monmouth, nor Argyle, 
 nor Fletcher, nor any of those who are busy in the manage- 
 ment of this maniac expedition, that are to be taken as un- 
 biassed judges of the real merits of the case. The question 
 belongs more nearly to the humble peasantry whom you 
 seduce, who share all the danger of the attempt, yet must 
 reap nothing of the glory of success, and on whom the ruin 
 of failure must come down in all its weight. And were 
 failure only to comprise the loss of what you seek, it 
 might be tolerable ; but, ray lord, the picture that presents 
 itself to me is of a far more frightful nature ; for this 
 thought of failure is iiv^parable in my mind from the very 
 nature of your scheme. Turn which way I will, I find ruin 
 still before me : — a peasantry writhing beneath the lash of 
 the offended and triumphant law — a powerful sovereign 
 provoked — The jountry farther removed than ever from the 
 accomplishment of its just desires. Thou, too, Monmoutb 
 
 But dare I trust my thought upon a possibility so full 
 
 of horror? Yet what can be imagined so disastrous, that 
 a few brief months may not out-blacken it if you persist iu 
 such a scheme as this ?" 
 
 " This," said the Duke, *' is the mere delirium of o;^er- 
 anxiety. Our plans are better laid than you believe." 
 
 " You must bc.v mth rae, my lord," said Lady H., '* ii 
 I cannot but shudder at the idea that -i itw ftrief months 
 — j V Treeks, if you should press your time of sailing, may 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 87 
 
 see your fortunes at an end, and the name of Monmouth, 
 from which gi'eat things are still expected, obscurely noted 
 in the annals of his native land, as one of the many who have 
 incurred the guilt and odium of rebellion, without redeeming 
 t liem by the worldly splendour of success. But, Monmouth, 
 tiiese are not my only arguments against your project ; I 
 have others that relate more nearly to ourselves. Is this 
 your formal renunciation of ambition ? You told me you 
 had given up for ever those projects which had so nearly 
 cost you dear. Will you violate your word ? Will you 
 abandon me to misery for a maniac's dream ?" 
 
 " Lady II.," said Monmouth mildly, " I did not think 
 that selfish thoughts like these " 
 
 " Alas ! my lord, such selfishness is now my lightest 
 blame. You must not leave me, Monmouth, for there is 
 something tells my mind that we should never meet again. 
 Kesign this idle hope, and keep the word you gave. — 
 Selfish I Oh, Monmouth, is it selfishness, when I have not 
 another friend on earth, when the door of my paternal home 
 is closed against me, when my good name itself is lost — is 
 it selfish to entreat that you, my last remaining one, for 
 whom I have surrendered these, should not forsake me ?" 
 
 Even while she was speaking, Monmouth's attention 
 seemed to be wandering to his more important designs. 
 
 " Dear Lady H.," he said, taking her hand, and still 
 with the same mild accent as before, " why do you speak 
 of being forsaken or abandoned ? They are shocking words, 
 which should never occur between us. I only wish that 
 you should remain in private here until better times shall 
 enable us to meet as hitherto." 
 
 " But I cannot, my lord — 1 dare not live alone. I could 
 bear anything better than the horrid thoughts that torment 
 me when I am alone." 
 
 " What then ?" said Monmouth, expanding his hands 
 with a remonstratory smile ; " I am all compliance. What 
 1. list be done? Our Lime in Brussels will be both brief 
 
6S THE DUKE OV MONMCUTIT. 
 
 Rud busy. Still less could fitting accommodations be aflbrded 
 you in an armed transport such as we must use." 
 
 " I could bear anything, do anything, rather than remain 
 behind," said Lady H., in the strongest terror, — " the deck, 
 the open field. Accommodations ! Oh, little do you know 
 the mind that you address I The time has long gone by 
 when I could be delicate upon those points. The torment of 
 the mind has taught me to cav? little for the body's ease." 
 
 "This is extremely disf*- ing," said Monmouth, with 
 an air of gentle perplexity, " my time is short, and our 
 friends are even at this iuotant expecting me to give some 
 orders respecting the departure of Our petty force. Dear 
 Lady fi., let me entreat you to consent to remain here 
 , until " 
 
 "I cannot, Monmouth," said the lady, with increasing 
 vehemence. *' I see that I am destined to be sacrifici^d, 
 but I will not be a party to my own destruction. Oh ! 
 now I feel my ruin ! Now, now my last plank in the 
 storm is about to be torn from my grasp ; but I will not 
 yield it up while I have strength to hold it. If you are 
 weary of me, Monmouth, why did you not leave me in my 
 father's hall, where I was blest and innocent until we met ? 
 Say this is selfish if you will. I tell thee, Monnaouth, that 
 even with the dread of madness in my eyes, which hourly 
 haunts me in my loneliness, if I saw a hope of good to you 
 from this, I woni»l still dare all to know that you were the 
 gainer ; bnt you ai'e now involving both in certain ruin." 
 
 " My dear, dear H.," said Monmouth, shaken in spite of 
 himself, " I cannot bear to see you in this torture. If you 
 insist upon it, then I must " 
 
 " Upon my knees, I pray you to be wise. The men 
 you act with are men of desperate fortunes, who have 
 nothing to lose by setting all upon a cast, and much to 
 gain by even the least success." 
 
 " Nay, that indeed is true," said Monmouth, stilt per. 
 plexed. •' Be quieted, be comforted, I beseech you. Pray 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 89 
 
 rise ; I cannot see you at my feet. I will send word by 
 Ilelsham to our fiiends " 
 
 He was interrupted by the sudden appearance at the 
 door of the attecdant he had named. 
 
 " Well, Helaham, what's the matter?" 
 
 " Mr. Fletcher, my lord " 
 
 Fletcher, who suspected what occasioned the delay of 
 Monmouth, here presented himself without waiting further 
 announcement. 
 
 "My lord," said he, in a stem voice, "yon are waited for." 
 
 *' Am I, Mr. Fletcher ? I am sorry for it. I was about 
 to send Helshara to inform our friends that I have changed 
 my mind about proceeding direct to Brussels. I see you 
 are surprised, but " 
 
 " Troth, my lord," said Fletcher, with a short laugh, 
 " few friends who have known your grace so well as I do 
 can be much surprised at hearing that you have changed 
 your mind." 
 
 " Mr. Fletcher," said the Duke in some confusion, yet 
 preserving his mild urbanity of tone, " Lady H. has urged 
 some reasons ■" 
 
 " I judged as much, my lord," said Fletcher, advancing 
 a few steps toward Lady H., who shrunk at his approach 
 like a child in awe of a preceptor. " I wonder, madam," 
 he said in a vwce as stern as he could use, " that selfish 
 feelings should lead you to forget what was owing to your 
 country and the honour of his grace." 
 
 " Pray, Mr. Fletcher," said the Ddke, " let us have no 
 more of this. Perhaps, dear Lady H.," he added, taking 
 her hand kindly, " it will be better, after all, that onr 
 friends should be satisfied. Let me beg of you to be com- 
 posed till this business has been despatched. All other 
 arrangements shall be concluded at our leisure. Be assured 
 your happiness shall not be disregarded amid the general 
 interests." 
 
 Lady H. returned his farewell with a chidden silent air, 
 
90 THE DUZB OP MONMOUTH. 
 
 like cae who despaired of sncceeding against an influence 
 PC mach stronger than her own. Following him with her 
 '■'.yf's, and with a heart that ached with the sense of its 
 approaching desolation, she waited until the closing of the 
 outer door had announced the departure of the Duke, before 
 she changed the mournful and hopeless attitude in which 
 he left her. 
 
 CHAPTER Xlir. 
 
 In the mean time all was bustle in Taunton. The Fullav- 
 tons had received a letter from Arthur, desiring that the 
 marriage of his sister might no longer be deferred, as it was 
 impossible for him now to return to Tone Cottage within 
 any specific time. He feared to commit to writing the 
 true reason of his continued absence, which was that he 
 had engaged to accompany the Earl of Argyle in the 
 intended expedition. Aquila, however, had the skill to 
 draw the secret from the bearer of the letter without letting 
 it reach another ear. 
 
 " Who gave you that letter, Donald ?" she said privately 
 to the servant who had brought it into the small parlour, 
 having followed him as soon as she had learned the contents. 
 
 The domestic answered in his native dialect, that the 
 man had given no name ; but if his young lady wished to 
 know more about him, she might find him Ungering yet 
 about the shrubbery on the left of the cottage. 
 
 It seemed as if the stranger (the same who had brought 
 the former note from Sidney Fullarton) was expecting some 
 step of the kind, for he smiled when he saw Aquila presoni; 
 herself at the cottage door, and made his obeisance with a 
 Hegree of familiarity and significance that had somcthi'g 
 disagreeable. 
 
 *' You were the beaier, then," she said, * of this letter 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 51 
 
 from my brother ? He told you, doubtless, why he is uot 
 to return so soon as we expect him ?" 
 
 The emissary laid his finger warily along his nose, and 
 seemed to inquire by a glance at the house, and a familiar 
 wink of the eye, whether there was any danger of their 
 being overheard. 
 
 " Thou mayest speak freely," said Aqnila ; " there is 
 not another ear in hearing beside our own." 
 
 " And yours, I know already," said the stranger, " are 
 trustworthy. You will find herein," he added, drawing a 
 sealed packet from his bosom, " a more minute account of 
 his motives than I could undertake to furnish. If you will 
 be guided by a friend's counsel, you will put that document 
 —the paper — the husk of his c<>mmunication, into the 
 flames as soon as you have extracted the essence. Else, 
 if it fell into strange hands, it might light a fire of its own 
 head that would take a river of blood to extinguish." 
 
 Startled by such a prologue, Aqnila broke the seal and 
 read what follows. It had neither address nor signature, 
 and was worded so as to mislead as much as possible any 
 reader into whose hands it might accidentally fall, without 
 being wholly incomprehensible to the party for whom it 
 was intended : 
 
 " For A. said he knew well his sister would understand 
 though others could not because he feared to write it. For 
 nil that were far away said they would go home imme- 
 diately and take their places by fiarce. The D. said he 
 would first see what the E. could do in the North, and 
 then try the merry island himself, just about where Mistress 
 Aqnila had her house. As for A. he could do no less than 
 eofjage to follow the E., if he had as many fathers at home 
 as King Priam had sons, and as many sisters to be married 
 as Danaus had daughters ; for the E. must be surely in 
 the right, whoever is in tie '^Troag. So he said he hoped 
 the company would not wait for him, but that the marriage 
 might take place accordinjiy," 
 
9>2 THE DUKE 0? MONMOUTH. 
 
 With a beating heart Aquila traced the meaning of this 
 portentous writing. 
 
 " I can understand it well," she said, trembling in every 
 limb, as she concealed it carefully in her dress. " They 
 have taken, or they are about to take, a fearful step. I hope 
 it is a just one, and that Heaven will prosper it.^ At all 
 events, I trust and hope," she added, raising her clasped 
 hands and brimming eyes to heaven, " that my poor 
 brother may be safe. I am not ashamed, whatever be thy 
 opinion of my patriotism, of my zeal for public justice, to 
 let thee see that the chief concern of my bosom is for him. 
 He is my only one ; and when the natural course of time 
 has removed our remaining parent, no other immediate 
 relative shall be left to me on earth. Besides, we have 
 always been companions until now ; and he loves me as 
 himself, or far more dearly. I am not ashamed therefore 
 to let thee hear my prayer again. On whatever side the 
 tide of conquest turns, may Heaven preserve my brother !" 
 
 " Cry your heart easy, my bonuy lass," said the stranger, 
 while Aquila turned aside to let the current of feeling take 
 its course, " and I will give yon leave to call me the sou 
 of an acorn if I keep not an eye, so far as it lies in my 
 way, to the safety of that same youth, since it concerns 
 you so nearly. But fare you well at present, for I have 
 much on hand, and take care to keep counsel for the sake 
 of all." 
 
 He departed ; and Aquila, avoiding the sight of hex 
 father and Tamsen Kingsly, who happened to be in the 
 cottage, retired to her chamber, where she endeavoured to 
 put away from her person all appearance of disorder. Yet 
 she did not return to the parlodr until she prayed fervently 
 on her knees that Heaven might defend her brother, 
 whether he was acting aright or was seduced by error ;— 
 at all events, to defend and restore him to his family in 
 h^aUh and happiness, and to give victory to the righteous 
 Ciiuse. 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 93 
 
 On returning to the parlour, she found Henry Kingsly, 
 with her father and his sister. The first mentioned had 
 been jnst made acquainted with the contents of Arthur 
 Fnllarton's letter, and all three united in urging Aquila to 
 comply with the suggestion it contained respecting the 
 approaching marriage. Miss Fullarton would now have 
 given a great deal to possess the ear of some friend in 
 whom she might repose unlimited confidence, and whose 
 counsel she might solicit without fear ; but no such succour 
 was within her reach. Her father, whose health was 
 already in a declining state, she feared to agitate by sucli 
 alarming intelligence ; and, alas ! both her betrothed and 
 his sister were inaccessible loyalists, who would deem it 
 criminal even to participate in a neutral manner in the 
 preservation of a secret which threatened ruin and woe to 
 all they most revered. So strongly did Aquila feel this 
 diflFerence of sentiment, now that her brother was actually 
 embarked in opposition to the ruling government, that had 
 the influence arisen before her faith was plighted, it is 
 doubtful, notwithstanding her real regard for Kingsly, 
 whether it would not have placed his hopes in more than 
 jeopardy : but the contract now was made, and it was too 
 late even to think of prudence. She offered, therefore, but 
 little objection to the entreaties of her friends, and the 
 ceremony was fixed for a certain day in the month follow- 
 ing. Aquila kept her secret, and in every breast but hers 
 the happiest feelings were for a time indulged without 
 restraint. It was in one of those tranquil domestic even- 
 ings that intervened between the receipt of Arthur's letter 
 and the bridal morning, that Aquila sung the following 
 lines, which were long afterwards recalled by some of the 
 licteners with a feeling as if there had been something 
 almost prophetic in their spirit : 
 
 I. 
 
 Street Taunton Dene ! thy smiliag fields 
 Once more with meny accents ring ; 
 
94 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 Once more reviving Nature yields 
 
 Her tribute to the smiling Spring. 
 
 The small birds in the woodland sing, 
 The ploughman turns the kindly green, 
 
 And Pleasure waves her restless wing 
 Among thy groves, sweet Taunton Deuel 
 
 n. 
 
 But peace abides with Him alone 
 
 Who rules with calm, resistless power, 
 Through all creation's boundless zone. 
 
 From rolling sphere to garden flow'r ; 
 
 Nor falls in Spring the welcome show"r 
 Unwilled of Him, nor tempest blows, 
 
 Nor wind within the fragrant bow'r 
 Can rend a leaf from Summer rosa 
 
 ni. 
 
 Sweet Taunton Dene ! Oh, long abide 
 
 In thy fair vale delights like these I 
 And long may Tone's smooth waters glide 
 
 By smiling cots and hearts at ease ! 
 
 Be thine the joys of rustic peace. 
 Each sound that Launts the woodland scene ! 
 
 And blithe beneath the bowering trees, 
 The dance at eve, sweet Taunton Dene ! 
 
 In the meau time, Kirke did not forget his residence ia 
 Taunton, nor the mortification which he had undergone 
 beneath the roof of Gaspar Fullarton. His cool malignity, 
 however, was content to await its day of vengeance, with- 
 out wasting itself in premature efforts at injury which 
 could only prove abortive. The storm which seemed 
 gathering on the political horizon promised abundant op- 
 portunities of evil to a spirit like his, whose natural element 
 appeared to be in the midst of tempest and disorder, and 
 which, like those wretched beings who dwell on remote 
 sea-coasts, sought its prey and spoil amid the wreck of 
 social happiness and peace. He was satisfied for the 
 present to bear the event in mind, and to keep an eye to 
 the fortunes of the family while he pursued his ordinary, 
 coarse at a distance. 
 
THE DUEE OF HO^'MOUTtf. 95 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 The plot of the exiles began to thicken on the Continent. 
 Those assembled in Rotterdam had not yet admitted the 
 Duke of* Monmouth to their confidence, and looked rather 
 to the Earl of Argyle, who was present with them, as their 
 leader in any enterprise which they might agree to under- 
 take. Neither on the part of the leader or his followers, 
 Iiowever, doer there appear to have been much of that 
 clearness of mind and cool wisdom essential to an under- 
 taking of ^uch magnitude as both contemplated. While 
 many of the latter devoured with the incredulity of fanati- 
 cism all the monstrosities of Titus Oates, and attributed 
 the King's death to poison, the Earl himself was occupied 
 in purchasing favourable predictions from astrologers on 
 behalf of his design. 
 
 Upon the morning on which the Duke of Monmouth set 
 out for Rotterdam, with the view of engaging the main 
 body of the exiles in his favour, the Earl was closeted with 
 two of those impostors ; whiile the council of Twelve, to 
 whom the coiispirators intrusted the management of their 
 affairs, wer. somewhat impatiently expecting his arrival. 
 Those who witnessed the firmness of mind which the 
 unhappy nobleman displayed duriog a portion of his subse- 
 quent fortunes, would scarcely have Imagined that the same 
 individual could take a part in such a scene. 
 
 The window-curtains were eluse drawn, so as entirely 
 to exclude the light of dawn already visible in the heavens 
 outside. On a table in the centre of the small apartment 
 burned a single lamp, which furnished the only light by 
 which the objects in the chamber were made discernible. 
 Beside It stood a large bowl, on the interior of which might 
 be discerned a number of circles, consisting of the letters 
 of the Greek alphabet, the signs of the zodiac, with various} 
 
96 THE DCKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 eabalistic figures. Bj a silken string, descending from 
 above, was suspended a small ring, of what metal it was 
 difficult to determine, which now remained without vibra- 
 tion about the centre of the bowl, and somewhat lower 
 than the rim. 
 
 On either side of the table two knavish-looking figures 
 were busy in arranging all the forms of the projected 
 mummery. At length one of the two went towards a df-ot 
 leading to an inner apartment, and said in a loud whisper, 
 and in broken English : 
 
 "HishesI my lord i all has been readies." 
 
 The door opened, and the Earl made his appearance. 
 
 " You are very slow," he said ; '* the hour is almost past 
 for our assembling, and I shall soon be waited for. Is all 
 prepared ?" 
 
 " All is readies. Ask yonr quessins, an' you shall have 
 your answers." 
 
 " First, then, to be brief — What is oar chance of success 
 if we shonld sail ?" 
 
 " Wit your pardon, you shall ask more certain quessin. 
 You shall say what is issues — Death or Vigtory ?" 
 
 " Put it as you will." 
 
 " It is very good. Now we shall see." (Both the 
 knaves here advanced with many and profound obeisances 
 towards the mysterious bowl.) " There — you see the ring 
 has moved, and has hit upon Nu, whish is letters for Nike, 
 whish in Greek is Vigtoiy — whish you shall conquer. It 
 is best auguries. Propose your other quessins," 
 
 " Shall we direct our course for England or for Scot- 
 land ?" 
 
 The mummery was repeated for the solution of the new^ 
 query. The ring now struck upon a letter which seemed 
 to puzzle the magician. 
 
 *' I saw it strike Omicron," said the anxious and super- 
 stitious Eai-1 : *' that letter denotes neither land." 
 
 *' It is very mush puzzles," said the former speaker ■ 
 
THE DUKE OF MOKilUUTK. 97 
 
 '• what can Ji intans? Ob, T have liim by tne tail ! It is 
 Scotland ! for Omicron is small of Omega, as Scotland small 
 of Enarland. Is very nice and mystics : Omicron is Scotland." 
 
 " Thou hast explained it right,'" said Arpyle, whosp se- 
 cret, prepossessions were favoured by this interpretation. 
 " Now, tell me under what sign we should set sail ?" 
 
 " With all hearts end souls. There ! >ou see the ring 
 has tonsh the sign Gemini, which is for May. Yon shall 
 sail then for Scotland, and you shall be very vigtories." 
 
 '" It is very Tell," said the Earl with evident satisfac- 
 tion ; yon have served me very well. Take this purse — I 
 may have an opportunity of rewarding you more liberally 
 when your predictions have been fulfilled, as I have no 
 doubt they shall be ere this year's corn is housed." 
 
 " Oh, ray good lors, you are very mush liberals ; you will 
 make us shames to trouble you when prophecies is come to 
 passes." 
 
 " Remove your instrument as speediiy as you can ; for 
 I must leave yon, add I have reasons to keep this matter 
 private. You will find the door ajar which leads to the rera 
 of the house." 
 
 Saying this the Earl departed, and the two impostors 
 proceeded to comply with his instructions. 
 
 '' Always, Mynheer Showier," said the more loquacious 
 of the two, " when peoples comes to you for magics and pro- 
 phecies, yon will finds out what they best likes, and then you 
 Avill makes your prophecies. If you propheceis well and 
 pleasant for them, they will likes yon fary mush, and pay you 
 fary mush, whether your prophecies ever comes true or no." 
 
 This observation only produced a surly sound of assent 
 or dissent, as it might be interpreted, from his companion. 
 
 *' Ah — there ! You always grunts like hogs when I 
 gives you my advices. But your grunts is foolishness. It 
 will be wise for you if you grunt and remember sometimes.** 
 
 '* The Duke of Monmouth, I hear," said the more silent 
 rogue, " arrived last night in Rotterdam." 
 
 « 
 
98 TUE DUKE OF MONMOLTH. 
 
 " So mush best for us — I will go find him. He is big- 
 ger fool, if can be, than my Lors Argyles. I will strike 
 other letters for him, aud contrary of my lors ; for it shall 
 be England for him, aud he will pay me betters. He has 
 bought many charms and spoils from me whish he wears 
 upon his body, like one great goose or baboon, whish he is. 
 It is no sins, but virtues, to cheat sush baboons. He has 
 books of astrology, too, whish he thanked me for fary mush 
 — and fary mush pay me also, whish is best. He is one 
 baboon Duke whish I will make fools of, and get more 
 monies. And when I have made fools of two, then I will 
 go and inform consuls and ambassadors, and have both 
 taken up and hang for treasons, and get more monies too. 
 Iss very deserving for a pair of fools. Come, Mynheer 
 Showier, we are fary mush business yet this morning, aud 
 is a pair of fary clever fellows. Is fary well our stars did 
 net make us lors or dukes." 
 
 The Earl found the Council of Twelve already sitting, 
 with their prajses, Sir John Cochrane, in the chair. His 
 plans were proposed, debated on, amended, and all but ac- 
 ceded to, when a messenger arrived from the Duke of Mon- 
 mouth, requesting that he might be admitted to the council. 
 
 The incident produced no small degree of confusion. Ar- 
 gyle felt somewhat like a subaltern < flScer who, when on 
 the point of achieving some notable piece of service, beholds 
 the hard- won wreath of glory snatched from his brow by the^, 
 arrival of his superior in command, and could with difficulty ' 
 conceal his vexation. Others regarded the young Duke with ' 
 suspicion, as a mere selfish aspirant to a throne which it- 
 waa their aim to overturn for ever. The greater number 
 again regarded the adhesion of Monmouth as a most de-' 
 sirable accession to the co\nraon cause, could he be induced 
 sincerely to embrace the common interest. While it was 
 yet warmly debated in what way his message should be 
 answered, Monmouth, with the impatience natural to him, 
 p.escuted himself at the door of the council-chamber. Thii 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOLTH. 99 
 
 measure put au end to the discussion, and the door ivas 
 opened. 
 
 The Duke entered, followed by Lord Grey, Dare the 
 broker, and many others of his own more immediate party. 
 It was one of those situations in which his handsome figure, 
 and frank, engaging manner, appeared to most advantage. 
 
 "My lords," said he, "and gentlemen — or let me sink 
 the distinction in a nobler phrase — brothers and fellow • 
 patriots, you must not call me an intruder. I am come to 
 offer all, to ask for nothing. Look on me not as a claimani 
 for rank or power— ^but as a poor recruit, desirous, ardently 
 desirous, even to bear a musket and bandoleei's in the cause 
 of which you are met to treat." 
 
 There was a cordial expression of applause Argyle 
 gnawed his lip, but, conscious perhaps of his own imperfect 
 motive, did not venture to oflf'^r any opposition. A debate 
 arose, which speedily became warm, and even stormy, 
 liathillet, Fletcher, Cochrane, and some other of the more 
 resolute lepub'icans, were not dainty in confessing their 
 suspicions of the Duke. His manner, however, never stood 
 him so much in stead as when he was thus assailed. His 
 placid smile, his mild and courteous tone, and his imperturb- . 
 able good-humour, could hardly fail to disarm even the dis- 
 trustful, and were sm'O to engage the neutral in his favour. 
 Accordingly, after much debating, it was resolved that 
 Monmouth should be admitted to an equal share with Ar- 
 gyle in the command ; that in the mean time he should so- 
 lemnly bind himself not to assume the title of King without 
 the advice of his associates ; and if a measure so repugnant 
 to their principles should be found advisable in order to 
 add greater efScacy to their cause in England, that he 
 should resign it as soon as the success of the expedition 
 should render the retention of the title no longer necessary. 
 
 Argyle was still dissatisfied. His plan was already 
 formed, his measures taken, and his superstitious assurance 
 of success bad already made him deaf to argument. His 
 
100 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 ship was fitted oat and armed at Amsterdam. Was tha 
 whole scheme uow to be baffled by new and fantastic coun. 
 sels? He would hear nothing. Let them debate the 
 matter as they would amongst them, he would not be of 
 *he council. At length a mode was found of satisfying 
 him. It was proposed that the plans of Argyle should re- 
 main untouched, combining with them only a second enter- 
 prise under Monmouth, which latter was to have England 
 for its object. The Earl should hold the rank of generaJ 
 of the army, with the usual powers accorded in free states ; 
 while Monmouth was to lead the English branch of the 
 expedition, under the title of king or general, as it should 
 be found expedient. To chis arrangement the Scottish 
 Earl accorded a slow assent, and consented to take his 
 place at the board amongst the Twelve. 
 
 Impatience, headlong zeal, fanaticism, and revenge, 
 inspired the counsels that ensued. In order that all might 
 be ready on their landing, a declaration of war was drawn 
 up against the Duke of York (as the exiles still persisted 
 in calling James the Second). The inflammatory violence 
 and falsehood which characterized this document are too 
 well known to need description here. Fratricide, murder, 
 arson — nothing was too bad for the monarch whom they 
 sought to depose. It was he killed Godfrey — he that set 
 London on fire — he that poisoned Charles. Like most 
 productions originating in similar circumstances, the weak- 
 ness of evidence was made up by vigour of assertion. 
 
 The exiles now proceeded with undiminished eagerness 
 to debate of the manner and time of sailing. 
 
 " Let there be some order, my friends," said Monmouth, 
 raising his hand to still the clamour of impatient voices — 
 **let there be something like order in our debate, where 
 there is so weighty a point at issue. My Lord Argyle, 
 speak first — what way does your opinion lie ?" 
 
 " In the name of Providence, for instant sailing," said 
 the Earl. *' But, my lord, I hold it not so prudent that 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 101 
 
 we should risk all upon a single die. Let me proceed to 
 sea in the first instance, and by a stroke or two in the 
 North, open a way for your better reception in the West." 
 
 A murmur of applause announced the general assent to 
 this proposal, which suited well enough with the desires of 
 Monmouth himself. Fletcher alone appeared to withhold 
 the common sign of acquiescence. 
 
 " What say you, Mr. Fletcher ?" asked the Duke ; " yon 
 are not wont to fall behindhand when the counsel is to arms." 
 
 "The more credit I may claim then," said Fletcher, 
 " for my prudence in the present instance. I am wholly 
 against the idea of an immediate invasion." 
 
 "It is a new thing," said Lord Grey with a smile, 
 " to hear Mr. Fletcher's voice on the side of prudence." 
 
 " As new as it is, my lord," said Fletcher hastily, " to 
 hear yours on that of temerity. But it is not with you that 
 I wish to measure argument. You, my lord dake, and yon, 
 my noble lord and countryman, will understand that I do 
 not play Fabius for once in my life either through sloth 
 or fear. But, my lord duke, forgive me for telling yon 
 that you start before the signal. You are somewhat early 
 in the field. You wish to commence fighting before you 
 have mustered your recruits. Take time, my lord, take 
 time. Best quietly here awhile ; and trust me, before many 
 months are past, James will strike a more powerful blow 
 for us against himself, than can be dealt by any hand; 
 beside his own." 
 
 This counsel did not please the impatient spirit of mea 
 like the exiles, who had been feeding too long on hope to 
 relish any further allowance of such lenten fare. It was 
 perfect wisdom ; but they were anxious for action, not for 
 counsel. It was accordingly overrnled without much diffi- 
 culty, and Argyle set sail for his natal soil, leaving behind 
 him the gi-eater number of Monmouth's adherents, who felt 
 delay an intolerable burden after once the tocsin of invasiou 
 had been sounded. 
 
102 TDi; DUKE OP MONMOUTH. 
 
 Returning from the beach, after having lost the last 
 glinapse of the sails that bore the adventurous Earl upon 
 his course, Monmouth was met near his own house by one 
 of the exiles whom he had left behind him at the Hague. 
 
 *' What, Mr. Ferguson !" exclaimed the Dake, " arrived 
 60 soon ?" 
 
 " Not too soon, my lord, for safety," answered Ferguson; 
 " or rather I should say, my liege, for I am glad to learn that 
 the first step towards the open assertion of your rights has 
 been taken in my absence." 
 
 "Hush! hush! Mr. Ferguson," said the Duke, "no 
 more of that. Have you taken up the burden of Lord 
 Grey's old song ? Be assured, the sound is as the croak 
 of a raven in my ears. I tell you once again, I am the 
 people's tool ; I draw the sword for England's freedom, not 
 for my own advantage. How often must I repeat, that 
 not for the crown of universal empire would I betray the 
 trust the Commons have reposed in my iiitegrity ? We 
 seek to destroy a form of government that experience has 
 shown to be oppressive ; what better shall be substituted 
 in its place, the people must themselves determine. I am 
 sorry you spoke of this, for it has deeply stirred me. I 
 never will betray the people, — 1 had rather die a thousand 
 deaths than be false to the people. Besides ! have I not 
 wholly laid aside ambition ? — to what purpose, then, should 
 I become a traitor ? I tell thee, Ferguson, the blood I have 
 seen flow, the calamity that I have seen diffused through 
 failure even in the noblest cause, have taught me too severe- 
 a lesson to suppose that any selfish interest, at least, could 
 lure me into a broil that was doubtful either in its i ectitude 
 tor its feasibility. Could 1 think upon a crown, and not 
 imagine that I beheld the golden rim smirched over with 
 the blood of Sidney ? What kind of music, think you, to 
 the dance of my ambition, might be the sighs of Russell's 
 widow, well remembered ? Oh no ! for James of Monmouth, 
 it were better far to turn the earth with a spade in Holland, 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 103 
 
 tban seek to rnle it in England on no higher motive. 
 Thank Heaven, I have an humble heart ! Thank Heaven, 
 I am not at least tormented with ambition ! Kingdom or re- 
 public, it is one to me ; let who will be Rex or Lord Protector, 
 it is enough for me to have done my duty by the people." 
 
 " Yet I doubt, ray lord," said Ferguson, " whether yon 
 will find the people in the West prepared for this hood- 
 winked kind of combat, where no man knows for what or 
 under whom he fights. Besides, I promise you, no small 
 portion of their discontent is owing to the common belief 
 that your graces claim to the throne has been unjustly set 
 aside in favour of its present occupier, and the order of 
 succession violated." 
 
 " What said you, Ferguson ? "What ! has that story 
 git abroad again ?" 
 
 • Ay, and found listeners and believers too, my lord, I 
 promise yoa." 
 
 *' Is it possible ?" 
 
 " Your grace will find it fast-rooted and wide-spreading 
 01 your landing. So general has been already the stir 
 which it created, that orders have been i-sued for arming 
 tie militia in the West, and the Duke of Albemirle was as 
 tusy as nothing to do could make him." 
 
 '''Tis very strange!" said Monmouth ; " I thought that 
 pory had been quite forgotten. But keep thy counsel, 
 terguson ; for the lightest breath of what thou hast sug- 
 psted would destroy me with our friends here, who place 
 tieir principle, as they call it (and surely they are right), 
 byond all other considerations whatsoever. As to myself, 
 le assured, the less you refer to this subject in ray 'presence 
 tie better yon will please me." 
 
 " From Heaven descended Know Thyself," said Fer- 
 guson in his own mind, as he saw the Duke hurry away in 
 he direction of his residence. "I mnst know what influences 
 ire likely to work upon him between this and morning. If 
 i could set a watch " 
 
104 THE DUKE OF MONMOUrH. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 At the same instant he was accosted by the voice of 
 Shamus Delaney, who, it may be remembered, was amoijget 
 the recruits whom Dare had raised at Taunton. 
 
 " Well, Misther Ferguson, what's wautin ? Here I am 
 for you now." 
 
 " That's right, Delaney. Do you see that house ?" 
 " Do I see it ? Have I e'er an eye in my head ?" 
 " Very well. That is the residence of the Duke of Mon- 
 mouth. You are to stand here until I send for yon ; and 
 let me know exactly the appearance of every one whom 
 you may happen to see pass in or out." 
 
 " It's asy work," said Delaney ; " it's money asily earned. 
 There's little fatigue in usin the eyesight. There's oue, any 
 way," he added afrer Ferguson had taken his departure : 
 " a little girl with a brown cloak gone in the front gate, I 
 must keep an account o' that. Oh, then, Morty, I wondhtr 
 what you're doin this way. Near a year now since ve 
 parted. He's gone among the blackamoors, I suppose. 
 Well, all is one colour ia the grave. Sure, if we're livij, 
 we're all to meet upon the cross o' BiiUyhahill Aistha* 
 Sathurday four years from the day we started, the whole ^f 
 us. Murther alive ! only I'm thinkin what heogh we'll hav« ! 
 au' all our fortunes made, like jintlemen an' iaydees i As 
 for meself, I mane to go in a coach, with sarvents beLiqii 
 an' before, and a chest o' goold upon the sate overright m\. 
 Well, I'll see 'em all there before me gathered, Kitty ai' 
 the whole of 'em, an' they wondherin who iu the world it % 
 that's comin up the road from Sbanagoolden. — Stay! there^ 
 a dog snuffin about the gate as if he wanted to get in. \ 
 wondher must I have an account o' that for Misther Fer- 
 guson. He's off again. — Well, then, I won't alight awhile, 
 I'll be so grand ; and there they'll gather about me iu the 
 most abject state o' poverty, an' poor Morty with a woodca 
 
THE IHJKE OP MONMOUTH. 105 
 
 hg an' two stnmpg of aiins. So Fll jnst jpake to 'em , an' 
 theu I'll hould my tongue an' listen to their stories ; an' 
 they'll begin tellin me o' all their misfortunes, an' what 
 bronght 'em to that state o' beggary ; an' then I'll relate 
 how I got on myself — how I was made an officer the first 
 goia off, an' afther in coorse o' time ruz to be a general an' 
 got oceans o' booty. An' then I'll come out o' the coach, 
 an' I'll ordher the sarvents to bring down the chest o' 
 goold ; an' if they don't be quick, I'll hit 'em a slap of a rod ; 
 or, whether or no, I'll give 'em a touch, just to show. An' 
 tiien I'll begin sharin the bags o' money ; an' I'll give Kitty 
 ft big bag for a potion to marry elegant ; an' — " 
 
 He had proceeded so far, when the curreut of his bounty 
 towards his poorer relatives was cut short by the opening 
 of a window overhead. On looking up he saw a female 
 figure in the act of beckoning to him from above. 
 
 " Hist, friend, hist !" 
 
 " I'm bishtin as fast as I caa. What is it yea want o' 
 me?" 
 
 " Could yoa convey a message to the convent in the next 
 street ?" 
 
 *' I couldn't stir oat o' this. I'm here upon business." 
 
 " Yon shall be rewarded." 
 
 " I couldn't do it, I tell yon. What's the useo' talkin." 
 
 " 'Tis for a lady." 
 
 « Eh ?" 
 
 " A lady who would both thank and reward yon for the 
 service." 
 
 " Well, if I thought it wouldn'*- keep me very long " 
 
 '* 'Tis but to leave this letter at the gate. No answer 
 is required." 
 
 " Throw it down. Could I depind upon you, if yon 
 plase, while I'd be goin, to keep an account o' what people 
 goes in or out o' the gate, an' their appearance ?" 
 
 " I will take care to watch for you." 
 
 " I depind my life upon you ik)w. I might as well not 
 
106 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 to show my face if I hadn't a right acconnt agaia I'm sent 
 for." 
 
 " Well, was there at -..body since ?" he asked, as he 
 hastened to his post after he had executed the commands 
 of Alice. 
 
 " Not one." 
 
 *' So much the betther. The fewer, the asier counted, 
 an' the asier remembered." 
 
 It was only when the attempt was made to put the county 
 militia under arms, that a conjecture might be made as to 
 the real extent to which disaffection had proceeHed in the 
 West of England. It was with the utmost difficulty that 
 Pembroke could muster even a small portion of the yeomanry 
 under his command. Almost all were furnished wi:h ex- 
 cuses. One was disabled with rheumatism ; another had a 
 fall and put his shoulder out ; a third pleaded some equally 
 unanswerable cause of objection; and even those who obeyed 
 the summons performed their part with so much reluctance 
 and so much heartlessness of spirit, that Pembroke foresaw 
 there would be the utmost difficulty in obtaining even the 
 outward show of their assistance. 
 
 It was remarked for many days before that appointed 
 for the bridal, that old FuUarton and C iptain Kingsly had 
 never met and discoursed together with so little apparent 
 cordiality as when the time drew near which was to connect 
 iheir families by even a closer tie than that of friendship. 
 The common rumours in the neighbourhood had for several 
 days past been working upon the minds of both. The name of 
 Argyle had revived the early sympathies and long-dormant 
 prepossessions of the former, while the whisper of rebellion 
 added all the zest of alarm to the loyal vigour and activity 
 of Captain Kingsly. It was with the utmost difficulty that 
 he refrained on many occasions from breaking out into open 
 declamation against all Whigs, both Scottish and English ; 
 and it was by an effort scarce less remarkable that old Fnl- 
 larton could abstain from an exolicit declaration of his sen- 
 
rHE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 107 
 
 timents respecting James the Second. As it was, and with 
 all theip' self-restraint, enough passed between them to 
 account for the evident coolness which had arisen. It was 
 on the very evening previous to the intended bridal that a 
 discussion arose which had nearly terminated fatally to the 
 hopes of all who were interested in the approaching unicin. 
 
 "■ Is it not strange," said Gaspar to his daughter, as they 
 sat together in the little cottage-parlour expecting the arrival 
 of some guests who were to spend the evening with them, 
 — " is it not strange that Arthur should not have given us 
 his reasons for being absent at such a time as this?" 
 
 "Perhaps he had good reasons fo^ suppressing them, 
 sir," replied Aquila. " You know he might be actuated by 
 many motives which it would not be quite safe to commit 
 to writing." 
 
 " That's true," replied her father. " I hope Sidney will 
 not lead him into anything Taiti. I am growing old, Aquila, 
 and less a friend to this way of asserting right by force of 
 arms. It is not a light thing to throw a whole country-side 
 into commotion for every caprice. 'Tis a brief world. Enough 
 for men to take arms when their country is assailed by 
 foreign foes. Grey hairs and black think differently of this." 
 
 " So they do, sir ; for Arthur would say, in such a case 
 the world would never have had a Tell or a Doria." 
 
 " Well, patience is good, and peace. I don't like arguing ; 
 and when I was of his age, I thought as he doos. Whose 
 is that knock ?" 
 
 Before Miss Fullarton could reply, the door was opened, 
 and a neighbouring farmer whose circumstances raised him 
 sufficiently above the level of his rank to be received in a 
 somewhat higher circle of society, hastened — indeed almost 
 burst into the room where Gaspar sat. 
 
 "Here's a king!" he exclaimed with an excited air: 
 " here's work ! here's news ! I suppose we sLaU Lave the 
 Pope himself amongst us shortly." 
 
 " Why, what's the matter, neighbour Raikes ?" 
 
108 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 *' Matter ! enough I think. It is a good long while since 
 we had an amoassador to the Pope. Here's a king, truly !" 
 
 " Is it possible ?" said Gaspar FuUarton. 
 
 " Is my name Raikes ? I tell you he has sent an am- 
 bassador off to the Pope already. What think you of that ? 
 Well, time will tell who's right." 
 
 Though not sharing in all the violent prejudices of the 
 fanner, Gaspar Fullarton entertained a sufficient portion of 
 them to feel indignation at what he conceived a pregnant 
 indication of the designs of the new monarch. 
 
 " Well, Captain Kingsly, what say you now of our new 
 sovereign ? How think you will he keep his pledge of 
 toleration ?" 
 
 Captain Kingsly and his son Henry had just made their 
 appearance. The latter presently left the room with 
 !A.quila and his sister, and the three politicians were left to 
 confront each other without amediator. Perceivingsymptoms 
 of hostility against the throne in the countenances of his two 
 companions, the old cavalier put himself upon the defensive, 
 and placing both hands on his walking-cane, he closed his 
 lips hard and thrust out his chin with a look of resolute 
 defiance. 4 
 
 " Tell me, sir," said the farmer, striding up to him with 
 his hands behind his coatskirts and affecting an air of calm- 
 jiess, " do you know what mass is ?" 
 
 " I do," said Captain Kingsly through his teeth. 
 
 " Do you know that it is against the law ?" 
 
 *« I do." 
 
 " Do you know that it was invented by the Pope ?** 
 
 « I don't." 
 
 " Well, did you hear that the King has broke the law by 
 going to hear it in full state ? Eh ?" 
 
 " I didn't." 
 
 " Read there." And he produced from beneath his 
 skirts a newspaper, in which, after some cleansing of spec- 
 taclec, and a little assistance from the index finger of the 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. " lO'J 
 
 farmer, he found the obnoxious fact Retailed with upcqni- 
 vocal dictinctness. Upon this a discussioa arose, which ran 
 to such a height that it overtopped the Captain's patience. 
 
 " My worthy friend Fullarton," said he, " and you, Mr. 
 What's-your-name — for I have forgotten it, I have but one 
 remark to make upon all this ; and that is, that I would I 
 had known the sentiments of the family a little better be- 
 fore I had proceeded so far with a certain business." 
 
 " It may not be too late to act upon the knowledge yet," 
 said Gaspar. . 
 
 " And better late than never — with all my heart," ex- 
 claimed the Captain. 
 
 " Gome, come, gentlemen," said Farmer Raikes, alarmed 
 at the lengths to which he saw the discussion about to pro- 
 ceed : " I'm sure I wish my tongue had been in my pocket 
 when I thought of starting any subject that I thought would 
 create a diflference between friends. I meant for to say 
 what I did as much Ly the way of a talk as anything else. 
 Bless me ! what's the use of getting downright earnest about 
 t it ? I thought it might be much as it is sometimes between 
 I me and my wife, who can't agree at all, not upon no point 
 whatsomever. Whatever side I take, she's sure to be di- 
 rectly the revarse ; and you may be sure we do have pre- 
 cious rows together, sometimes, she and I, consarning our 
 opinions ; but when the debate is at an end, we go to supper 
 as if nothing had happened. No one can say that I ever 
 yet laid a hand to she for her sentiments — and that's what 
 I call toleration." 
 
 At these friendly instances, the old people consented to 
 lay aside their anger ; and it was agreed that nothing should 
 be said to their youngers of what had taken place. 
 
 On the following morning. Colonel Pembroke, accom- 
 panied by a few horsemen, alighted at the door of the 
 Three Crowns, in the parlour of which a company was as- 
 sembled, of whom several individuals are already known to 
 3UI readers. 
 
no THE DUKE OF MONMOUiH. 
 
 " Ye will bear in mind, my good friends," said Master 
 Smallwood the grazier, who happened to figure at the mo- 
 mect in his usual capacity of spokesman, " that I speak 
 nothing of my own head. I speak only of what I have 
 heard in the way of common conversation ; and the rumour 
 is, that they are at it, this very instant we are talking here, 
 lammer and tongs, tooth and nail, in the' North, and no 
 triAing matter to decide." 
 
 " Is it possible ?" asked mine host. " And, good Mr. 
 Smallwood, is it the young Duke of Monmouth, now, who 
 is at the bottom — or rather at the head, as one may say, of 
 all this ?" 
 
 " Hut! tut! not he ; it is all the doing of my Lord Argyle, 
 who was about to be hanged some years ago for refusing to 
 take the test against the Covenant. At least so runs the 
 rumour — v\ hether truly or otherwise I cannot say, of course, 
 except as the wind of common rumour reaches me. I only 
 catch ittas it blows upon my walk, and can neither judge 
 of the merits or the fact of the case, being only, as it were, 
 the mouth-piece of " 
 
 " We should rejoice to hear it, every man," said Godfrey 
 Bunn. " My Lord Argyle is a staunch friend of Monmouth, 
 and if it were to come to the trial here in Taunton " 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! friend Godfrey," said the miller, pluck- 
 ing him by the coat; "you should remember that walls 
 tiave ears." 
 
 " I don't care who has ears, Master Setright, nor tongues 
 to boot, without meaning any offence to yours. I care not 
 who hears me say it, I am a friend to Monmouth and the 
 Commons ; and if it were to come to the " 
 
 '' There's a time for all - things — there's a time for all 
 things," said the miller. 
 
 " They say likewise," resumed the grazier, " that there 
 are one or two Fullartons concerned in tie affair. I did 
 not hear that they had any relatives in Taunton, but — " 
 lading his fin£,cr aionghis uoee, aud winking folios of niean« 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. Ill 
 
 'iig, " we all know whose name begins with an F., and who 
 it is that has got a son and a brother on their travels. Tone 
 Cottage is a pretty dwelling. I say nothing — nothing 
 either to blame or to approve. I am a man of no party 
 whatsoever, having to commune in the way of my business 
 with persons of every " 
 
 " Here comes Master Grimes," said the landlord, " here's 
 a man who will give us some idea as to what is like to be 
 the end on't. Master Grimes is never at a loss ; there is 
 nothing too dark for him." 
 
 " So, so," said Grimes, when he heard the story repeated 
 by Smallwood, who was delighted at the opportunity of 
 once more engrossing the attention of the circle. " "Well, 
 I say nothing, but I have my private opinion upon the 
 matter. It appears, I dare say, perplexing enough to soma 
 folks ; but I'll tell you what it is, my masters, — as sure as I 
 tap this snufF-box with my finger, there's something at the 
 bottom of all this." 
 
 So saying he took a pinch of snuff with great solem- 
 nity, while the rest of the company looked at him in silent 
 admiration. 
 
 *' Maybe I know nothing ?" he resumed. " Maybe a 
 rogue didn't call on me two months ago, and let on that he 
 was my old friend Ephraim Dirges, and "cozen me out of a 
 parish certificate, that he might carry on, he knew best 
 what himself, about the country ? Oh no, I have 
 never an eye in my head. I can't see what's going for- 
 ward, one way or another. Well, 'tis no matter ; time will 
 tell." 
 
 " If the Fullartons be in it," said Godfrey, " I shall think 
 the better of the name as long as I hve to hear it. Let 
 Monmouth only show himself upon our shores, and " 
 
 The sound of a distant trumpet cut short the speaker's 
 declaration of allegiance. 
 
 "'Tis Master Pembroke," said the landlord, " ana his 
 yeomanry. Marry, my masters, you must whistle on a lower 
 
112 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 key while the muster is going on here, for I'm told the gaol 
 at Cliard is full of malcoutents." 
 
 *' It is nothing to those," said Smallwood, " who talw 
 care to mind their business and keep out of politics. I give 
 thanks that I am not of any party." 
 
 " Passive obedience," said Godfrey Buna, "is the law of 
 the land, as laid down iu seventy-four by Act of Parlia- 
 ment." 
 
 At this moment Pembroke, accompanied by Captain 
 Kingsly, entered the inn. By that singular instinct wliich 
 every one must have observed who has ever noticed the 
 movements of the popular mind, the idea was already widely 
 diffused, that Monmouth and his friends intended an imme- 
 liiate invasion, althoagh it was but a week since Monmouth 
 himself, in the strictest privacy and ia a foreign land, had 
 finally resolved upon the measure. 
 
 " Well, Captain Kingsly," said Pembroke, as they 
 entered together a private room which commanded a view 
 of the street, " you have beard the common rumour about 
 Monmouth ?'* 
 
 "^ Ay, sir," said Captain Kingsly, " it has reached me. 
 '* Now is the time to try men's faith. Now is the time to 
 know the sterling loyalist from the hollow-hearted knave, 
 who sits by his hearth at evening, and enjoys the king's 
 protectioa, without caring a fig whether the throne be 
 pushed aside to-morrow to make room for the wooden stool 
 of a republican president. Well, let it pass. Euat caelum, 
 as they say, I cling to one plank in the storm — I always 
 stand by the King. The throne is my cynosure, in what- 
 ever seas I steer. The King's cause is my cause — the 
 King's politics are my politics — and the King';i religion i4 
 ray religion." 
 
 " The King's religion, Captain !" said Pembroke, witn a 
 smile. " You forget that, in one point at least, Bran'u 
 brother is not Bran." 
 
 *' I care not for that,*' said Captain Kingsly, plaatiog 
 
TU£ DUKE OF MONMOUTa. I'lS 
 
 his walking-cane perpendicularly on the ground, in order 
 to express inflexibility of purpose. " Bran's brotb<ir is iu 
 Bran's seat, and that is enough for me. The King can do 
 no wrong, is to me one of the most glorious axioms of our 
 noble constitution. Though the man be dead and gone, 
 the thing is not. The King is not mortal ; and whatever 
 suits the head is even too good for the little finger, of whict 
 such poor clowns as I are but as the dust that collects be- 
 neath tht sail." 
 
 '' If you let your loyalty carry yon so far, Capt», *\" said 
 Pembroke, " I doubt whether the singleness of youi uin- 
 ciple will relieve you from the imputation of inconsistency. 
 But to speak of other matters — touching this levy. If 
 tnere be any truth in the rumour of invasion, I would we 
 had some regiments of the line in the West. I am sorry 
 to say that I do not find j'our spirit akoge*Her general 
 among the yeomanry." 
 
 At this instant Henry Kingsly entered the room, with 
 an expression of haste and some impatience on his coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 " Well, sir," he exclaimed, addressing himself to Captain 
 Kingsly, '' I am here at your command, although you have 
 chosen rather an awkward moment for the summons. Di 
 you forget, sir, that we are waited for ?" 
 
 "Oh! oh! my thoughtless head !" said Captain Kingsly 
 " True, Harry, true enough. And yet there were times o< 
 earth, and a people once upon its surface, with whom the 
 rumours of danger to the state would have far outweighed 
 all questions of domestic weal. But, alas ! quid not 
 imminuit dies i Mr. Pembroke, you will excuse us for a 
 short time. You may judge how truly I said my King had 
 place of everything with me, when I tell you, ihat in the 
 alarm of this rumour I had forgotten for the moment that 
 it was the morning of ray son's intended bridal. But 
 macte virtute 1 fare you well, and speed well !" 
 
 For some time after they hs..\ left the room, Pembrok* 
 
 H 
 
114 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 remained musing at the difference between hi3 cwn ^brwune.' 
 -jid those of the young person who had just taken hi. 
 departure. 
 
 " He stands not nearer," he said, " to the accompiish- 
 ment of his earthly hopes than I did once; but his are founded 
 on a surer basis. For him, the fairy vision will not melt 
 away as it did from me, when I deemed that I already held 
 it in my grasp. Why is it, miserable world ! that we see 
 thy gift allotted with a hand so partial ? — that of two in- 
 dividuals who, to all external seeming, are equal in their 
 merits and their blame — gifted with the same keen sense 
 of enjoyment, the same quick feeling of affliction, the sam.. 
 fervent aspirations after happiness, — pi'osperity shall haunt 
 the one in all his undertakings, and misfortune dog the 
 other to the very threshold of the grave ? Will philosophy 
 read the riddle to the broken heart ? No, no — the enigma, 
 we know, is on the earth, but we must look for the solution 
 under it." 
 
 At this instant an unusual bustle appeared to cake place 
 amongst the crowd who filled the street. Several figures 
 were seen hastening to and fro, as if seeking and conveying 
 some portentous intelligence. While he watched their 
 movements, the door of his apartment was flung open, and 
 three or four officers of thj yeomanry entered with looks 
 of confusion and alarm. 
 
 "Strange news in town. Colonel!" cried the first; 
 "they say the Duke of Monmouth is landed in Lyme- 
 Regis !" 
 
 " Pooh— pooh 1" 
 
 " And with an overwhelming force," cried the second. 
 
 *' The Duke of Monmouth," cried a third, bursting into 
 the apartment with outstretched arms, " is on his march 
 from Lyme with twenty thousand men !" 
 
 " So— so," said Pembroke calmly. 
 
 " Colonel Pembroke ! Colonel Pembroke 1" 
 
 *' Here ! who calls me ?" 
 
* 
 
 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 115 
 
 " The Prince of Orange and the Duke of Monmouth," 
 exclaimed a new comer with a still wilder expression of 
 alarm, '' are both on their march to Chard ; and there have 
 come news that Lord Argyle is in possession of Edinburgh 
 Castle." 
 
 " It is reasonable good progress in the time," said Pem- 
 broke, " but I would we had some means of learning what 
 quantity of actual fire has given rise to all this smoke." 
 
 He had scarcely spoken, when an express, covered with 
 dust and sweat, alighted at the inn-door, and was shown 
 into the room where Pembroke stood. 
 
 " From his Grace of Albemarle, for Colonel Pembroke." 
 
 The despatch, which Pembroke hastily read, confirmed 
 the account of Monmouth's landing ; but none, as might 
 be supposed, of the formidable circumstances with which 
 rumour had embellished it. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said Pembroke, folding the despatch — 
 " to arms and to horse at once ! It is true that this un- 
 happy nobleman is once more a rebel, and in arms at Lyme; 
 but nothing that you have heard besides has any truth. — ' 
 Watson," he said to an oi'derly, " go instantly and summon 
 Mr. Kingsly to join his troop. Let him hear the news, and 
 let all be on horseback in half-an-hour." 
 
 By this time the news had become general, and an 
 immense multitude had assembled in the neighbourhood of 
 the inn. 
 
 " Fellow-countrymen and fellow-subjects," said' Pem- 
 broke, addressing the crowd who thronged around him as 
 he prepared to ride away, " I bequeath you at parting an 
 advice which you will do well to follow. Rebellion is at 
 your doors ; as you are false or loyal, so shall you be blessed 
 or cursed in the event. The spring is smiling now in the 
 lovely Dene of Taunton ; but if you be not true to the land 
 that feeds you, there are many amongst you whose lips 
 shall never taste the autumu harvest. The soil is thirsty 
 icr for the showers of heaven ; but if you be traitors to 
 
lis THE DUKE OF MONAv. JTV. 
 
 yoor mother land, I foresee the day when it shall drink as 
 deep of its children's blood as it ever did of summer dew. 
 Be not fooled by the suggestions of this rebel Duke, who 
 sought to push his own father from his seat, and now 
 dreams that you will aid him to destroy himself and you. 
 Your hearths are peaceful — keep them so; and I trust 
 that He, who has appointed kings to govern and subjects 
 to obey, will preserve you from the horrors of a civil war. 
 Bear in mind that this Monmouth has before now played 
 false both to the one side and the other. He talks of 
 freedom, but he has ambition at his heart ; England is on 
 his lips, but every movement of his soul is for himself ; he 
 prates of religion, but it is talking mildly of Monmouth to 
 say that his practice is not answerable to his profession. 
 Be not you his dupes ; and when we meet again, I trust 
 that merry Taunton may be as clear from crime as from its 
 certain consequences." 
 
 Htt rode away ; and the crowd, without any symptoor- 
 either of appJaase or disaffection, turned to converse each 
 with the othtT on the approaching crisis. 
 
 " He's a clean-spoken, well-favoured gentleman, at all 
 events," said some women who stood near. 
 
 " If all be as he said," exclaimed a farmer, " the less 
 we have 5o do with Monmouth here in Taunton the better 
 for ourseWes, my masters." 
 
 "Every tale has two sides to it," replied a neighbour j 
 " I would w© had the other half of the story." 
 
 CHAPTER XVL 
 
 On this morning Aquila was of all the party the one who 
 seemed least to enter into the spirit of the scene. Her 
 daily increasing anxiety with respect to the enterprise iu 
 which she knew Arthur to be ^nga|;e^, absorbed her 
 
THE DUKE OF MOKMODTH. 117 
 
 ihonghts to a degree which rendered her own immediate 
 interests a source of irksomeness and care. We have 
 already spoken of the peculiar circumstances in early life 
 which had given a more than ordinary depth and earnest- 
 ness to the natural affection that existed between the 
 brother and sister. Their secluded life, and the similarity 
 of their education, had for a long time prevented their 
 forming or seeking any attachments beyond the threshold 
 of their highland residence. Nor did they feel the priva- 
 tion. Both, in addition to more solid acquirements, had 
 become gradually conversant in the better literature of the 
 day, and proficient in its customary accomplishments • nor 
 did the strictness of their father's practice extend to the 
 length of prohibiting their mingling on those rare occasions, 
 when the opportunity was offered, in the innocent amuse- 
 ments of their neighbourhood. Both likewise were endowed, 
 in a degi-ee which was only qualified by difference of sex, 
 with qualities still higher than those already enumerated, — 
 with habitual strength of mind and natural integrity o) 
 feeling. If in the delineation of their characters any dis- 
 tinction might be made, it was, that Aquila had more c< 
 the imaginative, and Arthur more of the contemplative 
 quality ; and that the strong natural passions which in 
 Arthur were subdued by the vigour of a mind that was 
 full of force and depth, were far more discernible through 
 the general demeanour of his sister. Aquila could with 
 readier discernment point out the traits of nature, of energy, 
 and of feeling, which placed the po.2ts of the preceding 
 century, with all their coarseness and irregularity of style, 
 so far above her own literary contemporaries ; while Arthur 
 could argue more ably on the causes of the degeneracy. 
 There was indeed one quality in which no distinction could 
 be traced : that was the strong yet gentle affection with 
 which either was regarded by the other. In their child- 
 hood, Arthur was, of course, the champion and the escort 
 ot his sister in all their wanderings. He ouried her bouks 
 
118 THE DUKE OF MONUOUTB. 
 
 at morning to the school at which she received her edoca* 
 tion, and was punctual in the performance of the same duty 
 at evening, when they returned together to their father's 
 highland lodge. His hoe and spade were the only ones 
 that were permitted to loosen the soil and clear the walks 
 of her flower-garden. If one were sick, the other watched 
 or read by the patient's bed. If Arthur, after a reprimand 
 from his father, retired in deep dejection to his sleeping- 
 room, Aquila was the friendly counsellor ever ready with 
 her whispered word of consolation to draw his attention 
 away from the cause of uneasiness, or the prudent ambas- 
 sadress who conveyed his petition for forgiveness and 
 fetnmed with words of comfort from the seat of authority. 
 If Aquila fell into similar disgrace with Mrs. Fullarton, 
 Arthur was equally ready with his irresistible logic, and 
 Btill more irresistible powers of persuasion, to procure for 
 his sister a similar act of grace. In this manner t^ie child- 
 hood of both had passed away, and thus were they prepared 
 for the vicissitudes which, in stormy times like these, it 
 ■would be over-sanguine to hope would leave tbeir tranquil- 
 lity unmolested. Since the broker Dare had made AquiJa 
 acquainted with the projected enterprise, and with the 
 resolution of her brother to cast his lot for life or death 
 with that of the banished Earl, the recollection of their 
 early happiness had come back upon her mind with a force 
 which gave acuteness to her suspense. This feeling she 
 endured with the greater difficulty, as there appeared no 
 probable mode of hearing for a considerable time any cer- 
 tain intelligence respecting the progress of the expedition, 
 and the personal fate of Arthur must in all likelihood 
 remain secret until the whole contest was decided either for 
 success or failure. 
 
 With such thoughts preying on her mind, it was not 
 wonderful that Aquila viewed the approaching ceremony 
 "Tvith feelings different from those which governed the con- 
 auct oi her friep-Ja. Pale as if from restlessness^, and witU 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 119 
 
 I 
 
 the absent manner of one whose sonl is bnrdenetl with 
 secret uneasiness, she appeared to her friend Tarasen, who 
 was the first to enter her apartment, more like a mourner 
 than a bride, 
 
 " They say," said Aquila, " that, when calamity is about 
 to fall, something like a presentiment of it will often take 
 possession of the intended victim's mind, and he will feel 
 depressed and mournful, without being able to assign a 
 cause. Heaven grant it be not so with me ! but do what 
 I will — say what I will — employ myself as I will — there 
 is a sense of some approaching evil haunting me that all 
 the eflbrts of my reason cannot dissipate." 
 
 " Beware of such thoughts," said Tamsen : " if over- 
 confidence be dangerous, so is too much fear. Thou 
 couldst not dally with more dangerous play-fellows than the 
 tlioughts thou hast described : they may assist in weaning: 
 us from folly, but they are too apt to generate despair." 
 
 " I have considered all that, and more," said Aquila, 
 " and still I cannot shake them off. Asleep or awake, I 
 am haunted by horrid fancies, that only sink the deeper in 
 my soul the more they are disturbed. Last night I thought 
 I wag at the altar-foot with Henry, and that the clergyman 
 was about pronouncing the nuptial benediction, when 
 happening to look up as he took my hand in his, I bel.e!', 
 i'. stead of Henry Kingsly's frank and open f^iatures, tie 
 ghastly and malignant countenance of Kirke." 
 
 " Is it possible, Aquila, that you can be so weak as to 
 wgard a dream ? I warn you to beware of indulging snch 
 weaknesses. Laugh, play, be merry, sing, and dance ; and 
 if such nonsense knocks at the door of your fancy again, 
 don't be at homo for it. Do you remember the country 
 girl near Wilton, that married a rogue who was her aversion 
 just because the fellow had the cunning to bribe a fortune- 
 toller to say that he was to be her husband ? Come, come, 
 put on a merrier face." 
 
 *' Perhaps, after all," said Aquila, " my cause of fear is 
 
120 THE DUKE OP SdOKMOUTH, 
 
 not entirely fanciful. You have heard those rumours in 
 the neighbourhood ?" 
 
 " I have heard, but given them little credit," said her 
 friend. 
 
 " Incredulity may be on the wrong side there, as it is 
 elsewhere," replied Aquila. " Others believe them ; and 
 I see no reason to be quite at peace." 
 
 "Why," said Miss Kingsly, " even granting they were 
 true, I do not see the necessity for any great alarm. What 
 could you apprehend from even their absolute fulfilment ?" 
 
 " Your brother holds a commission in the yeomanry ?" 
 
 " And what of that ?" said Tamsen, laughing. " The 
 yeomanry, I assure you, is a very harmless kind of service. 
 It is true that there is sometimes danger from the stone- 
 throwing varlets at a village fair, and more than once, the 
 wife or daughter of the absent hero may look out in vain 
 for his return from a late drill, until the dinner is either 
 cold or overdone ; but any more serious dangers than these, 
 I believe, fall seldom in the way of our rural warriors." 
 
 " It was not for my Hector that is to be I feared," said 
 Miss Fullarton ; " but you seem to forget, Tamsen, hov.' 
 little of our sympathy he could have in such a service." 
 
 " And why ?" replied Miss Kingsly, blushing deeply, 
 
 " You know that my Lord Argyle is both our relative 
 and ancient patron." 
 
 •* But I know that James the Second is your king." 
 
 " He is your king, Tamsen." 
 
 " Aquila, you astonish me ! These are dangerous words." 
 
 " They are no less true," said Miss Fullarton. " That 
 the will of Providence has placed me in his country, is no 
 reason why I should forget my own ; and I would be an 
 ingi-ate indeed, if I should overlook the interests of our early 
 benefactor in favour of one who assisted to play the tyrant 
 in my native land, and who moreover in bis own is no 
 better than an usurper." 
 
 •* An usurper, Aqnila V* 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMODTH. 121 
 
 " Yes. I said he was your king, but are yon so sore 
 of that ? By the laws of your country, the son inherits 
 before the brother. I have beard of a law in Ireland, and 
 in some ancient Continental states, by which the right ot 
 snccession is made to depend upon priority of years ; but 
 that, I thought, was iong exploded." 
 
 Miss Kingsly regarded her friend for a few moments in 
 wlence. 
 
 " Aquila,** she said at length, in a calm reproving tone, 
 " we had better say do more of this." 
 
 " But it may be very necessary, my friend Tamsen, to 
 say more of this. You form to your own mind a scheme of 
 right, by which you dream in vain that others will be 
 actuated. Do yon ever imagine the possibility of Henry 
 and Arthur meeting armed on opposite sides in any tumuH 
 which the times may bring about ?" 
 
 " It is unfortunate for you, Aquila, since you will indulge 
 your fancy, that it should take the gloomy side of events 
 in its course. I cannot imagine the possibility of that 
 which is impossible. Your brother Arthur understands too 
 well his obligations to render any such conjecture probable ; 
 he will take a clearer view, Aquila, of what his rea> duties are V* 
 
 " Toe ideas of duty and King James are so nearly asso- 
 ciated in your own mind, Tamse«, that you imagine it 
 must be so with others. But as Arthur is not yet at least 
 his subject, he may think otherwise ; and it may be as I 
 say, that Henry and he may both hold different sides in 
 some future straggle for what both may conceive a just 
 and honest right. In such a case is there not more than 
 sufficient ground for the uneasiness with which you charge 
 me ? Our families have hitherto been as one house. Is it 
 not painful to think that the time may be as hand, from 
 whatever cause it may arise or on whichever side the fault 
 may be, when they may even cease to be acquaintances,— 
 nay, when it may be a crime in me to receive mj uearfesi 
 relative beneath our roof ?** 
 
122 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 At these words Miss Kingsly turned to her friend and 
 said witli tears : — 
 
 " Aquila, I am glad, after all, that we have had this 
 conversation ; for since we have proceeded so far in deve- 
 loping each other's sentiments, it may be an advantage 
 that they should be thoroughly understood. Can He who 
 said ' TJiou shalt not speak evil of the King^ approve of 
 those who draw the sword against him ? Judge, you who 
 know me, with what feelings I hear you suppose a case in 
 which your brother could join the ranks of those who were 
 in arms against our sovereign." 
 
 ^ You read the text too close to the letter," said Aquila. 
 ** Go a step farther, and it will be virtue to see one's 
 country overrun by foreign enemies without raising an ann 
 in defence of all that is held most dear and sacred. But 
 these subjects," she added, " are too cumbrous for my 
 woman's wits : better leave them to the men, whom they 
 concern more nearly, and who have abler heads to weigh 
 thwn.'' 
 
 " Believe me," said Miss Kingsly, " there are none 
 whom it concerns more nearly than ourselves ; and you will 
 do well, Aquila, to consider well and early in what way 
 yon are to use whatever influence you may possess in your 
 own household. If s#ch events as you describe should 
 happen amongst us, beware how either by word or deed 
 you incite your brother to become a rebel. At present, a 
 false sense of right misleads you, and the gaudy watchword 
 * liberty' flatters your imagination ; but when the storm has 
 burst, and defeat and failure have overtaken the cause you 
 favour, the naked truth will haunt your mind in all its 
 horrible reality. It is with the clearest impression of what 
 awaits you ia such a case that I repeat my warning: 
 Beware how you urge your brother to become a rebel." 
 
 *' Y«u have sounded your alarm upon the deepest chord 
 in my bosom," replied Aquila. *' At all events, Tamsen. 
 let who will be king, you and I must still coniiuue sbters." 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 123 
 
 Withont making any answer in words, Miss Kingsly 
 flung herself upon Aquila's neck, and the young friends 
 compensated to their hearts for whatever sharpness had 
 arisen in the course of the dialogue by tears and affectionate 
 embraces. The voice of her father in an adjoining room at 
 length recalled Aquila to her task of preparation. 
 
 " And all this," said the latter, as her friend assisted at 
 her toilet, "has arisen from my unlucky forebodings, whicl., 
 after all, I hope may prove as groundless as a nervous dream. 
 Do you really believe then," she continued, " tliat such 
 feelings as I have described are never real presentiments ol 
 what is to follow ?" 
 
 " I believe and know," said Tamsen, " that it is always 
 criminal to be guided by them, either in our thoughts or 
 conduct. But such folly does not bear talking of. Ujr 
 and dress, and you will soon forget it." 
 
 Aquila was silent, and the preparations for the ceremony 
 of the morning proceeded without interruption. Some of 
 their fair neighbours who were invited to the wedding 
 brought fiowers to scatter on the pathway leading to the 
 church. The peasantry of the surrounding cottages and 
 hamlets, with branches of trees in their hands, and dressed 
 in their best attire, were loitering about the pathways near 
 the dwelling of the Fullartons, partly through friendship 
 for the family, and partly with the view of augmenting the 
 train of idlers that was to form the bridal procession. Th^ 
 walk to the church led through one of those delightful 
 wooded lanes which seem to be peculiarly English, and 
 *.be building itself was of the very simplest order. On thfi 
 opposite side to that by which it was connected with the 
 gr-3eu lane, ran a public road which led to the town. The 
 .^extcn had made all the necessary preparations, and waa 
 now leaning with the keys of the church-door in his hand 
 against a monument in the sunshine, and conversing at his 
 ease with a countryman. / 
 
 " You mustn't go, Farmer Swaffield, for to t«I> morals 
 
124 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 to me. Every man to his proper function, farmer. Tis 
 }oars to mind the team and waggon, and to till and graze, 
 a,ud such like. You tend, as one might say, upon mankind 
 in one capacity only : you help to furnish him, as it were, 
 the three great fundamental props of human life, — food, 
 fire, and clothing ; 5»,nd yours, I will nowise deny, is an 
 honourable and lawful calling. But, farmer, mine is of the 
 moral order, I attend him at his birth, his marriage, and 
 his death ; and I think I ought to have some notion of 
 what befits him. Look here at this grave-yard ; it was a 
 plain green field when I was a schooling yonder in the 
 town, and now ste what a population it has under the sod! 
 Well, Heaven is good ! There is scarce a corpse in that 
 clay but what I have had my nod and joke and handshake 
 with in my day, and see now how still they lie in the sun- 
 shine ! Well, but it's a fine thing, farmer, to have the 
 heart clear. There's one — no matter who, since his grave- 
 stone doesn't tell it I shall not — who died of a liver com- 
 plaint brought on by drink ; and there's Harry Poole the 
 great horse-jockey, and Tom Molyneux the weaver, and 
 Honeyman the green-grocer — as fine a fellow as ever filled 
 a coffin, if he had not been too much given to popery ; 
 and a knot of merry lads, who once made Taunton ring. 
 Heaven is over all. 'Tis an evil world we live in 1 To be 
 born, to many, and to die — there's the whole history of 
 man and woman. And, talking of marriage, here comes 
 his reverence along the by-way." 
 
 The clergyman rode into the yard and alighted with the 
 assistance of the sexton. At the same instant, the sound 
 of the bridal music was heard in the green lane already 
 mentioned. The marriage ceremony had nearly commenced 
 when the orderly arrived to summon Captain ^ingsly in" 
 stantly to join his troop. 
 
 " I have arranged all that with Colonel Pembroke,** said 
 Kingsly, " I am to join him in a few days." 
 
 " Please your honour," said the man, " he told me a few 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH, 125 
 
 minutes since with his own lips that you were to join the 
 troop without a moment's loss of time, as they are to be on 
 horseback in half an hour." 
 
 " In half an hour ! Upon what summons, or to what 
 purpose, Watson ?" 
 
 *' To join his grace the Duke of Albemarle," said the 
 corporal, " who is about proceeding at once to Axminster, 
 to meet the Duke of Monmouth." 
 
 " The Duke of Monmouth !" exclaimed several voices. 
 
 " Aye — I heard but the wind of the news as I rode away ; 
 but they say for certain the Duke of Monmouth is landed 
 in Lyme- Regis, and that we shall have as pretty a piece of 
 work upon our hands ere long as ever they had in the days 
 of the Cavaliers and Roundheads." 
 
 The eflfect of this astounding news upon the bridal party 
 may be readily conceived. To some it brought consterna- 
 tion — to others excitement — to all confusion and astonish- 
 ment. Aquila and Tamsen exchanged looks of mute intelli- 
 gence. Captain Kingsly seemed absolutely struck dumb 
 with wonder. His son showed, by the chagrin that was 
 depicted in his countenance, how deeply he wished that the 
 Duke had chosen a more auspicious moment for the assertion 
 of his rights, whatever they might bo. Old Fullarton, for- 
 getting for the time the nature of the intelligence in con- 
 sideration of its probable influence upon the happiness of 
 his child, was wholly occupied in observing her ; and the 
 clergyman instinctively closed his book, as if foreseeing the 
 total impossibility under such circumstances of proceeding 
 with the marriage rite. 
 
 " In the name of Heaven, sir," said Henry, observing 
 this last action, " let the ceremony proceed. If we are so 
 soon to be separated, Aquila, let it not be thus at least. If 
 this intelligence be correct, it is likely that we shall ere long 
 have troublesome times in the West. Let me entreat, then, 
 that I may have a just and legal right to become your 
 guardian and protector in any dangers which may arise to 
 
T26 iHE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 ^ou or to your friends. My assistance, Mr. Fullarton,'* hs 
 5aic], appealing to the old man, " may yet be of importanca 
 to you all : I will readily take upon myself the blame of the 
 deky, which cannot be considerable." 
 
 All but Aquila seemed disposed to acquiesce in this 
 proposal ; but she firmly refused to admit it. The name of 
 the Duke of Monmouth seemed to have produced a magical 
 oflfcct jpon her understanding ; her whole soul was on the 
 rustant with her brother, and her spirit was in the cause in 
 which it was known to her alone, of all the circle, how far 
 be was already implicated. Firmly convinced of Monmouth's 
 right, and participating deeply in the prejudices of her family 
 against the reigning monarch, the report of this invasion 
 had rather excited her enthusiasm than aroused her fears. 
 When Kingsly requested to speak with her and her friends 
 apart, in order that he might prevail on her to change her 
 rcEolution, he was astonished at the sudden vehemence that 
 was in her manner of refusal. 
 
 " Not an instant — not one instant, Henry," she said, 
 " shall you absent yourself for my sake from the cause 
 which you consider just." 
 
 " Which I consider just, Aquila ! Do you forget that 
 we are taking arms against a convicted rebel and impostor?" 
 
 " Time will show better if he deserve those names," re- 
 plied Aquila eagerly ; " time and the arguments which men 
 carry in their belts — for it is those, afler all, I giieve to say, 
 and not right, that regulate possession." 
 
 " Aquila," said young Kingsly, in a lower tone, " you 
 alarm me. I know the prejudices — forgive me for the word 
 — in which you have been educated ; I admit, too, the real 
 wrongs and injuries which have given to those prejudices a 
 semblance of truth and right ; but let me entreat you, for my 
 —for all our sakes, to be guarded in your words. You are 
 not acquaiSted, Aquila, with the real circumstances of our 
 country. This wild adventure, be assured, will end as 
 mournfully as it has been heedlessly begun ; and many may 
 
THE DUKE or MONMOUTH. 127 
 
 be isToIved in its eoBsequesces who had little or bo part in 
 promoting it." 
 
 "I trust," replied Aquila fixedly, "that Providence will 
 bestow the victory where it is Dierited. You, who do not 
 look on James as an nsnrper^ no doabt will foresee the worst 
 for the unhappy Monmouth and his followers." 
 
 "Alas ! my sweet love," said Kingsly, " you dally with 
 subjects which are too huge for your handling. Do you 
 know enough of vulgar history to be aware that this am- 
 bitious nobleman once joined in a conspiracy against his own 
 iathcr ? that after his comrades fell into the hands of the 
 law, he meanly sought the royal pardon by revealing a plot 
 in which he was one of the guiltiest participators ; and that 
 this new attempt is no more than an expiring eflfort of am- 
 bition, grown desperate by repeated failure, and ending, as 
 all selfish passions ever do^ in the destruction of their 
 wretched victim ?" 
 
 '' What could I hope to hear," repii«d Aqnila, " from an 
 adherent of James, except dispraise of Monmouth ? But 
 these walls, Henry," she added, raising her hand towards 
 the chancel roof beneath which they stood, " were formed 
 for other purposes than to re-echo the sounds of political 
 controversy.'* 
 
 Kingsly was stunned by this plain and decided avowal of 
 sentiments which, he felt convinced, would ere long be fata' 
 to almost all who shared in them. There was, however, in 
 Aquila's manner an air of resolute self-will which made hioi 
 despair of moving her. 
 
 " You may judge, Aquila," said he with an altered man- 
 ner, " what bitterness your words have added to the pain 
 ot parting. Yet hear me, and, if you can, open your mind 
 for an instant to common sense and to conviction. Let who 
 will be in the right in this insensate straggle, I will not ^ 
 argue with you upon the ground of right ; but only hear me 
 on that of prudence. Whetler King James be, as you 
 choose to call him, an usurper or otherwise, it is certaki that 
 
123 THE DUKE OF UOKKOUTS. 
 
 he Has the power to crusii this paitry effort, twd that he will 
 crush it and its unhappy leader with as much ease as I cooid 
 (if mercy suffered nie) destroy that grave- wwm that is creep- 
 ing OH the earth between us. Supposing that this lunatic 
 Duke were iadeed our king, aad wronged of his iaheritance, 
 as sure he is until he be helped into & halter, which is his 
 right of long standing, yet is it absolutely certain that he 
 has miserably mistaken his time, and that he and all who 
 are seduced iato a share ia his detestable enterprise mtist 
 perish without pity. Beware, therefore, Aqulla, how yo« 
 have any part ia addiag oae to the number of the victims. 
 You know to whom I allude, and sincerely r^'oiced I ara 
 that his absence from hooie at this momeat affords him a 
 chauce of safety," 
 
 At these words Aquila turned deadly pale; bat 8b« 
 answered without a moment's hesitation — 
 
 " I do know, Henry, to whom you allude ; but neither 
 Arthur nor myself were ever so much attached to life, tha\ 
 we should shrink from the avowal of any sentiments which 
 we conscientiously entertain. I would prefer death at any 
 time to falsehood ; and so, I am sure, would Arthur." 
 
 " I have forewarned yo«, dear Aquila," said Kingsly, 
 " and it is enough. You will yourself at further leisure 
 consider the importance of what I have said ; for the present 
 it is enough to have shown you the certain ruin that awaits 
 this enterprise- If our Uves be due to our country, we are 
 only called upon to make the fiacrifioe when it can tend to 
 the common advantage ; the martyrdom to which we ar« 
 not called has more of self-will than of devotion." 
 
 At this instant a second horseman alighted at the church- 
 door and advanced into the aisle in which the group were 
 standing. 
 
 " Colonel Pembroke's orders to Captain Kingsly to a^ 
 tend without delay: his troop are under arms already." 
 
 " Farewell, then, Aquila, since it must be so, and may 
 ve meet under haj^i^iet'orcamstances 1 Mr. Fullaiton," ^ 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTa. 120 
 
 said, " yon at least will have penetration to see how matters 
 really stand, and prudence enough to remember, that it is 
 not the madness of a week or month that can compensate 
 for the loss of years of hope and happiness. I uige you, 
 sir, in these disastrous times, to have a guard on those whom 
 we all equally hold dear. Oh, sir, remember what civil 
 contest is, and let the influence that waits on your grey 
 hairs assist in averting it from the scenes we love. You 
 too, sir," he continued, growing fervent as he proceeded, 
 and addressing his father, — " let me entreat of you at part- 
 ing that neither these unhappy events, nor any that are to 
 follow, may interrupt the friendly intercourse that has 
 hitherto subsisted between our families ; it may be of the 
 last importance to us all. Tamsen, farewell ! — again fare- 
 well, Aquila, and do not forget what I have said." 
 
 He hastened to his horse, which had been brought him 
 ready saddled by the last messenger, and galloped off in 
 the direction of the town, the two yeomen following him at 
 the best of their speed. The party whom he left behind 
 were too much disheartened by what had occurred, and too 
 distrustful of the state of each other's sentiments, to indulge 
 in conversation. Even Captain Kingsly seemed to be struck 
 mute, partly by what he conceived to be the unparalleled 
 audacity of the rebel Duke, and partly in despite of his 
 loyalty, by secret consternation of heart at the sudde* 
 danger into which he saw his son hurried away even fron 
 the bridal altar. They left the church in silence; tht 
 music was not renewed ; and the country people who had 
 attended, departed, some to their homes, thj greater number 
 to the town, in order to learn with greater certainty the na- 
 ture of the portentous event which had occurred. 
 
 As Kiogsly rode hastily through the town, some hisses 
 in the crowd, and cries of derision which followed the 
 horsemen, already showed upon what side the cunent of 
 popular feeling was about to turn. With a pang of fear ar 
 the certain iudicatioa which these sounds afforded of the 
 
 I 
 
130 THE DUKE OF MOKJIOUTH. 
 
 accomplishment of all he had foreboded, the young royalist 
 increased his speed, and soon joined his troop, who bad al* 
 ready left the town. 
 
 " I can excuse you, Mr. Kingsly,"said Colonel Pembroke, 
 as Henry hastened towards bira with his apology, " and I 
 have had just experience enough of the nature of your feel- 
 ings to regret the necessity of the orders which I issued ; 
 but you, I suppose, have forgotten them already. Is it not 
 appalling to see how little these wretched people seem to 
 be aware of the niin that is overhanging them ? and does 
 it not offer a humiliating idea of human nature to think that 
 any man should, for the gratification of his own miserable 
 ambition, expose thousands of his fellow-countrymen to 
 certain destruction? Between ourselves, however," he added 
 in a lower tone, " the King's work must be done by other 
 hands than those which follow us at this instant ; for if my 
 Lord Albemarle have none more resolute in his camp, the 
 case of Monmouth is not so despei-ate as our leaders may 
 deem it prudent to give out." 
 
 It was evening when they entered the plain in which the 
 Duke of Albemarle had pitched his camp upon his route to 
 Axminster, where he proposed to await the approach of 
 Monmouth. The camp had not, as they rpde into it, that 
 air of general bustle and excitement which denotes that the 
 hearts of the soldiery are with the cause for which they have 
 taken arms. The force consisted chiefly of the Devon yeo- 
 men, who came from a disaffected district, and brought 
 with them no small portion of the popular feeling of the 
 place. Even the Duke himself, as Kingsly thought, re- 
 ceived them with an air of perplexity and irresolution, as if 
 the magnitude of his force rather tended to embarrass than 
 encourage him. Having led his men to their quarters, 
 Kingsly walked to an adjacent slope which commanded a 
 prospect of the camp and of the distant country. He 
 loitered for a time to watch the setting sun, which went 
 -down in all the mellow beauty of a summer evening : he 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 131 
 
 thonght of his distant friends, and contrasted for a moment 
 in his mind the scene of fertility that extended around him, 
 with the general woe and desolation which a few weeks 
 more might scatter over the landscape, and which might 
 reach he knew not how nearly to his own most intimate 
 affections. Desirous to escape at length from those uncom- 
 fortable thoughts, he returned to his men, amongst whom 
 he was compelled to pass the night upon the ground, with 
 no other bed than his riding-cloak, and no other roof than 
 tho starlit sky. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 The case was far otherwise with the invaders. There all 
 was spirit, hope, activity, and zeal. The tempestous state 
 of the weather since they had sailed from Holland, while it 
 exposed them to one species of danger, assisted to relieve 
 them from another not less formidable. Escaping the no- 
 tice of the royal cruisers who hovered around the coast, the 
 adventurers fovyid themselves, after a few days' sail, within 
 sight of Dorsetshire. The inhabitants of the coast had for 
 some time past been looking out for such an enterprise upon 
 the part of Monmouth, and almost all were well affected to 
 his cause ; but the sight of his force, suqh as it appeared 
 when landing on the Cobb of Lyme, struck consternation 
 and dismay into the bosoms of his warmest friends. Some 
 fishermen, who had seen and hailed his vessel in the offing, 
 were the first to bring the news into the town. 
 
 " The Duke of Monmouth, say ye, neighbour ?" cried a 
 schoolmaster who happened to have the longest head for 
 politics of any one in Lyme, — a circumstance which sorely 
 interfered with his classic avocations. " It is but a smug- 
 gling lugger. When the Duke of Monmouth comes, it 
 will be in another kind of fashion than that, I promise ye." 
 
132 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 " Aye. bnt it is he though," replied the fisherman, " as- 
 sure as my name's Jack Shrimp ; by the same token that 
 I sold him a prime john-dory for his breakfast, for which he 
 is to pay me, as I hear, when he can procure change ashore. 
 If ye doubt my word, run down to the Cobb and satisfy 
 your eyes." 
 
 They took the hint, and the Cobb was presently crowded 
 with the curious townspeople. 
 
 It happened on this eventful morning that no less a pep. 
 sonage than the Mayor of Lyme had arisen from his rest, 
 and sought his breakfast-parlour with the anticipation of 
 making a comfortable repast in order to fit him for the dis- 
 charge of the judicial functions of the day. As his worship 
 was a loyalist no less punctual than Captain Kiugsly, a 
 fidelity in which he had not many imitators in Lyme, there 
 were few more likely to be perplexed by the events of the 
 morning. 
 
 Before the door of the civic functionary were ranged a 
 number of javelin-men, with a formal precision which made 
 it easy to see that his worship bore tor the first time the 
 golden honours of the mayoralty around his neck. 
 
 " In good time, in good time, Mistress Came — public 
 business must take place of private comforts— breakfast will 
 be none the worse for waiting — my appetite will be the 
 keener, and the afiuirs of Lyme-Regis shall be all the better. 
 Pitman !" 
 
 *' Here, an't please your worship," 
 
 *' When I go forth, as yesterday, do not you stand with 
 your javelin-men in a front file as if you were about to ar- 
 rest a highwayman, bat two and two — thus — on each side 
 the steps, that I may walk forth between you as a mayor 
 should do." 
 
 " Eese, pleaze your worship." 
 
 "And mind, if old Bessy Addletop, the egg-woman, 
 comes hawking out of market, as the last time, in con- 
 Umptu curi(e^ iu the pubUc street, uuder my very cj l. 
 
THE DUKE OP MONMOUTH, 133 
 
 «t5 occula magistratus, jon will make no more ado, but 
 come dowu vi et armis, et cum posse comiiatus, upon her 
 egg-basket, and make lawful seizure, in the King's name, 
 ot the whole contents." 
 
 " An't pleaze your worship, if tha weather-beaten auld 
 gaminer should d udder and belg at us, and call tha town 
 upon us, what are we to do ? She do have a desperd 
 strikin tongue o' her awn." 
 
 " You shall watch your time, and make your seizure when 
 the streets are thin. la case she rails at ye for mayor's 
 men only, and such like, ye shall make good your seizure ; 
 but should she let her tongue loose, and shout at ye for 
 Abhorrers, ye had better let the bas^ket go with her,— for 
 the Petitioners are strong in Lyme, (more the pity !) and 
 it were ill done to disturb the peace of a quiet town for 
 the matter of an old woman's egg-basket." 
 
 " An't please your worship, whafshall be done with tha 
 eggs ia case we seize on 'em ?" 
 
 " Done with 'era ? Let me see. Why, that is a knotty 
 point, and demands consideration, as I am but young in 
 office ; but you may bring them here and lodge them in my 
 pantry until I read upon it. And noAV you may let the 
 Mayoress of Lyme-Regis know that I am ready to join her 
 at breakfiist." 
 
 That meal, however, was destined to experience a some- 
 what stormy interruption. Scarcely had the worthy 
 magistrate taken his place at the breakfast-table, when an 
 unusual commotion was observed in the streets. Men, 
 women, and children, began to hurry to and fro, and 
 numbers were shortly seen hastening in the direction of the 
 Cobb. 
 
 In a short time, two or three of the more substantial bur- 
 gesses of the place knocked at the mayor's door ; while 
 Pitman, the beadle, ran up stairs with a face aghast with 
 terror. 
 
 " An't pleare your worship, here's a business I" 
 
184 THE DUKE OP MONMOUTH. 
 
 " What's the matter, Pitman ? Has Bessy Addletop 
 put you to the route ?" 
 
 " Naw ! naw ! the awld sloraaking ! there's worse than 
 Ihic in tha wine. They zay the Duke o' Monmouth is bear- 
 ing down upon the Cobb for zartin." 
 
 " The Duke of Monmouth !" 
 
 " Aye, and two more ships along with him. There ! ye 
 may zee them off the coast with your awn eyes." 
 
 Astounded past the power of speech, the mayor arose 
 from table, and satisfied himself by occular evidence of the 
 truth of the beadle's story. In a few minutes he was sur- 
 rounded by several of the more respectable inhabitants of 
 the place. 
 
 " Well, Master Came, how say you now ? Here's a 
 business !" 
 
 " What's to be done. Master Came ? Don't ye mind 
 thinking, but tell us what's to be done, and think after, 
 when the Duke shall leave us time for it." 
 
 " My masters," said the bewildered mayor, " remember 
 I am but young in office, though somewhat old in years. 
 Call out the townspeople! and let us do the best we can to 
 prevent a landing, in the king's name !" 
 
 " Call out the townspeople !" re-echoed one of the bur- 
 gesses ; " call stocks and stones 1 If ye do ye are much 
 more like to cut a cudgel to break your own bones. Three- 
 fourths of the knaves are already on the Cobb, more like 
 to help him ashore, than to help King James to keep him 
 afloat, or send him looking for liberty amongst the crabs 
 and lobsters." 
 
 " Why then, my masters," said the mayor, " since mat- 
 ters are so, and since prudence in cases of doubt inclines to 
 the side of safety, I hold that the sooner all loyal men can 
 gather themselves and their effects out of the reach of 
 ganger, the better." 
 
 The greater portion of the loyal men of Lyme-Regis had 
 i>ot waited for his worship's advice, Bcfoit the vessel of 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 135 
 
 the Duke had come to anchor, the roads ia the direction of 
 Chard and Bridport were crowded with men, horses, and 
 waggons, conveying the effects and persons of the fugitives 
 from the town. Few of the better class of inhabitants 
 ventured to remain. 
 
 '• Well, Mr. P'letcher," said the Duke, as he prepared to 
 go ashore, and beheld with joy the eager crowds which had 
 assembled to receive him, " the Rubicon is passed." 
 
 " Aye, my lord, nothing now is left for it but stout words 
 and stouter blows. 'Tis a huge island," he added, looking 
 to the fertile coast before them, which was smiling in all 
 the loveliness of a summer morn, and slightly shrugging 
 his shoulders as he gaz'^d upon the scanty and ilUaccoutied 
 crew that had followed them ; " but the more danger, the 
 more glory. You will do well, in your address to those 
 good people on your landing, to say a word or two of old 
 times — of liberty and the commonwealth. They under- 
 stand well enough, I dare say, what share you had iu the 
 affair of Russell and of Sidney, and will not be the less 
 alive for a bint of it." 
 
 This was rather an unseasonable allusion, and the cheek 
 of Monmouth blanched, iu spite of his natural hardihood, 
 as he listened to the well-remembered names. 
 
 '• My martyred friends !" said he with strong emotion ; 
 " you have harped, Mr. Fletcher, upon stirring sounds ! 
 Oh, if my noble friends could but look for an instant from 
 the tombs which they have consecrated by their heroic 
 deaths upon the scene before us, how much more sympathy 
 it would receive from them than from any hearts which 
 they have left behind them ! But it is vain referring to 
 the past ; our task is with the living, not the dead ; let us 
 labour hard to bring to a better issue the cause which they 
 bequeathed to us as a legacy, and for which they shed their 
 life's blood. Yes, England shall be free ! and while a drop of 
 blood remains in Monmouth's veins, it shall be his care to see 
 that the martyrs of Eigbtj-tbree have not shed theirs in vain-" 
 
136 THE DDKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 " It is well resolved," said Fletcher ; "pray Heaven the 
 success be answerable to the zeal. With yonr grace's 
 leave, I will step ashore before you in order to look for a 
 fitting situation to halt in for the present, while you are 
 making matters clear to those valiant fellows on the beach." 
 
 So saying, he hastened into the small boat, and was 
 followed by a number of the crew, Monmoath himself re- 
 maining on board the vessel. 
 
 "My Lord Grey and myself have been thinking, and 
 it please your grace/' said Ferguson in a whisper and with 
 a cringing smile, " that you will do well, in your first dis- 
 course with these people here, to touch a little upon the 
 claim of inheritance." 
 
 The Duke started at the words as if they had suddenly 
 communicated some evil news. 
 
 " Did we not fully understand each other, Mr. Ferguson, 
 on this point ? Will nothing satisfy you but my immediate 
 luin?" 
 
 "And it please your grace," said Ferguson with a look 
 and gesture of the most servile deprecation, " it is pain to 
 my inmost heart to hear you speak such words. It is to 
 avert your ruin, my lord and liege, that I would speak. 
 These people have come to meet your grace with warm 
 hearts and willing spirits, and cold water must not be 
 thrown upon their love. If your grace would satisfy them 
 by some such slight allusion to your real and absolute right 
 as might meet their own idea of your claims, without in 
 any respect exciting the alarm of Mr. Fletcher and the 
 other friends of — of — liberty, as they call it, the effect would 
 be vastly for your grace's interest here in the West, 
 and " 
 
 " Thou dotest, Ferguson," exclaimed the Duke impa- 
 tiently ; " through sheer affection to my person thoa 
 snfferest thy wits to dote. I tell thee, Fletcher would 
 gpurn us and our design as the wild horse spurns tiie 
 dejert saui;. if he had but the least suspicion of such a 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 137 
 
 thonght. He is both the Achilles and Ulysses of onr little 
 camp, and he cannot be spared.^ "What ! James of Mon- 
 mouth king ! Imagine the effect of such a sound upon the 
 Grecian ear of Fletcher, and on the sturdy republican breasts 
 of certain others amongst our company. I promise you, it 
 would full soon unhorse us, every man. However, so far 
 as a word may go in vindication of her honour Vhose 
 memory must be ever dear to an affectionate son, I can see 
 no wondrous evil to be dreaded. And so, for England 
 and for liberty !" 
 
 These last words he spoke in a loud voice, smiling and 
 standing erect on the prow of the pinnace, while he waved 
 his hat to the crowd who stood upon the beach, and who 
 responded to the action by reiterated cheers. It would be 
 diflScolt indeed to imagine a nobler figure than the young 
 Duke presented at this instant. With a countenance open, 
 frank and handsome — a profusion of rich curling hair flow- 
 ing down upon his shoulders in the fashion of the time, or 
 blown backward by the gentle wind — a smile that was full 
 of sweetness and good-humour, a person exquisitely shaped, 
 and an action princely and graceful in the extreme, he 
 seemed formed for winning the hearts of all whom he ad- 
 dressed. And indeed, if mere personal accomplishment 
 could atone for the absence of almost every internal quali- 
 fication necessary for the high station to which he aspired, 
 tew were more worthy of a throne than James of Monmouth, 
 
 Whate'er he did, was dene with so much ease. 
 In him alone 'twas natural to please. 
 His motions all accompanied with grace, 
 And paradise was open'd in his face. 
 
 *' We have beaten him from the ground of principle al- 
 ready,** said Ferguson in a familiar tone, laying his hand 
 upon the arm of Lord Grey, who prepared to follow Mon- 
 mouth ; " he only loiters a little upon that of expediency 
 and prudence. These dreaming fools of liberty, my lord, 
 
138 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 are sadly in our way. Would we were rid of Fletcher '. 
 Would that he had one of those new-found far-away isles 
 in his possession, that he might take himself and his Greek 
 out of our sight and hearing until we had this matter ended ! 
 There he might indulge at leisure his visionary schemes of 
 tlassical republicanism, and we be nothing the worse for his 
 remo>^l. However, a few days more, I trust, will render 
 Monmouth independent of such high-principled dreamers. 
 Till then, we must, I suppose, keep on our republican faces. 
 — But how is this, my lord ? Methinks yours does not 
 wear all the sunshine that might be wished at such a mo- 
 ment. You are pale, my lord." 
 
 " Who ? I ?" exclaimed Grey, with a conscious start. 
 " You are the last," he added in a significant tone, " that 
 should reproach me with its cause." 
 
 " Whatever be its cause," said Ferguson, " you will do 
 well to hide it for the present. We are in, my lord, and 
 there is no retreating ; — the die is cast, and we must stand 
 by the throw that we have made." 
 
 " Oh, Ferguson ! 1 would I had the nerve !" said Grey 
 in a low whisper, as he laid his hand on his companion's 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Tush, tush !" said Ferguson impatiently ; " observe 
 my lord of Monmouth himself: you see his nerve, his valour 
 in arms, his joyous ease in social intercourse — and yet do 
 you suppose all that is the result of conscious innocence of 
 heart ? No ; but he feels as many do, that if we would 
 accomplish anything in life, it must be by patting off the 
 woman and the infant fi'om our natures, and putting on the 
 man. It is now too late, my lord, for hesitation — you muct 
 be bold for a few weeks, in order to be timid at your ease 
 for all your after life." , 
 
 " Thou hast my confidence, Fergason," replied the 
 wretched nobleman, *' and therefore I make no effort to 
 conceal from thee what I would gladly hide from all he- 
 side. But there will come a fitter time to speak of it." 
 
THE DUKE OF HOKMOUTH. 139 
 
 At this instant Monmouth sprang upon the land, and was 
 received by the multitude with an enthusiasm which went 
 beyond his fondest hopes. Some cast themselves at his 
 feet with an excess of joy, others clasped his hands and 
 half embraced him in their transports, w bile the shorts re- 
 echoed to their shouts and cheers of welcome. 
 
 Proceeding to the market-place of Lyme, amid the shouts 
 of the populace, the blue flag of the invader was erected, 
 and the declaration of war formally read, and responded to 
 with reiterated cheers! 
 
 " Yes, Englishmen and fellow-countrymen !" said the 
 young Duke, delighted at their fervoar, " I am come amongst 
 you to redeem an ancient pledge — to restore the liberties of 
 England, and to rid her for ever of this usuiper, who has 
 thrust himself into the royal seat of the Stuarts for the pur- 
 pose of playing the tyrant in the land that gave him life 
 and honour ! How came he by that throne which he falsely 
 calls his right ? My friends, forgive these tears ! My 
 royal father loved mc through every change, as well in what 
 be thought transgression — though sure it could not be a 
 fault against the King to love his people — as iu our days of 
 union and of peace. It is not wonderful then that I remem- 
 ber him with filial sorrow, and call to mind with stem 
 suspicion the manner of his death. He was one day well 
 in health, and before the week was ended James of Mon- 
 mouth was an orphan in a foreign land. The Duke of York, 
 who falsely calls himself your king, was near him on his 
 death -bed. I tell you, men of Lyme, what I would tell 
 that dark usurper were he present, that I have nu faith in 
 the drugs that Cliailes Smart received from the hands of 
 York. I tell you — and I would tell him, that I would not 
 trust a brother's life to the mercy of a heart that was al- 
 ready stained with the blood of murdered Godfrey, no more 
 than I would commit the freedom of my country to the cus- 
 tody of an incendiary, whose bigot zeal had once almost 
 reduced to ashes the capital in which he is allowed to reign. 
 
1 40 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTBT. 
 
 You are aware by what false arts he has endeavonred to 
 cast a shadow on ray own name, and on the memory of one 
 whose fame must needs be dearer to me than my owa 
 Bat there will come a time for clearing both. The questioa 
 is touching the deliverance of our common country. Who 
 is there that loves England ? who is there that will follow 
 Monmouth ? See — I have drawn my sword, and I attest 
 you all, my countrymen, and that fair sun that is smiling on 
 our re-union, that it shall never rest ^ day within its sheath, 
 until the Duke of York is hurled headlong from his seat, or 
 until James of Monmouth has ceased to breathe and sigh 
 for the enfranchisement of his native land." 
 
 The populace to whom Monmouth spoke, received with 
 enthusiastic cheers a speech which was exactly adapted to 
 the gross and ignorant prejudices in which they lived. To 
 attribute to the reigning monarch, whose personal character 
 had always stood high even with his enemies, snch detest- 
 able crimes as the burning of London, the murder of God- 
 frey, and even the atrocious guilt of fratricide, required a 
 stretch of credulity in the hearers which could only be hoped 
 for amongst the very lowest class of the community : but 
 such was the assembly which at present stood before the 
 Duke. Their zeal appeared redoubled at the close of his 
 address. They pressed close around, and would have borne 
 him on their shoulders through the town, had he judged it 
 wise at present to separate himself from his companions. 
 As it was, they flocked to his standard faster than he could 
 have hoped. A species of intoxication seemed to have 
 seized upon the people. Without reflection or delay, they 
 forsook their customary occupations, the artisan his tools, 
 the retailer his shop and custom, and the agriculturist his 
 plough and team, to enroll themselves beneath the standard 
 of the Duke. All that day and the two following, it was 
 as much as Monmouth's officers could do, to take down the 
 names of those who hastened to espouse his cause ; and on 
 the fourth be found himself at the head of more than two 
 
THE DU«E OF MONalOUTH. 141 
 
 thousand men, of whom a considerable portion were pro- 
 vided with horses. The manifesto which the Duke had 
 published, and which the wily Fergus'^ui contrived to have 
 printed without the cognizance of Fletcher and his friends, 
 was little more than a repetition of the speech which he had 
 made on landing, and which the moi-e respectable amongst 
 his compauious regretted had been ever uttered. And, in 
 point of fact, it assisted in keeping the gentry aloof from the 
 camp, which, in consequence of the lack of discipline and arms, 
 had more the appearanceof a village fair or market, than of an 
 army fit to encounter the standing force of a great kingdom. 
 
 '• I would I could get a glimpse of something decenter 
 than smock-frocks and hairy fetlocks," said Fletcher, as he 
 paced to and fro in his narrow tent. " These clowns, poor 
 souls ! are willing ; but what are their staves and rusty 
 pitchforks to do for us against carbine and artillery ? Look 
 out, Andrews, and see if that Irish scouc has yet returned. 
 My lord of Monmouth was to blame — he was not well ad- 
 vised in that lying rag which he calls his declaration. Tell 
 
 truth for ever ! Oh, tell truth ! tell truth ! Poison the 
 
 King ! Pish, pish ! it smells too rank. It might fit the coarse 
 and hungry ayprehensions of these eager boors, but it cries 
 caveto to their masters in too loud a voice. Oh, for a gentle- 
 man or two, to give our camp an air ! I pine for something 
 decenter than these eternal wooden shoes- And if the wood 
 were confined to the one extremity, it were something ; but, 
 alas ! the lignum- vitse is above in greater plenty than below. 
 But what? their heads will stand the thwacking all the 
 better. Well, Andrews, what's the news ?" 
 
 " He is coming, sir," said Andrews hastily ; — " but he 
 told me flatly he would keep his news for his betters." 
 
 At this moment the voice of Shamus Delaney was heard 
 outside the tent. 
 
 " Lieutenant Giierson, of the Lyme Fencibles, make off 
 without loss o' time to the general's tent, an' let him hear 
 what we seen." 
 
142 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 " Well, friend," said Fletcher, stepping to the entrance, 
 ' what's the news ?" 
 
 Shamus looked at him fixedly for a few moments, and 
 then said in a quiet tone : 
 
 " Have you any commission in the Lyme Fencihles ?" 
 
 « Not I." 
 
 " I thought as ranch. Well, Misther Ferguson is cumel 
 in them Fencihles, an' I'm a captain ; for I made a bargain 
 at the first startin, that I wouldn't let myself down to be 
 anything less than an officer. If I would I had a fair op- 
 poriunity for listin when my brother Morty was goin out 
 among the blackymoors " 
 
 '• Come, come, fellow," cried Fletcher, " no nonsense, btit 
 give me your news.'-' 
 
 " Fellow !" cried Shamus, "it might be Captain Delaney 
 under your belt, at any rate. Why then cock you up with 
 my news ! Go look for news yourself if you want 'em ; an' 
 if }ou aim them as hard as I did mine, I'll be bail you 
 won't be in a hurry to part 'em to every geocogh. My news 
 is for my shupariour betthers, an' not for the likes o' you 
 that's none o' my officers." 
 
 " Captain, or colonel, or general, or what you will," said 
 Fletcher, " pray let me hear your news on your own terms." 
 
 " Well, why ! that's something. Be quiet now, an' I'll 
 tell you. In the first place, you see myself an' Lieutenant 
 Grierson — it's fitten I put myself first, bein captain — and 
 three o' the Lyme Fencihles, James Littlewit, an' Pether 
 Hangfire, an' " 
 
 •' Never mind the names. Captain Delaney, never mind 
 the names." 
 
 " Well, sure enough, it's all one. Rut we had only go*" 
 up a couple o' long miles into the counthry when we hard a 
 report from one o' the neighbours, that the English — that's, 
 I mane, sech o' the English as is again us — was undhei 
 arms a piece farther on." 
 
 " In what force, colonel ?" 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. " 143 
 
 *• Oyeh, powers ! They said there was as good as five 
 thoasand of 'em." 
 
 "And nnder whom, General Delaney ?" 
 
 *' I'm neither a curnel nor a general, but a plain captain. 
 Tis makin game o' me you are, I believe ; an' that's what 
 I don't consider myself bound to stand." 
 
 '■Well, captain, well?" 
 
 " Well, why ! they said the Duke of Albemarle was at 
 the head of *em." 
 
 At these words, Fletcher darted from the tent, dashing 
 Captain Delaney aside with so little ceremony, that after 
 staggering back and reeling a few paces, he finally came in 
 a sitting position to the earth, and with so much violence 
 that the sound alarmed a party of the Lyme Fencibles, as 
 he called the unarmed recruits that were abandoned to his 
 care.who came running to the assistance of their fallen leader. 
 
 " Well !" exclaimed Shamus, expanding his hands with- ' 
 «3Ut rising, as if to let the injury appear as manifest as pos- 
 sible, " if that isn't thratement ! But it's no matther ! 
 These Scotchmen thinks there isn't the likes o' themselves in 
 the whole world. It's no matther ! — let one o' ye retch me a 
 hand, — it's a part o' the fortune o' war. It's like his callin 
 me a general awhile ago, by way o' makiu game. Are ye 
 all here, now, every man o' the Lyme Fencibles ? James 
 Littlewit !" 
 
 " Here !" 
 
 *' Pether Hangfire !** 
 
 "Here!" 
 
 " Solomon Scatterball !" 
 
 *' An't please your honour, he*s stepped over to the 
 town to borrow a pot to cook the company's rations." 
 
 " Ephraim Scantopluck !" 
 
 " I'm coming," cried a voice at a distance, " when I've 
 .done mending my pitchfork 1" 
 
 " William Ramithome !" 
 
 " Here I" 
 
144 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 " Weli, I see ye're all here, exceptin those that's abseut. 
 Well, then, fall iu, fall in, an' much good may it do ye ! 
 An' now attind to my ordhers, au' miud 'em well. Every 
 man is to fight, an' nobody is to run, that's plain enough. 
 Secondly, any man that wants arras is to dght hard /or 'em 
 first, an' to fight with 'em at his aise afther. Thirdly, any 
 booty whatsomever that any o' ye may take in the war, 
 such as goold rings, watches, sails, valuable clothing, and 
 the likes, — but, above all things, money, — ye're to bring it 
 all to me- Do you hear me ?" 
 
 *• Aye, aye, aye !" ^ 
 
 " Very well. Because I'm captain, ye know, an' best 
 judge how it ought to be divided. For it's one o' the max- 
 iiiis iu war, that it's the part o' the common sodgers for to 
 fight, an' for the ladin officers for to have all the call to the 
 booty an' the likes, how 'tis to be shared, an' what's to be 
 .done with it. Do ye hear ?" 
 
 " Aye, aye 1" 
 
 '' An' if there's anything that's very dangerous — certain 
 death for instance — as a place where one would bii blown 
 up, an' the likes, it's the custom o' war for the common 
 sodgers to have it all to themselves, au' for the officer to 
 give 'em ordhers for to face it, but to stay behind himself, 
 bein more valuable. Do ye hear ?" 
 
 «' Aye, aye !" 
 
 '^ An' if there be a scarcity o' food, or clothin, or beddin, 
 an' the likes, or a dale to do, sech as diggen threnches an' 
 the likes o' that, then it's the custom o' war for the officer 
 to have the first o' the victuals an' things that way ; but 
 the sodgers is to have the first o' the labour always. Do 
 ye undherstand ?" 
 
 " Aye, ayel" 
 
 " Very well, why. Now mind the word ! Shonldher 
 your pikes ! Quick march I" 
 
 So saying, hestrutted away at theheadofhisun warlikecom- 
 pany, while FletcJier basteued to take cou&sel with the Duke. 
 
THE DuKK OF MUI^MUUIH. 145 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Thy honesty and love doth mince this matter, 
 Making it light to Cassio. Cassio, I love thee, 
 But never more be officer of mine. 
 
 Othello. 
 
 " My lord ! my lord of Monmouth !" exclaimed Fletcher, 
 in his hasty manner, as he broke into the tent without 
 ceremony 
 
 " Well, Mr. Fletcher, what's the matter ?" asked the 
 Duke, turning round with his usual placidity of tone. 
 
 " We have it now in our power to provide ourselves with 
 what of all things we stand most in need of." 
 
 *' And what is that, Mr. Fletcher, may I ask ?" 
 
 " Tools, my lord — arms, the soldier's only tools — and 
 ^tore of ammunition likewise. You have heard the scout's 
 report ?" 
 
 " I did ; but the force is a very superior one. Not that 
 I dread the event ; but I should like to have the men a 
 little better disciplined before bringing them to action." 
 
 '- Pish for the force, my lord — the force is nothing. I 
 have a guess what kind of resistance the Devon Militia will 
 offer to the men of Dorset. Besides, at the worst, it is 
 little more than two to one ; and the way to London is not 
 such a bowling-green but we shall have to face worse odds 
 than those ere we arrive there." 
 
 " As you will, then — as you will," said the Duke, be- 
 stirring himself. " Mr. Ferguson, you will hasten to Lord 
 Grey, and tell him to ride forward at the head of the best 
 armed and best accoutred of the cavalry, while we follow 
 at all possible speed with tne mam oody of our force." 
 
 " My lord," said Fletcher, plucking his gloves with an 
 impatient air, " I ara not at ease upon these orders. Do 
 you think my Lord Grey is a fitting person to be entrusted 
 with the conduct of such an enterprise as this ?" 
 
 K 
 
146 THE ECKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 " It is his place," replied the Duke ; " why sise did he 
 Eorcit the command ?" 
 
 '' My lord,'- said Fletcher, " it needs but to enter his 
 tent to pronounce him womanish. He hath stored it with 
 all manner of arms, as if to make amends by plenty of 
 tools for lack of spirit to use them ; and he practises sword 
 and pistol play by the hour, insomuch that he will pick you 
 the brains out of a blackbird at a score paces and upwards. 
 As long as I could handle arms, 1 never cared to trust any 
 matter of nerve and enterprise to one of your marksUien — 
 youi" finical posture-masters, that are too sharp and cunning 
 in the little ever to be high-mettled in the great. Besides, 
 he knows nothing of the management of cavalry." 
 
 " Then why did he solicit that command ?" 
 
 " For a plain, numerical, arithmetical reason : becansd 
 he considered that four legs can run faster than two." 
 
 "Hush, hush! my good Mr. Fletcher," said the Duke 
 smiling but alarmed, and laying his hand against Fletcher's 
 lip ; " we cannot afford to have dissension in our camp so 
 scon ; and such a word as that, if heard outside, would 
 surely bring the fiend amongst us. This is but a trifling 
 service ; for you perceive, my dear Mr. Fletcher," he con- 
 tinued, taking his arm and walking with him to and fro in 
 a confidential manner, *' that it is merely the show of a 
 great trust. We shall follow too close upon his track to 
 leave much for him to do either in the way of injury or 
 service. We cannot yet be nice, my friend, in the selection 
 of our leaders ; a week or theieabout, I hope, will leave it in 
 our power to make a choice. I had rather commit the 
 matter to your own hands, bat your presence will be neces- 
 sary with the main body. So haste and away, Mr. Fletcher, 
 and victory speed you !" 
 
 " As you will, my lord — even be it as you will," said 
 Fletcher, hastily leaving the tent ; " we must only make 
 the best of what his lordship shall leave behind him. To 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. IvA 
 
 irms !" he called alond, as he harried to his quarters — "to 
 arms, for England and for liberty !** 
 
 lu the mean time, Ferguson hastened to the tent of Lord 
 Grey, with the orders of the Duke. He found that noble- 
 man seated at a small table, on which lay some loose pa- 
 pers, with an open map and pair of compasses. The coun- 
 :enance of Grey had still the expression of mingled anxiety 
 and chagrin which it constantly wore since be found himself 
 actually embarked in the expedition. There was something 
 singularly constitutional in his uneasiness. Nothing could 
 have been more easy for him, while on the Continent, than 
 to avoid committing his personal safety (which he held so 
 much at heart) amongst the invaders, and yet he would 
 not choose but sail with them ; yet now that the die was 
 cast, it seemed as if he would give worlds to recall the step 
 he had taken. Any one, nevertheless, who might form 
 such a judgment from his demeanour, would have been in 
 error. Lord Grey did not regret having followed the for- 
 tunes of Monmouth, although he felt it impossible to master 
 the cruel fears by which his mind was haunted. His whole 
 career, apart from certain dark insinuations to which history 
 does not warrant our yielding implicit credence, revealed 
 a spirit in which talent, a zeal for honour, fidelity to his 
 cause and to 'his friends, maintained a continual and 
 agonising struggle with a womanish feebleness and timi- 
 dity of constitution. That he lent himself with Ferguson 
 to the ambitious selfishness of Monmouth in desiring to 
 assume the title of King, takes no more from his general 
 personal integrity than would any other error of opinion ; 
 and perhaps to his credit it may be said, his very infirmity 
 of nerve served only to place in more honourable relief his 
 resolute and uudeviating fidelity to his companions in their 
 adversity, when the animal courage of many a bolder ad- 
 venturer did n^t save them from the shame of perfidy and 
 treason to each other. 
 
 " To horse, my lord — to horse, with all despatch !" cried 
 
148 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 Ferguson, as he rushed into the tent. ** His majesty has 
 committed to your lordship the high honour of striking the 
 first blow in the good cause. Hasten, my lord, I beseech 
 you, or the prize will have escaped us." 
 
 " The prize ? — what honour ? — how mean yon, Mr. 
 Ferguson ?" Lord Grey exclaimed, rising with a look of 
 alarm. 
 
 " Tush ! nothing, my lord — a handful of Albemarle's 
 clodpoles, who are quartered, we hear, somewhere in the 
 neighbourhood of Bridport, and are waiting your orders to 
 run. Here is an opportunity such as I could well desire. 
 Here are laurels to be had for the gathering : your cavalry 
 will only have to show themselves, and you return to Mon- 
 mouth with an abundant supply of arms, ammunition, and 
 honour — a true Veni, vidi, vici hero. Here, my lord, is 
 a reputation ready made, and of the kind that you most 
 need — most value, I would say. It needs but half an hour 
 sitting quiet in your saddle to silence Fletcher's sneers for 
 ever, and place your name beyond the reach of calumny." 
 
 " Near Brid] or , did you say ?" asked Grey in a hurried 
 tone, as he conius^^dly sought for his accoutrements. " In 
 what force are they assembled, is it said?" 
 
 " Pooh ! some loose hundreds, or thereabouts. Pardon 
 me ; your sword — you have hung it at the right side in 
 the ardour of your haste. His majesty would not have 
 thought them worthy the honour of being cut to pieces, 
 but for their arms and ammunition, of which we stand so 
 much in need. Your pistols — we usually carry the stock 
 uppermost ; 'tis a matter of fancy, to be sure, but yon 
 will find it more convenient, and it may appear less singular 
 to the troops. Pooh ! pooh ! we can all guess what kind 
 of resistance the yeomen of Albemarle will offer to your 
 cavalry." 
 
 " But our own force is so ill-disciplined," said Grey. 
 "Were it not wiser to train them for a few days longer 
 than to run the riak of disheartening them by a premature 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 149 
 
 enterprise for which they are scarce prepared ? Consider 
 the consequence of failure." 
 
 " I fear," said Ferguson, " it is now too late to delibe- 
 rate ; for, if I mistake not, they are already under arms." 
 
 '' Oh, Ferguson," said Grey with a wretched look, "you 
 jest with the confidence which I have suffered you to attain. 
 I fear the issue — I am wronging even Monmouth by ac- 
 cepting or retaining this command. I have not nerve for 
 it. I shall disgrace myself, and brin^; destruction on the 
 cause I serve." 
 
 " You astonish me, my lord. Is it possible that a mind 
 which I know to be strong as yours should find such diflS- 
 culty in commanding a mere defect of constitution ? Believe 
 me, you are in error if you suppose you cannot master this 
 infirmity. The mind is in this respect like the body it in- 
 habits — exercise can strengthen, as neglect and indolence 
 can weaken it. Your philosophy might tell you, that while 
 the human hypostasis subsists, the spirit will share the 
 qualities of the matter in which it is enshrined, and the 
 management of both in their infirmities must be analogous. 
 They are both improved by principle, both ruined by neglect 
 — and you caq give vigour to the faculties of the one as 
 you can to the muscles of the other by a due severity of 
 regimen." 
 
 " Aye," said Lord Grey, " but what avails prescribing a 
 course of regimen to a patient whose health is needed on 
 the instant ?" ' . 
 
 " Do as others do, my lord. There is not one even 
 amongst the boldest to whom fears like yours are utterly 
 unknown; yet all know how to master, or at least to screen 
 them." 
 
 *' Aye, there it is," said Grey, — " there is the bitterness 
 of my complaint. I know, not from conjecture, but from 
 true experience of myself, that my fears, all racking as they 
 are, could never urge me to the committing of those base- 
 nesses to which I see oihegs descend withont remorse, who 
 
150 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 are at their ease where I am dissolved with terror. What 
 fear, for instance, could have power to make me play the 
 part that Monmouth is known to have done in former 
 transactions like the present, and yet see Monmouth's cool- 
 ness in the hour of danger !" 
 
 " A proof, if any were needed, of what I averred," said 
 Ferguson ; " and a plain instance how much more of the 
 animal than of the rational being often enters into the com- 
 position of that quality which men call courage. Bat I 
 hear the alarm beat again. We must hasten, my lord, or 
 lose. Stay ! stay !" he called, as Grey hurried with an 
 agitated air towards the door of the tent, as if seeking by 
 rapidity of action to cover his perturbation of mind. 
 
 " Well, what's the matter ?" 
 
 " Your helmet — you are forgetting it. It might look 
 more valorous indeed to go without it — but, for decorum's 
 sake, perhaps it were as well to go fully accoutred." 
 
 " Ah, Ferguson, you jest at present, but I fear I may 
 furnish all our friends with cause of sorrow." 
 
 " Tush, my lord — we want you not to be a hero all your 
 life. Act the part for half an hour, and the success of the 
 piece is certain." 
 
 " It is acting a part against nature," said Grey in a 
 melancholy tone, as he completed his equipment ; " andyou 
 know the French lines : 
 
 ** Le naturel tonjours sort et sait se montrer, 
 Vainement on I'arrete, oa le force a rentrer,— 
 II rompt tout, perce tout, et trouve enfin passage. 
 
 " But the troops are ready. Farewell." 
 
 The sound of the trumpets and galloping of horses broke 
 off the dialogue, and Grey hastened to take his place at 
 the head of the cavalry, which was both strong enough and 
 sufficiently well armed to leave him little apology for his 
 apprehensions. They rode off amid the cheers of the 
 infantry ; while the Duke and Fletcher hastened to place a 
 
THE DUKE OF MOKMOUTH. 151 
 
 sufScient body of the latter in marching trim, in order to 
 guard against the possibility of a repulse. 
 
 The call to arms was sounded through the carap ; and 
 the alacrity with which the ill-accoutred .soldiery responded 
 to the summons showed plainly enough that Monmouth did 
 not want, at all events, the hearty allegiance of his followers. 
 A large body of men who were provided Tfith fire-arms and 
 cutting weapons, were sent forward after Lord Grey, under 
 Veimor and Major Wade, two able officers. The remainder 
 followed under the immediate command of Fletcher, Mon- 
 nioatb, and others ; while the greater portion of the re- 
 crnits, being furnished with no more efficient weapons than 
 scythes, pitchfurks, reaping-hooks, — and in lieu of even 
 these, with stones and staves, — were kept in whatever order 
 they could observe by the less distinguished amongst the 
 offiQers. To the astonishment of all, however, before these 
 last had reached the town, they beheld detached parties uf 
 the cavalry which had accompanied Lord Grey returning ia 
 broken and pre.ipitate flight. To the questions of Mon- 
 mouth, they replied, that they had actually entered Bridpcrt, 
 having surprised the bridge, and already commenced the 
 action, when, without warning given or reason assigned, 
 Lord Grey, after giving them orders to dash forward on the 
 enemy was seen to turn his horse's head, on seeing one or 
 two men fall in the street, and gallop from the town at the 
 top of his speed. As might be expected, the men were more 
 struck by the example than by the precept of their leader, 
 and after a little hesitation, they left the town, one follow- 
 ing another, with more despatch than good order. Lord 
 Grey him<elf was nowhere to be seen. Monmouth seemed 
 thunderstruck, 
 
 " Well, ray lord," said Fletcher, 1 iu!;hing in his anget 
 " I told your grace that four legs run faster than two." 
 
 " Mr. Fletcher," said the Duke, " you were right, and I 
 was wrong. This wretched nooleman, were he fifty times 
 Lord Giey, sUdli never handle weapon in this cause again." 
 
152 THE DUKE OF MONMODTH. 
 
 " Come on, my lord," cried Fletcher, pointing forward 
 with his naked sword ; " we are enough, and over, to repair 
 that botched piece of handiwork of his." 
 
 " No, not to-night," said Monmouth. " The men are 
 not likely to carry on with fitting spirit a business that has 
 begun so inauspiciously ; we must let them sleep on't." 
 
 " Wrong there again for a ducat," said Fletcher, in a 
 low tone, as he returned the weapon to its sheath. 
 
 " The nerveless coward !" cried Monmouth with increas- 
 ing anger, as he reflected on the possible consequences of 
 this unhappy miscarriage ; " he never shall bear weapon in 
 this cause again !" 
 
 While the Duke and Fletcher thus conversed, Ferguson 
 hastened to the tent of Lord Grey, whom he found in an 
 agony of shame and confusion, pacing to and fro, wringing 
 his hands together, and seeming as if both mind and 
 body were writhing beneath the sense of his recent 
 disgrace. 
 
 " Why did you urge me ?" he said to Ferguson on seeing 
 him approach ; " I knew how it would end." 
 
 " It is extraordinary !" said Ferguson ; " it is most un- 
 fortunate, for a thousand reasons. How was it that yon 
 could not command yourself for even so short a period ?" 
 
 " I know not," answered Grey. " All that human reason 
 could eflfect I did to maintain the slight degree of firmness 
 I could muster ; but you might as rationally ask the aspen 
 why it shivers when the wind rushes through its boughs, 
 as inquire of me why it was I played the rnnaway. I can 
 remember no more of what took place than a maniac aroused 
 from his delirium. I can only call to mind our entering 
 the town, — the clattering of the horses' hoofs as we trotted 
 through the streets — the flying figures of the unarmed 
 inhabitants — the confused and hasty mustering of the 
 euemy's force — the rattling of musketry, and flashing of 
 pistol shot from the windows of the houses on either side ; 
 the rest seems liko a horrible dream ; nor can I call to mind 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. ,53 
 
 another distinct or real act of consciousness, utitii I found 
 myself in full gallop from the town, the army of Monmouth 
 in sight, and the sounds of combat far behind me." 
 
 A very plain and candid exposition, thought Ferguson, 
 of the whole rise and progress of that emotion which leads 
 to the sauve qui pent. " What is to be done ?" he said 
 aloud, after musing for a few moments in perplexity of 
 mind. 
 
 "There is one ^hing at all events to be undone," said 
 Lord Grey. " I will at once resign this command, which 
 I am not able to retain either with credit to myself or 
 security to my friends. I can be honest if not valorous. 
 I will send in to-night my resignation to his grace ; and I 
 beg of you, Ferguson, to urge him to accept it." 
 
 Ferguson thought it very probable that, after what had 
 taken place, Monmouth would be likely not even to wait 
 for the resignation of Lord Grey, in order to place the 
 command of the cavalry in firmer hands ; but this was a 
 change which he was far from desiring." 
 
 " Me urge him !" he exclaimed ; " not I indeed. Urge 
 him to take the command from year lordship, and put 
 Fletcher, perhaps, or Heaven knows which of that party, 
 in your place ? I should like to know from which the 
 common cause had most to fear — their hotheaded repub- 
 licanism, or your lordship's — a — a — " 
 
 " Cowardice, — never spare the word," said Grey: " there 
 is not a sutler in the camp but has had it between his lips 
 ere now." 
 
 " You dre severe on yourself, my lord," replied Fergu- 
 Bon ; " but I am far from thinking that you onght to resign 
 your command. It would never do. The change from 
 you to Fletcher would be anything rather than improve- 
 ment." 
 
 "With some persuasion Grey suffered himself to be con- 
 vinced ; and Ferguson, leaving him to his meditations, 
 went to see how matters stood in the tent of Monmouth. 
 
154 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 Most of the other oflBcers had been, in the mean while, .'?. 
 consaltation with the Duke, and nearly all were unanimca^ 
 in urging the dismissal of Lord Grey. Even Monmouth 
 himself, though influenced by strong personal attachment 
 to that unhappy nobleman, found no argument whicK 
 seemed rational enough to oppose to the general instances, 
 and only seemed to hesitate from his constitutional reluc- 
 tance in the infliction of individual pain. 
 
 But Ferguson, who deemed Lord Grey's assistance 
 essential to his own designs, used all his influence with the 
 Duke to prevail upon him to continue that nobleman in his 
 command. Monmouth at length complied, partly through 
 his natural incapability of resisting any urgent entreaties 
 long continued, and partly through a secret consciousness 
 that there were none amongst his followers who would be 
 so ready to second any views of self-aggrandisement which 
 he miglit at a future moment be led to entertain. To the 
 utter amazement, therefore, and indignation of Fletcher, on 
 his entering Monmouth's tent the tollowiug morning, to 
 take orders respecting the cavalry, he was informed, that, 
 for the present, the idea of makiug any alteration in the 
 command of that force had been laid aside. At all times 
 quick to anger, the wrath of Fletcher was roused to abso- 
 lute fury at this, as he considered it, stupid and dangerous, 
 as well as insulting policy, on the part of their cogiiuander. 
 He remonstrated, he menaced, he almost stormed against 
 it ; but he might as well have spent his rage upon some 
 habitual debauchee. Monmouth persisted in his resolution ; 
 for, unhappily, it wsia only where he was in the wrong that 
 he could be positive, and his perseveiance led to an event 
 which finally decided the character and prospects of the 
 expedition. 
 
 In the course of the discussion Fletcher had more than 
 once been annoyed by the interference of Ferguson, who 
 supported the Duke indirectly in his dsaign of retaining 
 Ciiey in his command. 
 
TBB DUKF OP MONMOUTH. 155 
 
 "Yon seem mnch in the interests of Lord Grey, Mr. 
 Ferguson," he said at length in an impatient tone. 
 
 '" I am in the interests of our cause," said Ferguson ; 
 *' and, to deal plainly with you before his grace, I see not 
 a nutshell to choose between his lordship's frost and Mr. 
 Fletcher's fire. Too little may be mended, but too much 
 is pa3t remedy." 
 
 " It will be time enough," said Fletcher, " to caution 
 his grace against my fire, as you are pleased to call it, 
 when it has matched the handiwork of last night. My fire 
 will never, I trust, set my horse galloping with his tail 
 where his head should be. Fire, say you ? In good truth. 
 Lord Grey wants neither fire nor mettle: the flame is 
 active enough, if he could only cure it of running retro- 
 grade. A genuine Pyrgopolinices, he will let no one take 
 the lead of him in a retreat. Did your grace observe the 
 desperation with which he led the charge homeward 
 yester-even ?" 
 
 " It is very well, Mr. Fletcher," said the Duke mildly : 
 *' you are pleased to be facetious ; but Lord Grey has 
 many useful qualities, though he may fail in one or two, 
 He shines more, I grant yon, in the cabinet than in the 
 field ; but there his counsel has often stood us in good 
 stead. I think there is something in what Mr. Ferguson 
 has said, and I do confess that I apprehend quite as much 
 embarrassment from the excessive warmth — or zeal — of 
 some of my good friends, as from this unfortunate foible 
 of Lord Grey." 
 
 " As you will, my lord — as yon will," said Fletcher, 
 extremely irritated : " your grace knows best, — I have 
 done. Foible, say you ? foible ?" hie added, as he hastily 
 left the presence of the Duke. " Fine times we live in! 
 iEschylus, hear this ! I have lived to hear the Caryates 
 justified. In these days, a fellow shall lay aside his common 
 manhood, and it shall be termed his foible. It is an 
 exqtrisite word, in truth ! That thing that creeps there, 
 
156 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTff. 
 
 mark you, is a coward ; — it is his foible ! Cowardice is 
 his foible ! Most dainty, delicate phrase ! and wholly 
 unknown to the ancients ! Let not Demosthenes blush for 
 Cherongea, nor Horace mourn over Philippi, relicta non 
 bene parmula. It was only their foible. ^ Heaven save 
 me from such foibles !" 
 
 It happened that while the discussion was at its height, 
 Captain Delaney was in the act of drilling his fencibles 
 within a short distance of the tent of Monmouth, and 
 adapting the quaint tactics of the time to the species of 
 weapon with which the particular individual who happened 
 to be receiving his instructions was provided : as, " Shoulder 
 your pitchfork !" " Point your pitchfork!" " Recover your 
 pitchfork !" " Trail your pitchfork !" &c. &c. 
 
 While he was thus occupied, a shout was heard in the 
 camp, and presently Dare, the quondam goldsmith of 
 Taunton, and now fiUing no less an office than that of 
 secretary and paymaster to the forces of the Duke, made 
 his appearance, mounted on a splendid charger, and fol- 
 lowed by forty horsemen, whom he had brought from his 
 ancient neighbourhood to join the standard of the adven 
 turer. Dismounting for a few momeats, he gave his horse 
 in charge to one of the recruits who were learning the 
 rudiments of the art of war from Shamus Delaney, 
 wnile he entered one of the tents which stood close at 
 hand. 
 
 •At this instant, and while the recruit held the horse 
 from which he had just dismounted, Fletcher came hurrying 
 from the quarters of Monmouth, his countenance glowing 
 with anger and disappointment, and the very foam appear- 
 ing upon his lips. 
 
 " A horse !" he cried aloud ; " give me that horse !" 
 And he seized the bridle of Dare's charger. 
 
 " You can't have that horse, Misther Scotchman," cried 
 Delaney in a loud voice : '' I know you, I think, by your 
 manners. Farmer, doii't '^: the bridle go." 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 157 
 
 " Give np the horse, fellow !" cried Fletcher, rising ia 
 choler. 
 
 " Don't let the bridle go!" repeated Delaney. 
 
 Irritated to the height by the tnan's reluctance, Fletcher 
 seized him by the collar, and sought to drag him from the 
 spot. The man, who scarce knew how to act, but con- 
 ceived that at all events there could be no mistake in 
 repelling actual aggression, repulsed his assailant with a 
 force which almost laid him prostrate on the earth. At 
 the same instant Dare returned from the tent, and taking 
 the bridle from the hands of the recruit, received a new 
 attempt at seizure, made by Fletcher, with a new repulse. 
 The unhappy gentleman now lost all the little self-command 
 he had remaining. In a paroxysm of fury he drew a pistol 
 from his belt and fired. The goldsmith fell. A cry of 
 horror broke from the spectators, and a multitude was 
 quickly gathered round the place* Motionless as a statue, 
 with the empty weapon hanging down in front, and the 
 ecstasy of rage transformed to that of horror, the miserable 
 homicide seemed riveted to the spot on which he stood. 
 The shrieks of Dare's widow, who happened to be in the 
 camp, and the indignation of the crowd, who pressed 
 around, and to most of whom the goldsmith had been per- 
 sonally known, added the apprehension of new horrors to 
 those which had been already acted. In fact, the populace 
 were on the point of taking summary vengeance on the 
 person of the delinquent, when the Duke himself, summoned 
 thither by the tumult, broke into the circle in alarm, and 
 looked round for the cause of the sudden confusion. There 
 was a hush at his appearance, and revenge for the time 
 gave place to authority. 
 
 " Speak, some one !" cried Monmouth in an authoritative 
 tone : " Who fired the shot ?" 
 
 " There he is ! there I" cried a hundred voices. 
 
 " Mr. Fletcher I Is it possible ?" 
 
 " Plase your lordship," said Delaney, melting at the look 
 
158 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH, 
 
 of fixed misery which Fletcher presented, " maybe 'twasn't 
 0* purpose at all he done it. Maybe the shot skamed oflF 
 some way be accidence." 
 
 " Speak, Mr. Fletcher," cried the Duke : '* Was it ac- 
 cidental, as he says, or otherwise ?" 
 
 " My lord," said Fletcher, looking deadly pale, and 
 speaking deliberately, like one who in the intensest mental 
 suffering has not lost his firmness of understanding, " the 
 shot was not accidental : I would give twenty Englands 
 that it had been." 
 
 The tone of deep and genuine remorse with which Fletcher 
 spoke, together with the striking anguish that appeared in 
 his demeanour, produced an impression in his favour on the 
 crowd, who were more stirred up by the apparent wanton- 
 ness of ihe act than by the occurrence itself. Even the 
 poor widow, who had been tearing her hair and moaning 
 in agony by the goldsmith's corse, for he was already dead, 
 turned round at his voice, and flung herself with a convol- 
 sion of grief at the feet of Monmouth. 
 
 " Oh, he speaks truth !" she shrieked aloud. " Forgive 
 him, whoever you are ; for sure if he had thought an in- 
 stant, he would not destroy a miserable family who had 
 never done anything to offend him." 
 
 The tenderness, however, that touched the hearts even 
 of those who had been injured by the blow, could not read', 
 to that of Monmouth. Instead of falling in with the re- 
 turning tide of forgiveness that had already gained upon 
 the minds of the people, he thought only of signalizing hia 
 own character for strict justice, and making an example. 
 He had, moreover, other and still less warrantable motives 
 in seeking to get rid of Fletcher. Increasing in power and 
 influence, he had already begun to lend a less reluctant ear 
 to the suggestions of Ferguson and his associates, and ho 
 felt more strongly every hour the difficulty which the stera 
 integrity of Fletcher would throw in the way of such designs. 
 
 " Mr. Fletcher," said the Duke, " I need not tell yon 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOCTH. 158 
 
 lint there is not an officer in my camp wHom I va'nea 
 more highly or esteemed more dearly than yourself. But 
 the lives of my soldiers and fellow-countrymen are dearer 
 to me than my own interests. I cannot entrust the govern- 
 ment of others to the care of one who knows not how 
 to govern himself. Had I not cause to fear that you might 
 ere long furnish ns with deeper matter of regret than even 
 the disappointment of last night ? Which, now, is the 
 more dangerous quality — the excess of heat, or its defect ' 
 You will resign your charge into the hands of Mr. Fergnson 
 until some fitting successor shall be found to undertake it." 
 
 The sorrow of Fletcher had already penetrated far deeper 
 than the words of Monmouth could follow it. " It is all 
 quite true — I shall obey your grace," was all he said in 
 siiswer. As he was about to leave the place, he approached 
 the spot where the body of the unfortunatie goldsmith lay, 
 and gazed long npon the lifeless countenance, as if with the 
 view of drinking his fill of the bitter waters of instruction. 
 And the spectators were astonished to behold this cele- 
 brated officer, who was, as Monmouth once had termed him, 
 an Achilles in heroism and an Ulysses in counsel, shed floods 
 of tears above the evil which his hand had wrought. 
 
 " I am an unhappy being, Wade," he said to that officer, 
 as he conducted him to the vessel in which, by Monmouth's 
 orders, he was to be forthwith conveyed to the Spanish 
 coast ; " the blood of that poor man weighs heavier on my 
 mind than the loss cf fifty victories. I fear this expedition 
 will not tarn out as well as we hoped. With Grey for tho 
 leader of his horse, and Ferguson for his counsellor, thSre 
 is but little chance of either great success or honourable 
 failure. At all events, be you, and all who think as you 
 do, faithful to the real character of our aesign. Farewell, 
 Monmouth 1 Farewell the fair hopes on which I fed of 
 England free and prosperous, and by Fletcher's aid !" 
 
 The secession ot Fletciier decided the character of Mon- 
 mouth's expedition. There was ao other amongst the ad* 
 
16-^ THE DDKF, 0? MONMOUTH. 
 
 ^entnrers capable of resisling the ambitions dews of vfiaS 
 '■:arty who wished that Monmouth should upealy assert his 
 title to the throne, and who became hourly more importa- 
 Tiate in their instances. The time lost, however, in those 
 dissensions enabled the Duke of Albemarle to shift his 
 quarters before the following morning; and accordingly, 
 vaen Monmouth marched to Axrainster with the view of 
 giving battle, he found that the place had been akeudy 
 evacuated by the enemy. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 From the moment when it became certain that Monmouth 
 and Argyle were actually embarked in this enterprise, a 
 new opirit seemed to have seized upon Aquila Fullarton. 
 Without waiting to deliberate much upon either the justice 
 cr the wisdom of the cause, she delivered herself up to an 
 undisguised and enthusiastic zeal for the success of Mon- 
 mouth. It was enough for her that Arthur was in arms 
 against the King. Whether he were in the abstract right f 
 or wrong, she was in point of fact incapable of judging; 
 but she seemed determined to make amends by the fervour 
 of her devotion for the secret obscurity of her conviction, 
 5ind the less clearly she saw her way, the more impetuously 
 did she follow where her fancy and affection led. Her 
 spirit communicated itself to most of the young women of 
 her rank in the town and neighbourhood ; and it is certain 
 that, for the number, the cause of Monmouth could not 
 have received the support of more influential auxiliaries. 
 Throughout the neighbourhood for several days ensuing, 
 almost the only subject of conversation was the claims ot 
 Monmouth, and the old disquisitions respecting resistance 
 and passive obedience, which a few years before had agi- 
 tated every assembly throughout the whole island, from the 
 senate to the village alehouse. 
 
THE DCKE OF MOKMOUTH. 161 
 
 It was on the day whea news arrived of Monmouth's 
 entry into Axminster, that Miss Fullarton was busily occu- 
 pied in a work of embroidery, in which she was deeply in- 
 terested. It was a piece of silk intended to form one of a 
 pair of colours to be presented to the adventurous Duke by 
 the young ladies of Taunton on his arrival in the town— • 
 an event which was now daily looked for with eagerness 
 aud joy. The greater part of the work had been already 
 wrought by other hands, and Aquila was now performing 
 her part with a diligence that showed how much her heart 
 was in the occupation. For greater convenience, the frame 
 on which the silk was fastened had been placed in the open 
 air before the cottage door, and under the shade of a labur- 
 num, which screened the fair artist from the scorching sun 
 of June. While the work proceeded, as she now inserted 
 some new ornament, an i now ran to a little distance in 
 Older to observe the eflcct of what was done, she spoke and 
 sang aloud alternately. 
 
 " Monmouth and Liber the tt is all I want — and 
 
 a leaf or two on the further end of that wreath of laurel. 
 That will do gaily. Monmouth and Liberty ! They are 
 stirring words. I would I were behind the knave who thinks 
 otherwise, with my needle between my fingers." I would 
 iBud means to arouse him. 
 
 " Up I ye who have the hands to fight, 
 
 Who have the hearts to feel ! 
 
 Up, up ! for merry England's right, 
 
 With musket and with steel ! 
 Oh, brightly streams on summer's gale, 
 
 The gilded mist on high ; 
 But brighter soon in Taunton vale 
 Shall Freedkiui's ensign fly ! 
 Then up '. who have, &c. 
 
 ''Ah, precious ensign!" she continued, romantically apostro- 
 phizing her work — " I know one arm faraway in the north, 
 that would be prouder to give you to the wind than I to 
 
162 THE DUKE OF MONJIOUTH. 
 
 place yon in its gnsp. My poor Arthur! — Heaven send 
 thee safe to U3 again ! Heaven prosper the good cause I 
 Heaven bless the arms of Monmouth ! 
 
 *• For liberty and Monmouth ! hoi 
 For liberty arise ! 
 There's mercy in the conquering blow, 
 
 AVhen grim Oppression dies. 
 There's music in the mustering feet 
 
 That mark the daisied green, 
 When the gallant friends of Freedom niee 
 lu lovely Taunton Dene ! 
 Up ! ye who have, && 
 
 "Another leaf, and it is done. 
 
 " Who basely shuns a glorious death, 
 
 Dishonour haunt his tomb ' 
 
 "Who nobly wins a victor wreath, 
 
 Long may he see it bloom ! 
 Who freely sheds his generous bloo'J, 
 His cliildren long shall tell 
 * How he for' England bravely stood, 
 
 How he for England fell. 
 Then up ! who have the hands to figlit^ 
 
 "WTio have the hearts to feel ! 
 Up. up ! for merry England's right, 
 With musket and with steel 1" 
 
 At this instant Miss Kingsly appeared undoing the fas- 
 teuiug of the little gate which separated the cottage lawn 
 from the high road leading to the town. Aquila was sur- 
 prised to see her ; for the feeling was already so strongly 
 manifested in favour of Monmouth, that few of those who 
 were notoriously attached to the royal cause cared to incur 
 the danger of popular insult by appearing much in public 
 Her surprise, however, did not lessen her delight. She flew 
 to meet her friend, and embraced her with evident and un- 
 affected rapture. There is something so beautiiul in auv 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 163 
 
 unselfish devotion, that Tamsen could not help admiring 
 the alteratioQ which this new turn of thought and feelin;^ 
 had occasioned in the demeanour and even the appearance 
 of her friend. Instead of the pensive and almost gloomy 
 girl, who nsed to saunter through the shrubbery of Tone 
 Cottage, or consume whole evenings in lifeless musings by 
 the fireside, she now beheld before her, a ' bright-cheeked, 
 bright-eyed woman, with a glow like that of health upon 
 her features, and every movement of her frame instinct with 
 quick and generous emotions. For a moment, as she looked 
 upon her enthusiastic features, which showed to the fairest 
 advantage as the wind blew back the dark brown hair that 
 played around them, and read in her eyes what seemed An 
 ardent consciousness of right, Miss Kingsly was staggered 
 in her own convictions. Neither, in truth, could it be said, 
 to compare the person and appearance of both, that Loyalty 
 was as fortunate in her representative as Disaffection ; for 
 anxiety and fear, for others rather than herself, had already 
 deprived Miss Kingsly's features both of their hue and fresh- 
 ness. She looked thin and pale from suffering of heart, her 
 eyes were red with weeping, and her whole manner and ap- 
 pearance were those of one who sees ruin bursting upon all 
 that is most dear and valued, without the poAver of averting 
 or repairing it. 
 
 " You are welcome," said Aquila with a fei-vent air. " I 
 hardly expected you ; for, after all, Tamsen," and she spoke 
 this with a glance of irrepressible triumph, — " after all, it 
 is not the friends of Monmouth who require protection. 
 Have you heard from Henry ?" 
 
 Miss Kingsly took Aquila's [hand in both hers, kisset 
 and wet it with her tears, ere she replied — " You have not 
 forgotten him then ? In consideration of that kind inquiry 
 I will forgive your short-lived boast of Monmouth's rebel in- 
 fluence." 
 
 " "Whether Monmouth's influence shall prove to be 
 short-lived or otherwise, Tamsen^" said Aquila, " I have 
 
164 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 not forgotten Henry. See there, what a pretty legend I 
 have worked for Monmouth's banner ! Has it any charm 
 for you ?" 
 
 " You ask for Henry in one breath," said Tamsen, "and 
 in the next you direct my attention to a standard to be borne 
 by men whose hands shall be ere long directed against his 
 life. All now looks gay and promising. I grant yon, the 
 silk shows just as fair as if it were to flutter in an honest 
 cause, and the word ' Rebellion' does not appear in the de- 
 vice. So likewise Aquila, when you see the ranks of Mon- 
 mouth marshalled in the Dene of Taunton, and their music 
 fills the valley all around, you will wonder what any oue 
 can find abhorrent or disgraceful in the pageant. But it is 
 not by the eyes and ears that we are to judge the righteous- 
 ness of the attempt." 
 
 " I grant you, not," replied Aquila with a glowing cheek, 
 " unless when they bring either to our minds or memones 
 such sounds and sights as those that are associated with the 
 names of Winram and Airs-moss. In such cases as those, 
 the eyeS: and ears alone are quite sufficient." 
 
 "You speak of tyranny, Aquila, that does not exist ; and 
 if it did, my friend, there are other sights and sounds that 
 should enter into the account — the sights and sounds of 
 misery and despair that shall follow failure. Alas ! Aquila, 
 in four months hence the Dene of Taunton will present a 
 far different — a far less joyous scene. Look around you I 
 Can you think without terror of the evils which you art 
 now assisting to promote ? — can you imagine those hamlets 
 laid in ruins, and those peaceful groves made the scene of 
 horrors on which it is impossible even to dwell in fancy, and 
 not tremble at the thought of becoming, in the most remote 
 degree, an instrument in such a work •"' 
 
 *' If good or evil fortune, Tamsen," said Miss Fullarton, 
 *' were to be made the test of right and wrong in hnmau 
 enterprises, the words would often change places. If Mou- 
 moatb should prove unfortunate, as you seem to expect or 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 165 
 
 hope, it will not give James the Duke of York his I'ightf 
 nor him the wrong of the usurper." 
 
 " My dear, dear fiiend," replied Miss Kingsly with the 
 earnestness of strong conviction, " there is no earthly good 
 which is worth being purchased at so dear a price. The 
 people are content with this usurper ; they have freely given 
 him their allegiance, and as yet what is there he has done 
 to forfeit it .?'' 
 
 *' What may he not do, if he be suffered to take the first 
 decided step — the step of usurpation — with impunity ?" 
 
 " It is time enough to talk of resisting tyranny when it 
 has once begun," said Tamsen. " But even in such a case, 
 Aquila, it is not our part at least to favour violence on any 
 side. I grant you all the glory and the gallant seeming of 
 violent resistance to oppression — I take nothing from the 
 outward splendour of your opinions, but grant me at least 
 the wisdom and security of ours. At the very worst, we 
 are not the cause of evil. If our ruler abuse his trust, the 
 guilt is all his own. If he break the social compact on 
 which all security in life ai^d fireside happiness depend, we 
 aid him not in his work of ruin by breaking it in our turn. 
 We continue our duty though he may have forgotten his. 
 Call you us slaves for this ? No ; earth holds not a power 
 whici is capable of forciug us to move a finger in the 
 wrong. But though we would scorn to obey our king where 
 a higher King than he forbade obedience, we would shudder 
 even in such a case to accompany refusal with violence 
 against his person and his power. That higher King shall 
 be liis judge, not we." 
 
 " Tamsen," said Aquila, " there is more than enough of 
 this. My part for goud or evil has been taken, and I must 
 adhere to it. I admire your candour and your friendship 
 more than I do your sentiments. Such wisdom, such rea- 
 soning as that, would go far to justify the recreant who 
 refuses to take the sword against a foreign foe. Enough 
 of it, my friend ; let us speak of other things." 
 
166 THE DUKE OF MOKMOUTff. 
 
 Miss Kingsly complied, and from this day forward resigned 
 all thought of opposing Aquiia in her course. The pre- 
 vailing intoxication, as she thought, had seized upon her 
 mind with a force which made warniug or admonition vain. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 The last struggle between Monmouth's sense of shame and 
 his ambition was decided at Axminster. It was there 
 arranged that on his entry into Taunton, his title to the 
 throne should be openly asserted, and that he should for the 
 future be proclaimed in the usual form in every town which 
 might fall into his hands. 
 
 On a subject with which every reader of history is more 
 or less familiar, it is not necessary to furnish any thing 
 beyond a very general detail of Monmouth's triumphal pro- 
 gress through the towns of the West, including his magni- 
 ficent entry into Tannton. At first the injudiciousness of 
 the step he had taken in assuming the title of King was not 
 perceived. It was true that his cause was immediately de- 
 serted in heart, if not in person, by those enthusiastic 
 companions of his exile who, like Fletcher, sought raiher 
 the establishment of their own political or religious predi- 
 lections than the personal aggrandisement of their leader ; 
 but they were obliged to yield to the populace, who hailed 
 the claim of the youthful aspirant with nnmingled zeal. 
 Many, even of the more respectable classes, began to fall ia 
 with the general current ; and on the day when Monmouth 
 entered Taunton there was scarce a house in town that had 
 not its ornament of green boughs and garlands to welcome 
 The Deliverer. The streets, and even the road by which 
 he was expected to arrive, were lined with rows of yourg 
 trees transplanted from the neighbouring woodlands for t» a 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMODTD. 1G7 
 
 purpose, their bonghs adorned with ribbons and kerchiefs 
 of the gayest colours, or silken banners charged with some 
 appropriate motto. From an upper window of her father's 
 house, which commanded a view of the street through 
 which Monmouth was to pass, Miss Kingsly could observe 
 all that took place without being herself seen by the crowd. 
 As to Captain Kingsly, be had not the will, nor scarcely 
 even the capability, to look upon ascene so little in accordance 
 'A ith his taste. He lay on a couch in the same room in a 
 kiud of loyal fever, a martyr to the acuteness of his anguish 
 at what he considered the recreancy of his fellow-townsmen. 
 He put few questions to his daughter as she stood at the 
 viiidow, but groaned aloud as he heard her name some 
 ficifrhbour or acquaintance whose gay cockade and exulting 
 demeanour, as he passed, pronounced him an adherent of 
 the Adventurer. The ci'owd. in return did not forget a 
 groan for the old cavalier as they passed the residence of 
 Kingsly ; but he had the satisfaction of treating their 
 plebeian insolence with the contempt which it deserved. 
 The shouting of the people and the sound of distant music 
 at length announced the approach of the hero of the day. 
 He appeared iu a triumphal car, surrounded by the most 
 distinguished amongst his companions in arms, and followed 
 by an immense concourse of people, who rent the air with 
 acclamations. As he passed along, hankerchiefs and ban- 
 ners of silk were waved on all sides from windows in the 
 street, and flowers were cast upon him from a thousand 
 hands, the bands of music at the same time playing 
 triumphal airs. Behind the car appeared the various 
 trades, with their banners and appropriate costume. 
 
 When the Duke had arrived nearly opposite Captain 
 Kingsly's bouse, still continuing to stand erect, and bowing, 
 with a grace peculiar to himself, to the ladies, who waved 
 their kerchiefs to him from the windows, the procession on 
 a cudden came to a pause. The crowd opening in front of 
 the chair in the form of a circle, left a clear space, through 
 
1 68 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 which a singular group was shortly seen approaching. Two 
 men, bearing each a folded banner, appeared in front. 
 They were followed by a train of young women dressed in 
 white, to the number of twenty, who advanced two and 
 two to the sound of martial music. When they had come 
 within one or two paces of the triumphal car, they paused, 
 and one of their number approached the Duke with a book 
 richly bound and ornamented in her hands. Instantly on 
 beholding her, Miss Kingsly started and blushed, although 
 alone at the window, with a look of extreme surprise. 
 
 "Father!" she exclaimed hastily — "father! come hither 
 and see Aqnila FuUarton !" 
 
 " Impossible!" cried Captain Kingsly. "What could 
 bring old Gaspar's daughter into the streets of Taunton at 
 such a time as this ? I have no fancy for looking out upon 
 a herd of Whigs and Koundheads — a drove of crop-eared 
 knaves, to whom time, that teaches wisdom to all, only 
 brings increase of perversity." 
 
 " It is herself, however," said Tamsen — " I cannot be 
 mistaken. Look! look! she is going to address the Duke." 
 
 " Aquila ! Miss Fullarton ! going to what ? — Mon- 
 mouth !" 
 
 The astonishment of the old man overcame his antipathy 
 to stain his eyesight with the view of the rebellious pro- 
 ceedings that were transacted in -the street. There was, 
 however, no error in what his daughter had told him. He 
 could not be mistaken in what he saw. It was indeed 
 Aquila Fullarton who stood before the Duke, and on whom 
 the eyes and ears of the multitude were at this instant 
 riveted with an interest scarce inferior to that which was 
 manifested toward the hero of the day. Tiie stillness fur 
 a time was so complete, that Tamsen and her father could 
 gather every word she spoke, as with a modest air she de- 
 livered the address of her companions, and in a voice »o 
 sweet and fervent, and at the same time so distinct, that it 
 took away much fiom the seeming boldnesa of bar sitnaticn. 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 169 
 
 While she spoke, the old cavalier's exclamations, as he 
 jrazed from the window, formed a kind of running commen- 
 tary on her speech but little complimentary either to herself 
 or to the party she espoused. 
 
 "What!" said he, "the syren! the false Circe ! it is 
 hei'self indeed ! — Here's wisdom for us all ! What ? This 
 was the meek and modest mistress that could sit so demure 
 beside old FuUarton's fireside, and look as if her deepest 
 thoughts regarded the best mode of making the milk throw 
 tip its cream ! The Jezabel ! Our house had a narrow 
 escape of her. I was right — I was right — and Harry was 
 wrong, as he always is when he and I differ. What a 
 pretty specimen of treason and disloyalty we were about to 
 admit within our doors ! And the innocence, the mildness 
 of her converse and dcmeinour ! — you would vow that her 
 thoughts never took a range beyond the dairy and the kitchen- 
 garden. ' Captain Kingsly, how are Tamsen's flowers !' he 
 proceeded in a tone of mimicry : ' and the asparagus, do 
 you find it thriving?' Ah, the ^ly one ; I'll asparagus her 
 if we ever live to see better days ! Look at her now ! It 
 was not asparagus that was running in her head." 
 
 " The ladies of Taunton, may it please your grace," said 
 Aqnila, " have deputed us their humble instruments to pre- 
 sent to your majesty a pair of colours, the work of their 
 own hands." 
 
 " Aye, sayst thou ?" cried the captain ; " there's a rebel !" 
 
 " — And with this copy of the sacred Scriptures," Aquila 
 continued. 
 
 " Oh, the knaves ! Scriptures indeed ! How much the 
 Scriptures trouble him I Scriptures quoth-a ! What ? that 
 he mav study them, I suppose, in his philosophical solitude 
 \nth L'idy H. W., and hear her exposition of the sixth 
 commandment ! blasphemy ! blasphemy beyond endurance! 
 Disgust and anger will make me ill :' I am sorry you drew 
 me to the window to witness such a scene of hollow mock- 
 erv — mockery of all that is most sacred ! Scriptures indeed ? 
 
1 70 THE DDKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 There's a conntrywoman of yours, young lady, who Icnows 
 what store your playhouse king sets by the sacred volume. 
 Let Anne of Buccleugh instruct you iu the extent of Mon- 
 mouth's piety. Well, mistress, an' you were my daughter 
 but that peril's past at all events." 
 
 " Secure of the justice of your claim," Aquila in the mean 
 time continued, "we are eager to be amongst the f^rst to 
 ofter you this twofold testimony of our allegiance and affec- 
 tion. The one may animate your majesty to conquest, whea 
 at reminds you that you possess the hearts of your people ; 
 and the other will instruct you how to turn that conquest to 
 the welfare of your kingdom, and to govern in peace and 
 wisdom what you win with danger and with toil." 
 
 Saying this, she handed the volume to the Duke, who 
 descended two or three steps from where he stood in order 
 to receive it, together with the colours, which were given 
 at the same time. He was or seemed to be impressed in 
 the profoundest manner by this mark of devotion. 
 
 " I may well be certain, young lady," he said, " of the 
 affections of my countrymen, when I am thus assured of 
 tlie allegiance of their best counsellors and guides. This 
 volume shall be my companion, my treasure, my instructor 
 whilst I live ; and were you to make the same present to 
 the Duke of York, I question if he would venture to pro- 
 mise you so much." 
 
 With these words he fastened the colours in his car amid 
 the acclamations of the multitude. The ladies retired, and 
 the procession moved on iu the same order as before, toward 
 the street which leads like a vista to the church of St. Mary 
 Magdalen, one of those noble monuments of the piety of our 
 Catholic ancestors which continue to adorn the surface of 
 the land. The door of the building was thrown open to the 
 Duke amid a burst of sacred music, and the ceremonies of 
 religion gave solemnity to the proceedings of the day which 
 hailed the young adventurer as the true King James, the 
 rightful monai-ch of the isle. 
 
THE DOXI or MONMOUTH. 171 
 
 " The Duke of Yoik ! — hear hiui, the traitor !" Captain 
 Kingsly exclaimed, as he turned from the window after 
 ^Monmouth had ceased to speak, " I shall not be the better 
 of what I have heard and seen this morning for my life to 
 tome. Would no corner of the whole borough of Taunton 
 nnswer their purpose, but they must needs come and play 
 their rebel farce before my very windows ? But let them 
 have a care ! When next the curtain rises, the farce may 
 turn to a tragedy. We have seen such changes in our day. 
 And Aquila loo! But I have done with the Fullartons !" 
 
 The genius of Monmouth revelled far more in festal scenes 
 like this than in the turmoil and the labour of the camp. 
 Day after day went by in feasts and pageants, until his ad- 
 herents began to grow weary of the torturing suspense in 
 which they were thus detained. To Aquila in particular it 
 was distrcising, who had no facility of learning the actual 
 progress of the cause after the Duke had once left Taun- 
 ton, and whose hopes and fears were already wound 
 up in the enterprise to a degree of intensity that made tlio 
 still-life of her father's cottage almost intolei'able. They 
 now heard that he was proclaimed in Bridgewater, in Wells, 
 in Frome ; but there was yet no account of any signal blow 
 having been struck in the cause, and several weeks had 
 already elapsed from the day of his first landing. 
 
 On one of those anxious evenings which Aquila spent 
 Kith her father, endeavouiing to conquer as she best could 
 {he acuteness of her fears and her suspense, the servant 
 entered to let her know that two strangers desired to speak 
 :7ith her. He conveyed the intelligence in a whisper as he 
 arranged the table for .their solitary evening meal, and Aquila 
 left the room soon after. Meantime the strangers made 
 themselves at home in the kitchen, where they were already 
 in the act of regaling themselves with such fare as Donald 
 had sflt before them. The tattered condition of their shoes 
 and general attire, together with their worn and weary air, 
 and chins for many a day unconscious of the barber's steel, 
 
172 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTIT. 
 
 announced them as newl/ arrived from long and hasty 
 travel. 
 
 *' Well, Mowbray," said he of the two who despatched 
 his fare with the greater apparent satisfaction, " wilt thou 
 trust me again for a guide ? Was there ever a bliud beg- 
 gar's dog had got a more exquisite scent for seeking out a 
 timely dinner ? Confess, wouldst thou ever have had in- 
 stinct sufficient to lead thee to Master FuUarton's kitchen 
 door if it had not been for my assistance ?" 
 
 " Aye," replied the other, " thou hast some share of wit to 
 helpaman out of a quandary, but far more tohelphim into it." 
 
 " There's gratitude !" cried the first speaker, seizing a 
 foaming jack of ale. " Well, the golden age is gone, and 
 a man must put up with the days of iron as he may. 
 Astraja has left the earth." And he indulged in a poteut 
 draught of Donald's nut-brown liquid. 
 
 " It is but the truth I speak," said Mowbray. " If I had 
 been wise, I would have staid with Dare and Monmouth, 
 as Caryl did, but you persuaded me to follow Argyle to the 
 Korth with Mr. FuUarton, from which all your wit was 
 scarce sufficient to bring us home in a whole skin. A 
 precious service ! Fighting for cur lives one day " 
 
 »' For liberty, you mean." 
 
 " Liberty be hanged ! — Next, scampering over bogs and 
 mount 'ins with a swarm of yellow-haired Highland rascals 
 at our heels " 
 
 " Bat did you obsei-ve the beauty of the scenery ?" 
 
 *■ Scenery fiddlestick ! I only observed that I often stuck 
 fast up to my knees, and as often ran the risk of breaking 
 my neck amongst their meagre crags, where you might look 
 from east to west, and from north to south, without behold- 
 ing more than a bairen waste as bare as a miser's cloak, or 
 aa the palm of my hand. And then, for rations, to conten* 
 "•ourself with oaten bread and porridge, or to drink the 
 Earl's health in a horn of usquebaugh, and seek what rest 
 we could find amongst the blne-bclls until sunrisp." 
 
THE DUKE OF MOKMOUTH. 173 
 
 " Well, we shall find an end of all our toils when we 
 re ach the camp of Monmouth." 
 
 " Aye, Andrews, if we were the bearers of good news." 
 
 " Tush, we can wait our time for the telling all we know. 
 At all events, they say Monmouth is carrying all before him 
 hereabout, and can afford to hear of a loss elsewhere. I 
 would, however, we had something more certain to commu- 
 nicate respecting Master Fullarton in return for our even- 
 ing's cheer." 
 
 While they spoke, Aquila entered, accompanied by Don«- 
 aid. The strangers arose and saluted her I'eapectfully ; after 
 which they gave their news from the North. It was noc 
 calculated to diminish Aquila's anxiety as to her bi'other's 
 fate or that of the cause in which he had embarked. From, 
 all the strangers said, she could gather that the prospects 
 of the Earl were in all but a desperate condition, and that 
 her brother and uncle were still close in their attendance on 
 his person. For more exact intelligence she sought in vain, 
 and the little she could learn served rather to augment than 
 to alleviate her uneasiness. Sl>e gave orders, however, that 
 the strangers should be attended to for the night, — a hospi- 
 tality which they accepted with little difficulty. On the fol- 
 lowing morning they departed for the camp of Monmouth, 
 and several days again elapsed before any farther intelli- 
 gence of any important kind had reached Tone Cottage. 
 
 " Torture that it is !" said Aquila, as she paced hastily 
 to and fro before the cottage door, expecting the return ot 
 her father, who hau gone to Taunton in order to learn the 
 latest news of Monmouth : " I would it were at an end for 
 good or evil ! What a sluggish pace they crawl upon the 
 road to London ! that I were but a man for one month ! 
 I am tormented every way. No news — no news that is 
 worth listening to of Monmouth ; and no news whatever 
 
 ■ of Ha !" she shrieked aloud in sudden ecstasy, — '* 'tis 
 
 he ! 'tis Arthur ! 'tis my brother !" 
 
 }t was he, but so wonderfully altered in appearance 
 
1T4 THB DUKE OF MONMOLrTH. 
 
 that short as the time had been since he left home, scare 
 any but a sister could have known him. His frame wag 
 thin and worn — his eyes sunk deep in his head from fatign* 
 and want of rest — his attire mean, and looking soiled and 
 torn from long-continued travel. 
 
 *' Hush ! hush !" he said : *' dear love, do not speak so 
 loud, but lead me somewhere at once where I may have 
 food and rest. " 
 
 " My darlnig brother !" 
 
 " "Well, gaze till you are satisfied. Are you sure I am 
 the same ?" he added, smiling, as she still clung to his 
 dress and seemed as if she never could have done looking 
 in his face. It was the first time they had been separated 
 for more than a week, and Arthur felt happy at the 
 unfeigned and intense delight with which she gave him 
 welcome. 
 
 " Come in, come in," she said, suddenly hurrying him 
 toward the door : " but first, what news ?" 
 
 " The worst. All's lost in Scotland !" 
 
 Aquila clasped her hands, and looked up with a ccaus-t^ 
 nance in which the liveliest anguish was apparent. 
 
 *• Oh, dreadful hour," she said, " in which we hear it ! 
 Oh, Arthur, my dear brother, well may they say that he 
 who takes the sword stakes all upon a desperate game 
 indeed ! and all are gamblers who befriend him. What 
 spendthrift that laid his whole patrimony on the turn of a 
 single die ever suffered such torturing suspense as I have 
 done since first we flung our hearts ease and our peace of 
 mind into the hands of Monmouth ? Not that I grieve we 
 did so — no — but one loves, you know, to talk of the pain 
 one feels. For already, Arthur, I begin to fear : I would 
 ask you one thing if I dared." 
 
 " What is it ?" 
 
 " Can you not guess ? You do, but you have no comfort 
 to mingle with your answer. Our patron, and our uncle, 
 flvft they well ?" 
 
THE DUKE OP MONMOUTH. 175 
 
 *' Our tincle is well and free — our patron is a prisoner." 
 
 *' A prisoner!" cried Aquila, with- increasing anguish. 
 "You bring us dreadful news indeed, dear Arthur, — 
 dreadful in what is past, dreadful in what is menaced for 
 the future. But you at least are safe : one prayer — one 
 fervent prayer has been heard ; my only brother has been 
 restored to us in safety." 
 
 " And now," said Arthur, " tell me something of onr 
 home. What of my father? what of the Duke, and 
 Henry?" 
 
 Aquila told him briefly how the affairs of Monmouth and 
 of both families were situated. The countenance of her 
 brother fell when he learned that the marriage had not 
 taken place. 
 
 '' I grieve for it," said he, " for a thousand reasons. In 
 these uncertain times there is no counting on the day when 
 you may require some surer protection than my own, and 
 Henry Kingsly is one amongst ten thousand. I grieve, 
 Aquila, that you should have resisted him. 'Twas rashly 
 done — 'twas very rashly done. For as to me, I have 
 already forfeited my right to appear openly amongst my 
 friends. In the last unhappy skirmish, which ended in the 
 capture of Argyle, my uncle and myself were fully recog- 
 nised, and our names, without doubt, are on the list of tue 
 proscribed. Heaven only knows how soon " 
 
 As he spoke, he staggered as if from weakness, and his 
 •ountenance lost even the little colour it had left. 
 
 " What is the matter, Arthur ? You are not well ?" 
 
 " I am not, Aquila. I received a wound in tliat un- 
 happy struggle ; and having no time to give it the atico- 
 tion — that — but it is nothing " 
 
 " Wounded ! and you would not speak of it ! But I 
 must not stop to chide you for it now, for you grow worse 
 . and worse. Come in, and let me be your surgeon till w« 
 eau procure a better." 
 
 Leaning his head upon his sister's shoulder, and sup- 
 
176 THE DUKE OF MpNMOUTH. 
 
 ported by her arm, young Fallarton with difficulty reached 
 the cottage-door, and was conducted to a chamber where 
 Aquila dressed his wounds. Soon after, Gaspar FuIIarton, 
 who had been absent, as ah-eady mentioned, in search of 
 news from Monmouth's ai-niy, entered the cottage and pro- 
 cured for his son the necessary medical assistance. Gaspai* 
 bad brought no news ; but the surgeon ^vho had opportu- 
 nities of hearing intelligence on both sides of the questi^^n, 
 ftas provided with some of an alarming nature. The 
 GovcrmneRt, he said, had at lengtli begun to bestir them- 
 selves, and were mustering an army to meet the invaders : 
 even the Commons had passed a bill pronouncing ilou- 
 mouth a rebel and a traitor, and declaring the readiness of 
 the Legislature to assist the King to the utmos: of liis efforts 
 to bring the insurgent and his accomplices to justice. 
 
 These tidings weighed heavily on Aquila's mind. For 
 a few days her anxiety respecting Arthur diverted her at- 
 tention in some degree from the concerns of Monmouth ; 
 but when the wounds of Arthur were healed, and there ap- 
 peared no danger of returning fever, her anxiety came back 
 upon her mind with redoubled force. She could not sleep 
 — she could not eat nor work, nor even converse with ease 
 aiid freedom of mind. She was continually looking out for 
 any one who could bring her news of Monmouth, and a 
 thousand times bewailed the misfortune of her sex, which 
 prevented her taking arms in his cause. 
 
 " I would be all for him or nothing ;" so ran the train 
 of her reflections when alone ;— " I cannot bear this divided 
 fellowship — one foot on sea and one on shore ; where one 
 has all the torture of suspense and fear — the dreadful sway- 
 ing of the reason to and fro between despair and hope, 
 without the comfort of relieving it by vigorous bodily action. 
 that I were a man ! or that my woman's frame were 
 titted w ith a woman's mind ! Men — men are happy beyond 
 us iu the^e advantages; they can fly to action to escape 
 from lear — between one pole and another there is chauce 
 
. THE DUHE OF MONMOUTH. 177 
 
 that they may find relief, or at least there is relief in seek- 
 ing it : but poor woman, tied down to the domestic hearth, 
 like a prisoner whose gaol's a fire, must bear the whole in- 
 tolerable weight of doubt and terror without being able to 
 move hand or foot for resistance or for ease. I would be 
 fighting with my utmost strength by Monmouth's side, or 
 be away — away — out — out of the adventure altogether. 
 I fear this poor head of mine is too weak to meddle with 
 such great events, for I have a secret guess that disappoint- 
 ment bnt I will not think of such a word — it is too 
 
 dreadful. — Disappointment! Oh no — he must succeed. 
 His failure would deprive me of my senses I" 
 
 At this moment, Arthur, who was now wholly recovered, 
 appeared at the cottage door. 
 
 " Aquila, what are you doing so late in the open air ? 
 Why did you leave my room ?" 
 
 " Shall I tell you, my good brother — my dear Arthur ? 
 — It was because I could not bear my fears respecting 
 Monmouth. I could as well remain in a suffocating oven 
 as within the four walls of a house when my fears for Mon- 
 mouth's cause begin to haunt me. Oh, Arthur, is not 
 Monmouth much to blame ? Is he not very slothful — very 
 weak and loitering? Would any man, that derives the 
 name of man, beside himself have spent three long, long 
 weeks, and get no farther than Frome, ere now, upon the 
 road to London ? I protest to you, my brother, on my 
 woman's honour, had I been in his place, upon a nag and 
 housings, I would have seen Whitehall a week ago : upon 
 my honour I would. Oh, shame upon him ! And to think 
 (for it is not now a question of Monmouth's right or wrong 
 — of mere glory or disgrace) what a fearful train of con- 
 sequences depend upon the issue ! For now humanity alone 
 must urge us to long for his success. To his triumph none 
 shall suffer ; but if the victory be with James, all Somei-set 
 and Dorset will remember it as long as England's histQrj 
 shall last." li 
 
178 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 " You have said the truth," said Arthur, taking her 
 hand, " and I have something now to add to it that con- 
 cerns us all. The fate of this unhappy enterprise, my sister, 
 is already fixed. From certain information I know it to 
 be impossible that Monmouth can succeed. You behold 
 that sun that is now so tranquilly shedding its last beams 
 upon the Dene of Taunton : it is doubtful whether it shall 
 renew its course three times before Moumouth and his in- 
 efficient force shall be scattered never more to re-unite ia 
 any cause. His ruin, certain as it is, will bring on ours, 
 unless we use the time between this hour and that of his 
 destruction for our own security. Far away, Aquila, be- 
 yond the waves in which that sun appears about to bathe 
 his evening splendour, we may find a refuge and a home. 
 Some quiet nook of Irish ground will afford us peace and . 
 ihelter until the storm of royal vengeance has gone by, and 
 we may venture once again to seek our native island with- 
 out fear." 
 
 " And is it possible, Arthur, that I hear you urging a 
 deliberate desertion of the cause we have espoused ?" 
 
 " We cannot serve it by adding a few to the number of 
 its martyrs. There is neither wisdom nor generosity in 
 such wanton desperation, but mere idiot folly. Monmouth 
 is lost — we can neither avert his ruin by our aid, nor can 
 we diminish its effects by sharing it. Let us fly then, dear 
 Aquila, ere it is too late." 
 
 ''Never I" cried Aquila with indignant emphasis — "never 
 will I desert the friends I have abetted, whether to their 
 ruin or their glory. If you forsake the King because ha 
 is unfortunate — nay, if you succeed in hiring our veuerablo 
 parent to sanction your disgrace with his grey hairs, you will 
 find one at least of your name to save it from entire pollu- 
 tion. I will not join your perfidy. I have prayed and 
 watched and hungered for this cause, and by it I will live 
 W die." 
 
 " Pooh ! this is raving mad:i033," answered Arthor,— 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 17? 
 
 "more fit for the agent in some wild romance, than for a 
 living, natural, reflecting creature. Think coolly, ii yoa 
 can, Aqaila, of what I have proposed." 
 
 " I will not think at all of it," exclaimed his sister ; "I 
 renounce — I reject — I despise it from the very outset. — 
 What ! fly ? Forsake those in their calamity with whom 
 we held ready sympathy in their success ? Out on the 
 dastard thought ! Thank Heaven ! I have not so much of 
 the coward within my heart." 
 
 •' What can you do for them ?" 
 
 " I can die with them ! If our cause be righteous, what 
 have I more than they to fear in appearing before that dread 
 tribunal where its "merits shall be searched to the very core ? 
 With Monmouth I will stand or fall I Fly you, if you de- 
 su-e it, and purchase selfish safety at the price of name and 
 honour ; and let it be hereafter said, that, of the house of 
 Gaspar Fullarton, a feeble girl alone was found willing to 
 meet the worst that could attend fidelity to its hereditary 
 principle." 
 
 " And do you thin!:, then Aquila — are you sui'e that 
 you could be content to meet the consequences of a general 
 fiiilure without fear ?" 
 
 " Sure of it ! — try me 1" cried Aquila, extending het 
 arms like one inviting pain. " Oh, Arthur, you are not it 
 earnest !" she added with a sudden change of tone. " Yoa 
 are only trying whether I could be so mean as to approve 
 that treacherous course. But you do not know how much 
 ijf your own spirit is mingled with mine." 
 
 " Aquila," said Arthur, " my proposition was so far 
 serious, that if you had assented, I would have delayed re- 
 turning to the cause of ilonmouth until I had secured your 
 safety, and that of our only remaining parent, in the worst 
 event that could befall. But since you declare that yoa 
 could not yourself feel happ)%iii such a course, I wave the 
 thought of it entirely, and confess to yoa that your feelings 
 are eutkelj miae. To-morrow then I will join the camp 
 
180 THE DUKE or MONMOUTH. 
 
 of Monmotit'h ; and may the event be happier for ns all 
 than there is cause to fear !" 
 
 Delighted, notwithstanding her affection to his person, 
 and her apprehensions for his own safety, at her brother's 
 resohition, Aquila was immediately occupied in preparing 
 the necessaries for his departure on the following morn- 
 ing, and seemed by her alacrity as if she thought his aid 
 was all that Monmouth needed ia order to be certain of 
 saccess. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL . 
 
 In the course of the evening Caspar Fullarton entered the 
 cottage, accompanied by Mr. Smallwood the grazier, with 
 whom he had been negociating the sale of some stock. 
 
 " Arthur — Aquila, here is my good friend Mr. Small- 
 •wood. Aqnila, ray dear, will you have the goodness to 
 order supper ? Our friend Smallwood will stay and share 
 it with us." 
 
 Supper was brought in ; and the grazier smoothing down 
 his hair upon his forehead, and laying aside his hat and 
 Qane, prepared himself to bear his part in the approaching 
 meal with becoming decorum. 
 
 " Strange news this, Arthnr, Mr. Smallwood tells me 
 of 1" said Mr. Fullarton. *' Perhaps you would have the 
 goodness to repeat it for their advantage, Mr. Smallwood ?" 
 
 " With all my heart, fair mistress," said the grazier : 
 *' although I would premise that you are not to suppose I 
 assert anything of my own knowledge ; I merely re- assert 
 what I have heard as the wind of rumour blew it on my 
 path, being as it were the mere mouthpiece or convey- 
 ancer of " 
 
 " We quite understand all* that, s5r," said Arthur, who 
 savv that Aquila was anxious to hear the news. 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 181 
 
 "Well, then," resumed the grazier, "my news are simply 
 these : — The King's army, they say, is at length upon the 
 march to meet the Duke of Monmouth, under tlic Cdm- 
 mand of Feversham and Churchill." 
 
 *' And in what namber, sir ?" asked Arthur. 
 
 ** Somewhat, they said, about three thousand men.* 
 
 " Pooh !" said Aquila. " Monmouth has more thau 
 double the force to meet them." 
 
 " Aye, aye, pretty lady ! but you wJUdo well to consider 
 that the bull with the horns is most likely to have the best 
 of it when it comes to pushing. Monmouth is rather 
 scantily provided in that particular. You understand me, 
 gentlemen. He has more in his camp of the will to fight 
 than of the weapons without which the will can never strike 
 a blow. But of all the scourges that were ever brandished 
 by the hands of War, they have got one of the most awful, 
 they say, at this instant in the camp of Feversham ; one 
 of his colonels — a very fiend incarnate — a fellow who has 
 spent such a length of time in Africa, that there is not a 
 savage in the deserts but is behindhand with him ia 
 cruelty." 
 
 " In Africa !" exclaimed Aquila, turning suddenly pale. 
 " Pray, sir, did you hear his name :^ 
 
 " Oh, yes ; his name is Kirke." 
 
 At this word so sudden a coldness seized upon Aquila, 
 that she had like to have fallen to the earth. Her fancy, 
 at all times quick and easily impressed, was darkened at 
 once, as by a cloud of the deepest gloom, at the unexpected 
 occurrence of this name, which had not now for a long time 
 past occurred to her memory. For several months after 
 her parting interview with Kirke, his image and the recol- 
 lection of his vengeful menace had haunted her mind with 
 a degree of constancy and force which made her life un- 
 happy. Time, however, and his long-continued absence ia 
 a distant part of the island, had at length worn oft' the 
 gloomy impression from hev mind. New prospects, new 
 
182 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 excitements opened on her path ; the enthusiasm with which 
 she entered into the cause of Monmouth had completely 
 blotted from her memory all remaining trace of her old 
 fears ; and now when her confidenca in the success of Mon- 
 mouth had begun to be shaken, and her anxiety was just 
 returning, this dreadful name came on her ear like a terrific 
 spell-word, reviving old apprehensions and awakening new. 
 
 *' Is it possible ?" she thought ; " is he amongst the foes 
 of Monmouth ? Who is there that can tell what fearful 
 chance may ,'yet enable him to fulfil even to the letter all 
 his shocking menace ? If there were anything that to me 
 could cast a shade upon the hopes of Monmouth, it would 
 be healing that man's name amongst the leaders of the 
 adverse camp." 
 
 " And this is all, sir ?" asked Arthur, when the gra.'^i'^r 
 had concluded. 
 
 "All, or the most important part of all," replied IL'. 
 Smallwood ; *' except that they say both houses of parUa- 
 ment concur in expressing their determination to stand by 
 the present occupier of the throne ; in which resolution they 
 were supported by various bodies of the state, whethftr 
 justly or otherwise, of course I take not upon me to deter- 
 mine, being a man of no party whatsoever, but a simple 
 grazier, who have to commune in the way of my business 
 with persons of every " 
 
 "Will you sit to the table, Mr. Smallwood?" asked 
 Arthur Fdlarton. " Supper, as you perceive, is ready." 
 
 The reader may learn the accuracy of the grazier's in- 
 formation by returning with us to Henry Kingsly, whom 
 we left, slumbering in the camp of Albemarle. He was 
 awakened on the following morning by a messenger from 
 Colonel Pembroke, whom he found already risen and busy 
 in his tent. 
 
 " Mr. Kingsly," said the Colonel, as soon as they were 
 alone, " I have sent for yon in order to make some little 
 amends for your disappoiutment (transient though I ti-ust 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 183 
 
 it be) of yesterday morning. — Stand a little nearer, for 
 there is danger of our being overheard. The Duke is din- 
 trnstfal of his men, and I fear he will give place to Mon- 
 mouth if an action should be menaced. In truth, I cannot 
 blame him ; for the yeomen of Devon (and how should it 
 be otherwise ?) are loath to cut hard against the yeomen of 
 Dorset and of Somerset. He means to put a good face oa 
 it, however, and to keep his place as long as it is possible. 
 In the mean time, he has made out despatches to London, 
 which I have a double reason for committing to your charge; 
 the first, the safe carriage of the document ; the second, 
 the advantage of the bearer." 
 
 Henry Kingsly expressed his gratitude, and received the 
 parcel, with which he returned to his quarters. In less 
 than a quarter of an hour he had set out, accompanied by 
 an escort upon the road to London. 
 
 He found, as might be expected, all excitement in tho 
 metropolis. The regular force at this moment in the king- 
 dom amounted to a body of no more than five thousand 
 men ; a subject of no light alarm to King James, whose 
 past experience had taught him not to undervalue the in- 
 fluence of Monmouth. Notwithstanding the expressions of 
 attachment on the part of the people and the legislature, 
 and the vigorous measures alreadj taken by the latter for 
 the suppressioa of the insurrection, he looked out with 
 anxiety for every new piece of intelligence from the West, 
 and felt increasing alarm as one account reached him after 
 another of the successful progress of Monmouth. His fears 
 had found some alleviation in the arrival of some regiments 
 which were sent him by his son-in-law, the Prince of 
 Orange, to assist in repelling the invader. It is true, 
 many in London had reason to view with astonishment the 
 arrival o£ those troops ; for it had been privately dissemi- 
 nated amongst the partisans of Monmouth, that WiiUam was 
 in his interests, and it was even said that those very regi- 
 ments were to be forwarded in order to susLain ihe fAose 
 
184 THE DUKE OP MONMOUTH. 
 
 which they now came to overtura. Their appearance, 
 however, on the English shores was sufficient to destroy 
 all hope (if any yet remained) that the adherents of Mon- 
 mouth in the city would second his views by fulfilling the 
 assurances they had sent to him by Dare, the broker. The 
 city was tranquil, and not a voice was heard in opposition 
 to the universal cry that was raised against the adventurer. 
 
 James felt that matters were now coming to a crisis 
 between him and Monmouth. The ambitious rivalry of 
 the young aspirant had been to him a source of constant 
 nneasiness and chagrin for about fifteen years past, when 
 Buckingham first thought of setting him up as a competitor 
 to the throne. More a tool than a principal, Monmouth 
 had spent nearly all the intei*val in striving to shut out the 
 Duke of York from his inheritance, and to usurp it for him- 
 self. It seemed now to James almost wonderful that he 
 had not long since succeeded, when he considered that 
 Monmouth had the strong aflfection of a parent and an 
 almost universal popularity to support his pretensions, 
 while to maintain his own rights there was only naked jus- 
 tice and the naked law. While yet Duke of York, it had 
 cost him all his vigilance to baffle the schemes of the young 
 favourite, and it now appeared that not even the throne 
 itself could afford a sanctuary against the efforts of his am- 
 bition. He counted, therefore, with impatience the moment 
 that elapsed before the forces of Feversham and Churchill 
 were on the route towards Somerset. _ 
 
 In this state of mind he was when Heniy Kingsly arrived 
 in town. The latter presented himself in the first instance 
 at the residence of Sunderland, the secretary of state, and 
 was subsequently by that nobleman, at James's own desire, 
 introduced into the royal presence. The King received him 
 graciously ; questioned him particularly on the condition of 
 the Western shires ; then made some inquiries with respect 
 to his own family and connexions, recollected the name of 
 his father as one of those distinguished by the fidelity of iis. 
 
THE DUITE OF MONirOUTH. 185 
 
 owner to tli3 royal interests at a time when such fidelity 
 was deeply hazardous, and complimented him ou the alac- 
 rity with which he had taken* arms against the invader. 
 Having delivered his desp itches, Kingsly now received 
 orders to attach himself to the force of Colonel Kirke 
 until a convenient opportunity should occur of joining his 
 own troop. 
 
 Before introducing this unhappily too celebrated officer 
 again into those scenes where he was yet remembered with 
 no grateful feelings, it may be useful to make the reader 
 better acquainted with an individual who must ere long 
 begin to occupy a considerable portion of his attention. 
 The history, as incontrovertible as it is extraordinary, of 
 those savage hordes in the New World, who from monsters 
 of cannibalism and vice became, after brief iustructiop, 
 patterns of Christian virtue, scarcely furnishes a more strik- 
 ing instance than that of Kirke of the good or evil which 
 the human mind may reap from cultivation or neglect. 
 
 Resembling, as history presents him to our view, Iha 
 crook-backed tyrant of England in his treachery and ma- 
 lignity of spirit, though exercising those qualities on a 
 narrower field, the similitude was not borne out in all its 
 points. Tradition has not invested the memory of Kirke 
 with all the poetic horrors which the muse of Shakspeare 
 has blended with that of the blood-stained Plantagenet. 
 Little appeared, it was said, in his early years, of that 
 hideous Jeformity of soul which was afterwards so fearfully 
 developed. No more could be remarked of his disposition 
 -at this period than an unusual degree of sensitiveness, 
 which had even a resemblance of amiability, and rather in- 
 terested than repelled the observer. Sickly in frame and 
 delicate in miud, there appeared in Kirke for a considerable 
 time no symptoms of a disposition extraordinarily cruel or 
 malicious. On the contrary, tenderness and afiectioa 
 towards hfe immediate relatives were strongly mingled ia 
 his demeanour and conversation. The greater portion of 
 
186 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 his boyhood was consumed in the perusal of those volumi- 
 nous romances of the preceding century, which were still 
 in wide, if not general, circulation. These, while they gave 
 a false bias to his imagination, laid the groundwork of that 
 discontent, and at length raorbid disgust, against the real 
 course of events, which finally settled in fixed and resolute 
 misanthropy. 
 
 Let no one to whom the gifts of a penetrating spirit and 
 sensitive heart have been denied, lament the seeming in- 
 feriority to which he has been consigned. He is free from 
 that endowment which is in one instance, perhaps, a gain, 
 : and in a hundred loss and ruin. Or if this be too much to 
 say, at least let no one long for that piercing gaze which 
 may enable him to see too clearly into the bosoms of his 
 fellow-creatures, or the mind that is too easily touched by 
 the discoveries it makes. Knowledge may be gained by 
 the exercise of such painful sagacity, but it is certain that 
 misery will. While Kirke from his youth possessed this 
 fatal gift in its perfection, it is impossible that it could have 
 fallen on a mind less capable of using it with discretion. 
 He saw, or fancied he saw, as he grew up, all mankind 
 bent on selfish and exclusive interests. He detected some 
 false virtues, and imagined that all were so. He assumed 
 at length as a maxim, that there was no one who made mo- 
 tives purely generous the ground of his whole scheme of 
 life ; and by an unconscious kind of hypocrisy, while he 
 was most sensitive to his own interests — while a haughty 
 glance or scornful word set his whole soul in arms, he sighed 
 after a beau-ideal of disinterestednes?, which he made no 
 cfibrt to reduce to practice, and which, if it existed, would 
 have been a monster. Like the poet of Boilean, who knows 
 how to pine in verse while he fattens in reality — ■ 
 
 Tovjours biea mangeant, mourir par metapliore 
 
 his morality, refined as it was, existed pnrely in specula- 
 tion ; and while he amused hie mind with the nost exqui- 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH; 187 
 
 fsite visions of an ideal perfection, be found almost the lo-v?est 
 standard too elevated for his actnal practice. As he min- 
 gled in the world, his prejudices were confirmed, not dissi- 
 pated, by what he observed. He heard, as he said, the 
 names of all the virtues misapplied ; convenience taking th« 
 place of friendship — ambition hononrcd as high-mindedness 
 and generosity of soul — self-interest in a thousand forms 
 assuming the uame of virtue. Instead of building up the 
 edifice of goodness in his own mind, he was continually 
 looking for it in those of others, and continually murmuring 
 that he did not find it. He had not philosophy enough to 
 turn away his eyes from too close a survey of the springs 
 of human action, nor charity to distrust his own penetration. 
 His knowledg-*. of his species, instead of exciting pity and 
 the desire to improve them, begot at first disrelish, then con- 
 tempt, and lastly dark and settled loathing. He repelled 
 wUh ft bitter scorn those customarv civilities which he fan- 
 cied he could trace to some mean and interested motive ; 
 and even the few which he knew were oflTered in sincerity 
 and truth, he received rather with the melancholy of one 
 who despairs of his race, than with naturiil gratitude or 
 pleasure. He would hear nothing of that charitable blind- 
 ness which will not see even motives that are spread upon 
 the very face of human actions, and even where goodness 
 appeared to defy his acumen he would find refuge in doubt- 
 ing its durability. A curl of the lip, a look of irony, a 
 governed sneer, was his ordinary answer to the attempts 
 which were made to gain his confidence, and he had as licUe 
 idea of seeking love as of bestowing it. 
 
 *' 'Twere well," he said in his own mind, " if true affec- 
 tion could be found ; but where is that ? Literally nowhere. 
 Fame, talent, wealth, and wit may win admirers, and the 
 hollow shell of love may show itself, and that may be called 
 afleclJon which is only gratified vanity, or avarice, or worse ; 
 but whore shall we find the truth ? For as lo that which 
 comes to us from nature, which ^q slii-ue in common with 
 
' 1 88 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 the anreasoning brute, what care I for it ? — it is not what 
 I seek. And even if we dream that we have gained the 
 prize, what can secure us its constancy ? Nothing. Here 
 lies the rub. Like all things excellent, the nearer it ap- 
 proaches its perfection, the more fragile, the more* fleeting it 
 is sure to be. Away with it I — I'll seek my happiness else- 
 where. Neither man nor woman shall have the keeping of 
 my peace or pleasure. I will not waste my days in building 
 towers of sand— card-eastles, which the breath of another 
 may destroy. I can reckon with more certainty on that 
 felicity for which I am beholden to myself. The closet of 
 my peace shall be secure while I entrust the key into no 
 other hand. To no false and frivolous coquette who prates 
 of love and looks a lie in every glance— to no hollow-hearted 
 friend who would but use me for his pleasure or his profit, 
 will I confide that precious — precious charge. None but a 
 dolt would trust his treasure to the keeping of a knave,-— 
 and better a thousand times is the extremest loneliness of 
 heai't and mind, than the sweetest happiness that hangs 
 upon a fickle will." 
 
 By such dark and pernicious thoughts in his lonely hours 
 was the mind of Kirke corroded, till not a sound or gene- 
 rous impulse was left to it. His soul seemed daily more and 
 more bent up to the fearful course it was destined to pursue. 
 A sneering cold misanthropy was at the root of all his con- 
 duct. Even the predilections of natural afl^ection were to 
 his morbidly critical mind a subject of disgust and scorn. 
 He looked not with compassion, but with loathing, on the 
 parent who was bigoted to the merits of his c'..ild, and the 
 wife who could not observe in her own husband the failings 
 she condemned in other men. Nor, while he exercised so 
 stern a scrutiny on the minds of his fellow-mortals, did it 
 seem even to occur to Kiike that, at least, he was himself per- 
 forming a part far worse than any he condemned, — that even 
 the worst around him loved some amongst their species, while 
 Jie included all in one general feeling of contempt and hate. 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 189 
 
 *'They are in their holiday trim," he would say when he 
 met with some whose gentle goodness was proof even to his 
 gloomy penetration ; "they show well in the stranger's eyes, 
 but were time allowed to search below the surface, how 
 many jealousies, how much of selfish indolence where love 
 is most required, what cold neglects, what secret bitterness 
 of heart, might be discovered under all this golden smiling! 
 And even if it were genuine, (as it is not,) is this, after all, 
 what men ca]4 virtue ? Df> those individuals truly love 
 their species ? Are they not sunk to the ears in very selfish- 
 ness? Where is the sympathy with millions who are shiver- 
 ing around them at this moment in want of the veriest 
 necessaries ? Shame on the lazy beings ! AVhy, I, for my 
 own ambition and delight, endure more toil and suflFeriog 
 than they for the benevolence which they profess. No ; 
 what I am, I am ; there is at least that good about me. 
 If I do not feel benevolence, neither do I aflfect it. If I 
 despise the hollow-hearted race, I do not stoop to flatter 
 tiiom: 
 
 *• Tell Fortune of her blindness, 
 
 Tell Nature of decay, 
 Tell Friendship of unkindne?£, 
 
 Tell Justice of delay ; 
 And if they dare reply, 
 Then give them all the lie. 
 
 " I have known creatures who called themselves my 
 fi-iends, and who were merely the friends of my dress, my 
 credit, or my fortune. I have been abandoned by such in 
 my hour of loneliness and need ; and if I ever stooped to 
 give expression to my disappointment, they have had their 
 vanity flattered by my pain, and either shunned my com- 
 plaints, or, what was infinitely worse, have overwhelmed 
 me with profession — the counterfeit coin of love, which is 
 baser than poverty itself. But enough of that. They shall 
 find me no whining Hamlet, nor no mouthing Timon. 
 
190 THE D'JKE OF MONMOJTH, 
 
 If tnej care not for my love, they shall feel the want 
 of it." 
 
 It was only, however, by degrees that Kirke became 
 what history has painted him. Absorbed for a consider- 
 able time in sensual enjoyments, it was long before he thought 
 of adding to his positive pleasures the fiendish zest and 
 stimulus that some minds can derive from others' pain. 
 In the army, which he had early entered as the readiest 
 path to the didtiuction which he coveted, hi^lose attention 
 to disciphne, his active talent, and his personal hai-diness, 
 soon gained him notice and preferment. Severe to the 
 very Umit of the law towards the soldiers under his care, he 
 had rendered them as bold and fierce as mastiffs chained, 
 by the very severity which he exercised upon them. While 
 he sought by the iron rod of fear to bind them close to the 
 observance of their duties, he endeavoured to reconcile them 
 to the cruelties thus inflicted by allowing them free range 
 whenever an opportunity occurred of plunder and of oat- 
 rage. Thus, what he was to them, they were to all who 
 fell within their power. 
 
 There was one circumstance which, it was said, had tended 
 in no slight degree to confirm the niind of Kirke in the 
 course which it had taken. He had at one time, partly in 
 whim, partly through regard, conferred large favours on a 
 young fellow-citizen in whom he thought he could distin- 
 guish marks of an uncommon merit. This person conkl 
 set no limits to his gratitude — he loaded Kirke with thanks 
 and with professions of attachment. As he happened to be 
 gifted with ability and learning, those tokens of esteem 
 were flattering to Kirke, and he even began to bestow a 
 ghare of confidence upon the man. The latter was one of 
 those persons who half feel and half aflcct what they pro- 
 fess, lie was a great reader of the ancients, and often ex- 
 pressed his admiration of those classical friendships of which 
 we read in history. He felt some gratitude and kindness 
 towards Kiike, and giving his fancy and bis vanity tho 
 
TZZ DUKE OP MONMOUTH, 191 
 
 rein, he magnified these in his professions iaio a kind of 
 heroic devotion, performing all his acts of friendship as a 
 woman paints her face, as much because he thought they 
 gave a beauty to his own character, as for any service or 
 pleasure they afforded Kirke. 
 
 The latter, who could have seen through such parade in 
 the case of any other than himself, was now effectually 
 hoodwinked by the very vanity which he despised in his 
 neighbour. And so potent is affection, however little sin- 
 cere, that he almost began, for the sake of this new friend, 
 to abate somewhat of his prevailing gall against his species. 
 
 Unfortunately, however, in the very instance which made 
 him for a time imagine himself mistaken, he proved in the end 
 to be singularly right. His friend, after sustaining for some 
 time with perseverance the part he had undertaken, became 
 desirous of retiring from the stage and returning to real life. 
 He became weary of playing Pylades to empty benches, for 
 he found that the aduuration of his performance was con- 
 fined in a great measure to himself and his Orestes. Busi- 
 ness called him to London and to court, where he was 
 rapidly successful. It was on a visit to the metropolis that 
 Kirke found out the truth. He called on this devoted ad- 
 mirer of the ancients, whom he had now not seen for several 
 years. Everybody knows in his own station what it is to 
 be cut, and as the ceremony was precisely the same in those 
 days as in our own, there is no occasion to describe the 
 manner in which Kirke was operated on by his old friend. 
 There was nothing of w hich he could openly complain ; but 
 it was clear to him that matters were no longer as they had 
 been. Ho felt too much contempt to show any disappoint- 
 ment, but smiling bitterly at this confirmation of his old sur- 
 lises he returned home with a spirit more malign than ever. 
 
 We have dwelt perhaps too long on the history of this 
 fniserablc and gloomy miud, though not so if it serve to 
 show what a man may becoma who is left wholly to his ov»a 
 tuLoring. 
 
1 92 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 It was in the forenoon of the day which followed hia ar- 
 rival in London, that Kingsly entered the barrack yard, 
 where he expected to find the Colonel to whom he had been 
 directed. Remembering the mysterious rumours amidst 
 which Kirke had left the neighbourhood of Taunton so long 
 a time before, he felt a curiosity to observe what alteration 
 bad been wrought in him by absence. As he looked around 
 the yard, he perceived a sentry pacing to and fro before an 
 open door with a heavy firelock on his shoulder ; and near 
 him a soldier in undress, singing aloud, without regarding 
 the ridicule of his comrades, who leaned at the open win- 
 dows, laughing and gibing at his music : 
 
 " As I thravelled France and Spain, an' sailed into Garmany, 
 
 Ti i itherera tl i a, 
 Ti i itberither a. 
 A spending many days at my ease in Asia, 
 
 Ti i itherera ti i a, &c. 
 Perusing of their ways, their sates and their farms, 
 But such another place as the Lakes of Killamey, 
 I never viewed elsewhere, the air bein most charmin. 
 
 Ti i itherera ti i a, &c. 
 
 " Go on, lads. Maybe if the Cumel seen ye, ye wouldn't 
 be obleest to ye'rselfs. I never heard one o' ye such a. 
 blackbird that ye need to be makin game o' the neighbours, 
 
 " There, at seven years of age, they are famous grammarians, 
 
 Ti i itherera ti i a, &c i 
 The nymphs an' the swains are no shame to their parents, 
 
 Ti i itherera ti i a, &C. 
 The salmon and the trout are bouncin in the wather. 
 The deer comin down from the mountains in swarms, 
 Passin thro' an' fro an' the hounds runnin aftlier, 
 
 Ti i itherera ti i a, &€." 
 
 Here perceiving Kingsly, he saluted in the usual form. 
 ' " Can you tell me, friend, where I should be likely to 
 find Colonel Kirke ?" 
 
 " I could indeed, an' I will too. But there's one thing, 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 103 
 
 if yot plase, ao' it wouldn't be makin too free, that I'd 
 like to know from yon. What couuthijoiau are yon, plase 
 your honour?" 
 
 " An Englishman — from Taunton," said ICingsly- 
 
 " From Taunton ! Oh then, sure enough, I thought I 
 knew the voice. Ah, then, sir, if you plase, will you tell 
 me if you knew anything of one Shamus Delaney down in 
 them parts ? I have a raison for axin." 
 
 Kingsly answered in the negative. 
 
 " Well, it's no matther. I thought yon might hear of 
 hiui, for it was there we parted. Poor Shamus! I'm 
 afraid somethin happened him ; for he was always again 
 demeaniu himself to do anything that would put him in the 
 way of airnin his bread. I don't know what business a 
 poor man has of pride. Shamus was always over au' above 
 genteeL I often tould him 'twould be the makin of him if 
 there never was one o' the name above a blacksmith. You'll 
 find the Curnel up stairs, plase your honour ; 'tis his com- 
 mands to have anybody that wants him walk up straight 
 a-head. Poor Shamusi" he continued, as Kingsly followed 
 his direction — " I'm afeerd he won't cut the brightest 
 figure among us when we meet at the cross o' Ballyhahill ; 
 for I always remarked, that of all the friends in the world, 
 when poverty tackles to gentility, the world wouldn't part 
 *era, I fancy I see him comia ap the road with his stately 
 g:tit o' goin, just as grand as if the King wasn't a patch 
 upon him; au' his hand in his pocket, by the way nobody 
 eiiould say that it was empty, an' sorrow a cross but tha 
 five fingers in all the while. Well, so the world raos. 
 Time will cure all." 
 
 Even before he entered Kirke*8 apartment, there was 
 something in all he met that looked stern and repulsive to 
 the eye of Henry Kingsly. The soUiery, though seemingl/ 
 well-dis;ciplined, had an air of savage ferocity that struck 
 an involuntary terror into the beholder's mind. Nor w.^s 
 their commander less t'oxbiddin^ in his air and his appeac- 
 
 Jl 
 
194 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 ance than the men who had been entrusted to his charg:o. 
 Young Kingsly was utterly astonished, as he entered Kirke's 
 apartment to observe the total change, which a continued 
 residence amid the dissipation of a dissolute metropolis, and 
 a long intimacy with the arrogant and overbearing Jeflferies, 
 had wrought in the appearance of this officer. His counte- 
 nance now \*^as marked by a character of repulsive coarse- 
 ness; the habitual supercillious air that had always appeared 
 upon his eye and lip was deepened into a stare of broad 
 and coarse contempt. Those two vices which enter most 
 strongly into the demoniacal character, licentiousness and 
 pride, and which unfortunately are often so singularly asso- 
 ciated in the human breast, were deeply stamped upon the 
 countenance of Kirke. 
 
 " Ha ! sir !" he exclaimed on hearing Kin gsly's message. 
 " From Taunton ? hey ? I know the spot. They want a 
 change of kings there, do they ? Ha ! they shall have it ; 
 I'll king them, never fear, sir, when we get westward uf 
 Wilts. They would be fighting, would they, sir ? In truth, 
 they shall have enough — satis superque — I promise you 
 that, or my name isn't Kirke." 
 
 '" I trust. Colonel," said Kingsly, " that so insignificant 
 a stir may be put down without the necessity for shedding 
 much English blood." 
 
 " English me no English !" cried Kirke impatiently. 
 " You think so, do you ? — What countryman is a rebel, sir ? 
 answer me that. Trust me, lad," he added, turning his 
 head over his shoulder, with a smile so malignant in its 
 character that it smote the heart of Kingsly with fear, — 
 " trust me, lad, we'll pack some scores of them to their own 
 king before haymaking time is at end ; I promise you, my 
 good sir, that you shall have a warm summer of it down ia 
 Somerset. Hey, sir ? a Duke of Monmouth for the rogues ! 
 Trust Kirke, they shall have Dukeing enough before winter 
 comes again. The birds grow bold in the West. We must 
 gibbet a few rogues in chains, to fright the young ones. Aa 
 
THE DUKE OF MOKMOUTBT. 195 
 
 for the old rebels, nothing but quartering will keep them 
 quiet. Since King Log wouldn't do them, they shall have 
 King Stork." 
 
 At this moment Morty Delaney entered the room, and 
 advanced toward Kirke with a familiarity which showed 
 that the latter was not exempt from the foible of favouritism, 
 the common weakness of tyrants. 
 
 " Here's something," said he, " that was left below for 
 you by a man o' the Chiefs." 
 
 " What chief? We are not amongst the savages, are 
 we?" 
 
 " Exceptin yourself, I don't know one present. I mean 
 the Chief Justice, as they call him, — Jefferies : an' in troth, 
 be all accounts it's but quare justice is in the counthry if 
 he's the chiief of it." 
 
 Here Kirke smiled and looked significantly at Kingsly. 
 
 " A knowing fellow, I promise you," said he, " although 
 from the wilds of Ireland ; and a pretty hand at trussing a 
 rebel too, after his own fashion. Go down and tell the 
 messenger that I will be with his master at the hour he 
 names." 
 
 " 'Tis well for you," said Morty, leaving the room, "that 
 has nothing else to do but to be goin out to eat an' drink 
 with all the great people, while we're breakin our hearts at 
 work here in the barracks. But maybe we'd be curnels 
 ourselves some time or another." 
 
 At this Kirke looked again and smiled at Kingsly ; and 
 then, with a ferocious change of manner so sudden that it 
 was almost startling, he said : 
 
 " My lambs, sir — my lambs shall teach the good folk of 
 the West what it is to meddle with matters of royal suc- 
 cession. Believe me, sir, the landing of Monmouth shall be 
 long remembered down in Dorset and that neighbourhood. 
 Perhaps you haven't seen my lambs ? for you look rathef 
 at a loss. You think I have not enough of the Arcadian 
 about me for the pastoral vocation : but you do not know. 
 
196 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 rae : when you have heard me pipe for a few weeks in 
 Taunton, you will swear no flock was «ver blest with such 
 a shepherd. Have you seen my lambs ? What, ho ! some 
 of my lambs, att-end here i" 
 
 Kingsly was really in doubt la what manner this strange 
 summons would be answered ; but his curiosity was fully 
 satisfied when he beheld half-a-dozen ferocious looking fel- 
 lows in uniform enter the room. 
 
 " One or two of you," said Colonel Kirke, " attend Cap- 
 tain Kingsly to the officers' quarters. These are my lambs, 
 Mr. Kingsly, whom his Majesty is about sending forth aa a 
 prey to the devouring wolves of Monmouth." 
 
 At this instant the eye of Kirke lighted on a man who 
 was passing through the barrack-yard. Without a word 
 of apology to Kingsly, he darted from the room, hurried 
 down the stairs, and through the open door. The man ap- 
 peared to be aware of some mischief, for he ran toward the 
 barrack gate on seeing Kirke leave the house. The latter, 
 however, overtook and felled him to the ground with a blow,- 
 of his sheathed sword. Not satisfied with this, he repeated 
 bis blows when the man was on the ground, striking hina 
 on the head and even on the face with a fury that seemed 
 absolutely phrenetic- Yet when Kingsly had run into lb* 
 yard in order to rescue the unhappy wretch from such bar- 
 barous wanton cruelty, he was astonished to meet Kirke 
 returning to the house with a countenance as calm, and a 
 demeanour as little agitated, as if he had just engaged in 
 some amusing conversation. 
 
 " A scoundrel," said Kirke with a kind of smile, ** whom 
 I sent two hours since with a message to Wldtehall, and it 
 is now that he returns ! This engagement with the Chief 
 Justice, Mr. Kingsly, will deprive me of the pleasure of 
 securing your company at dinner to-day ; but to-morrow 
 you must be at leisure. Farewell ! My lambs will show 
 yon where you are to lodge." 
 
 Henry could have excused himself with all bis hearty if 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 197 
 
 it were possible, for he had seen enough of Kirke. Even 
 while speaking with him on indifferent subjects, the destroy- 
 ing instinct did not slumber in the breast of this tyrannical 
 officer. If a worm or a fly happened to pass Avithin his 
 reach, it was sure to perish ; and even while his mind was 
 occupied with matters of engrossing import, his limbs and 
 senses seemed habitually engaged in looking out for victims 
 and inflicting injury. 
 
 " And this is one of the men," thought Kingsly, " who 
 is to be entrusted with the unsheathing of the sword of 
 justice in the West of England ! Such a pacificator as he 
 would go far to make right and wrong change sides even in 
 so bad a cause as that of Monmouth. There is one family, 
 1 trust, however, who will fall within the reach of some 
 more lenient avenger than he, if they should share the com- 
 mon ruin — which Heaven avert in mercy. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Out on ye, owls ! Nothing but songs of death ? 
 
 Richard III. 
 
 Ik the mean time the tide had begun to turn in the camp 
 of Monmouth. Bath and Bristol had refused to receive him. 
 The news which Audrews and his companion had brought 
 with them from the North (although modified in the telling 
 60 as not to spoil their own welcome) was anything rathei*' 
 than encouraging. It became evident that the adventurers 
 had been premature in their enterprise. Tlie King was not 
 merely looked upon with toleration by his subjects, he was 
 even popular ; and the cordial feeling excited by his coming 
 to the throne, and manifested by all classes in the kingdom, 
 had not yet had time to cool, when this crude attempt was 
 made to burl him from bis seat. The absm-dltj of Mon- 
 
198 THE DUKE 01 MONMOUTH. 
 
 mouth's proclamations and of his publicly setting a price on 
 the King's head had already drawn upon him the ridicule and 
 the disgust of all moderate persons. As his disappointments 
 multiplied, his constitutional equanimity began to abandon 
 bim. He became fretful, melancholy, and desponding ; 
 frequently interrupting the counsels of his friends with 
 bursts of impatience foreign to his habitual manner, and even 
 forming already designs of escaping beyond sea and abandon- 
 ing his followers to their fate. It was in this vacillating 
 state of mind that he re-entered Bridgewater a short time 
 before the royal army entered Somerset. 
 
 On the evening of the 4th of July, a general gloom had 
 fallen on the quarters of the insurgents. The leaders of 
 the enterprise had been entirely disappointed in the hope 
 that their success might gain them adherents amongst the 
 better ranks. The dilatory and undecided policy of Mon- 
 mouth himself had even occasioned a degree of disgust 
 Amongst his declared friends ; and while he loitered in the 
 neighbourhood of Frome, many withdrew privately from his 
 standard to avoid the consequences of the failure which they 
 beheld impending. On his return towards Bridgewater, he 
 had missed several of the most active and efficient men 
 amongst his followers. These events, together with the 
 declared hostility of the Commons to his claims, and the 
 alacrity with which they voted a supply for the suppression 
 of his enterprise, weighed heavily at length upon the mind 
 of Monmouth, and bowed him to the earth with fear. He 
 had not, moreover, the sense of conscious rectitude of pur- 
 pose to support him in his adverse fortune. 
 
 A council had been summoned, and while Monmouth 
 awaited the arrival of the officers whose opinions he desired 
 to hear, he passed away the time by discoursing with Fer- 
 guson on his present fears and the chanced- that remained 
 of their success. 
 
 *' The Prince of Orange," he said, " is dilatory in keep- 
 ing his word. I hear nothing yet of those regiments ho 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 199 
 
 promised faithfully to send rae, and they never were more 
 needed than at this very instant. Prithee tell me, Fergu- 
 son, dost thou think there is any store to be set by the pre- 
 dictions of astrologers ?" 
 
 " Why does your majesty ask ?" said Ferguson hesi- 
 tating. 
 
 " Because," replied the Duke, " a pair of such philoso- 
 phers in Rotterdam told rae that I might count on many 
 years of life, if I should pass the next Saint Swithin's day. 
 It is now but ten days distant." 
 
 "Concerning the influence of the heavenly bodies on 
 human affairs " Ferguson began. 
 
 "Ten days!" Monmouth exclaim-^d, as if in communion 
 with his own mind, and heedless of the long and learned 
 dissertation on astrologia naturalis and astrologia judi- 
 ciaria, together with other subjects of the kind, of which 
 he deprived himself by this early interruption. '* And how 
 much may and must be done within the next ten days ! If 
 the Prince of Orange fail me, all is lost ! And yet within 
 ten days is it likely that he who has loitered so long, and 
 almost let the occasion slip, will now redeem lost time ? I 
 confess to you, Ferguson, that as our diflSculties thicken, 
 :md the crisis of our fate draws near, my mind grows clouded, 
 and I recall that prophecy with a restless and painful 
 anxiety. Would it were over, for better or for worse! Speak 
 on," he added, as an officer presented himself at the door 
 of the apartment ; "you seem to bring us news." 
 
 *' We must be stirring, please your majesty. Feversham 
 has entered Somerton." 
 
 " So near ?" said Monmouth. " And jn what force ?" 
 
 " Somewhat, it is said, about two thousand foot." 
 
 '^ Where is the king?" exclaimed another voice outside. 
 
 " Here, herel" said Monmouth. " Enter and give your 
 "tidings." 
 
 *' Work increases on our hands," said the newcomer. "A 
 force of five hundred ho rae has occupied the village of Weston." 
 
200 THE DUKE OF MOKJIorTH. 
 
 " They are Kirko's dragoons," said Monmoulh, endea- 
 vouring to conceal his anxiety. " W ell, sir, we must be 
 ready for them." 
 
 The messengers retired, and Monmouth remained for 
 some moments in a mood of painful reflection. 
 
 " Thou worst of counsellors !" he said in a fit of gloomy 
 apprehension, as he paced uneasily back and forward in his 
 room, and addi-essed himself to Ferguson — " thou worst of 
 counsellors ! From the hour when first I listened to thy 
 voice, fortune forsook me I Till then my hopes were strong. 
 The friends of liberty were Monmouth's also ; the compa- 
 nions of our enterprise were full of spirit and of zeal, for 
 they believed themselves engaged for England's freedom, 
 and not for any private end. Thou wert fool no less than 
 knave to give such counsel ; for, setting thy griping selfish- 
 ness aside, a single ounce of wit would have told thee that 
 it was time enough to dispute the right of booty when the 
 prey was won. Who's there ?" 
 
 A scout entered the room in haste. 
 
 " My lord," said he, " the King's army are——*' 
 
 *' The Xing^s, — sirrah ?" 
 
 " I mean, my lord, the Duke of York's forces are in the 
 plain of Sedgmoor." 
 
 " What ! nearer yet ?" 
 
 " I saw them, my lord, not half an hour since with my 
 own eyes — and wonderfully scattered. They surely could 
 not think your grace so near." 
 
 " Go and report it to' Lord Grey. Here comes a new 
 perplexity. I have now no hope but in the Prince of Orange," 
 he continued, growing pale and almost trembling with 
 anxiety. *' Heaven send him favourable winds and — honesty ! 
 Our last chance hangs upon his truth. He promised faith- 
 fully — the promise of a politician it is true — " he continued, 
 pacing the room in a fever of uneasiness, and speaking in 
 interrupted sentences; "butltrust Who's there again?" 
 
 " Friond Monmouth," said a man in a Quaker-dress who 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 201 
 
 entered the room without hesitation — "Are thee Monmoatb, 
 Irieiid ?" 
 
 " They call me so," replied the Duke. 
 
 " Then thee will find in th^t packet something of impor- 
 tance, I believe — from Lowdofl. I can give thee a hint oi 
 the contents," he added with a significant look : " there 
 will be no rising in the city this time." 
 
 " What ! has it been detected ?" 
 
 "Nay, nay — they were too wise to put themselves in the 
 way of it. James is too strong in the city now. Our 
 friends thiuk thee waf5 somewhat too hasty with thy enter- 
 prise ; however, I wish thee happy speed. Farewell ! — If 
 thee should need anytliing in a friendly way, from Isaac 
 Josephs of Oak Farm, tliee can have it." 
 
 " So our hopes in London are at an end !" said Mon- 
 mouth, as the Quaker left the room. " What's to be done ? 
 Counsel me, Ferguson ; bad as thy counsel is, mine own is 
 worse. The StadtlioUler — what's here ? Oh, treachery 
 beyond belief ! The regiments he had pi'omised me on land- 
 ing, he has sent to James ; and some of that force is at this 
 instant in Sedgmoor ! Oh, hollow, hollow Orange 1 Oh, 
 vile break-promise !" the unfortunate Duke continued, 
 crushing the papers in his hand and dashing them against 
 the ground. "Ambition, be thy name for ever cursed! 
 Cursed be the fiend that first invented thee, soul-poisoning 
 draught, that intoxicatest more deeply than all the wines of 
 earth ! What shall we do, Ferguson ?'' 
 
 " Fight for it, my lord — there is nothing more left bow." 
 
 " Impossible ! Even victory would be failure when 
 things go thus in London. Ob, Ferguson, the hour was 
 an accurse'9 one in which I listened to thy counsel 1 Ac- 
 cursed be my ambition, accursed the easy ear that was ever 
 but an open gate to flattery! Women and boys fore- 
 warned me of this day, when men were blind themselves 
 and blinded me." 
 
 " My lord,** said Ferg^on, " you are tinreasonable. 
 
202 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 Yoa suffer yourself to be depressed too much — ^you sink 
 into despondency when you "have every reason to rise in 
 hope and confidence. Our force is still, by all accounts 
 that we can learn, near double that of Feversham ; and 
 be certain one successful stroke would gain us hosts of 
 friends." 
 
 "And by whom should it be struck ?" asked Munoiouh 
 with a smile of mingled anguish and derisiuu, " By the 
 valorous Lord Grey, perhaps ? or by those miserable clowns 
 with staves and sickles for their only weapons ? or our 
 Mendip miners with their picks and shovels ? I tell you, 
 friend, our cause is lost and gone. There is not a spot on 
 which my eye can rest that does not bear the mark of ruin 
 on it — and it seems a miserable madness to await the issue 
 in our destruction." 
 
 At this moment a soldier presented himself at the 
 entrance of the tent and saluted. 
 
 " A. gentleman from Scotland, an' it please yoor grace." 
 
 " From Scotland ?" cried Monmouth with eagerness. 
 *' Admit him instantly." 
 
 The soldier retired, and Arthur Fidlarton soon after 
 entered the tent. He bowed to Monmouth, who remained 
 for some moments attentively perusing his figure before he 
 spoke. 
 
 "I should know your face, friend," said the Duke, 
 advancing towards him. '' Your name is Fnllarton ?'' 
 
 " It is, my lord." 
 
 " The nephew of Sidney — whe accompanied Argyle to 
 Scotland?" 
 
 " I had a part, my lord, in that unhappy expedition." 
 
 "Unhappy?" 
 
 " My lord," said Arthur, " I would that in presenting 
 tayself again before you I had that to tell which might re- 
 pay my welcome ! — but it is far — far otherwise." 
 
 " Speak, sir," said Monmouth, turning deadly pale. 
 
 " My tale, may it please your grace," said Fuilarton, *' is 
 
THE DUKE OV MONMOUTH. 203 
 
 tnournfal in its brevity." And, in a few words, he made 
 the Duke acquainted with the disastrous issue of Argyle's 
 expadition to the North. 
 
 " We found, my lord," said he, " our friends divided 
 and timorous, our enemies confident and united ; one adhe- 
 rent of one counsel, another of another — but all concurring 
 to reprehend our rash and ill-concocted scheme. Still, 
 please your grace, the Earl stood stoutly to his cause. He 
 reproached the timid — he exhorted the wavering — he 
 united the factious, and he manned his little force to dare 
 the worst. Bat what was to be done ? That one unhappy 
 incident at Cairston had alarmed all Scotland. The privy 
 <;ouncil were on the watch, and made ample preparations 
 to defeat him. Two ships of war, like eagles floating in 
 the air above a poor man's sheep-pen, were hovering on the 
 • coast to intercept all possibility of his retreat; and Scot- 
 laud's militia, to the amount of two-and-twenty thousand 
 men, was under arms, and on the way to meet him. Think 
 you, ray lord, what chance there was that the Earl, with 
 scarce three thousand men, could meet a force like that ? 
 Like a hunted boar, he saw his enemies collect on every 
 .side for his destruction. If he turned one way, the Marquis 
 of Athole met him with his kilted force — in front he must 
 ilispute his passage with the Earl of Dumbarton — on the 
 other side Lord Murray pressed him hard — behind, the 
 Juke of Gordon came darkening like a winter storm. What 
 onld he do, although the heart and counsel of all Homer's 
 lieroes had been treasured in his breast ? His military 
 fitores were seized, and famine began to press upon his 
 Ibrce. Thus harassed, still he clung to his resolution : he 
 broke with his small band through the toils by which he 
 was encompassed — he forsook his native shire, and came 
 into the Lowlands, where he hoped for succour from the 
 Whigs ; — bat they had had enough of civil contest. The 
 rest is briefly told. His force was soon dispersed — himself 
 made prisoner. With my own eyes I saw him iu the haudi 
 
204 THE l>tTKE OF MOmiOUTH. 
 
 of bis pursuers, and since have learned that sentence of 
 death has been passed upon his life." 
 
 While Monmouth was reflecting on these fatal tidings 
 with a mind oppressed with still increasing disappointment, 
 a cheer Avas heard outside, and an officer hurried into the 
 room with a look of tumultuous joy. 
 
 " My lord, Sir Patrick Hume." 
 
 " Is it possible ? He is heartily welcome. — ^Well, Sir 
 Patrick, well ?" 
 
 Sir Patrick entered the tent with a look so travel-soiled 
 and care-worn, that it was hardly necessary to question him 
 as to the nature of his tidings. 
 
 *' What of the Earl, Sir Patrick ?" 
 
 " We shall never see the Earl more, my lord, in this 
 world," said Sir Patrick. " The Earl is dead. He lost 
 his head at Edinburgh ; and a worthier never stood on • 
 human shoulders ! I had much ado, I promise your grace, 
 to bring my own so far, that I might make you understand 
 the event." 
 
 By this time the room was crowded with the officers who 
 had been summoned to the council, and who were astonished 
 at the extreme depression and even desperation of manner i 
 evinced by Monmouth. He had even the timidity to pro- I 
 pose to some individuals apart, and in an under tone, that I 
 they should desert their men and ride with him to the near- ■ 
 est seaport, there take a boat and trust to the mercy of 
 the sea. Finding none, however, willing to second him in 
 60 unworthy a scheme, he proposed aloud that they should 
 cross the Avon at Keynsham-bridge, proceed to Glouces- 
 ter, there cross the Severn, and hold on their march along 
 the right bank of the river until they received aid from 
 Cheshire, where he counted on having many partisans. 
 
 *' Gentlemen," said he, " whatever be our thoughts of 
 how this enterprise has gone hitherto, there is one thing 
 evident now — that hope has ended — and the best thing wd 
 can do is to secure onr safety. There is none of as now 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. UOo 
 
 but may feel well enough that England is too hot to hold 
 him." 
 
 This proposition excited general murmurs : and some 
 were so much disheartened by it that they withdrew from the 
 council-room, and subsequently sought their own safety by 
 flight ; amongst these were Venner and Mason, two of his 
 ablest officers. But Monmouth was obstinate, 
 
 " What good is it," said he, *' to stand here and see 
 half-a-dozen thousand wretches cut each other's throats 
 in a morning to no purpose ? — to stand by and see them 
 marshalled for the slaughter — the slaughter of the sword 
 and gun at first, and the still more dreadful and more piti- 
 less slaughter of the law that is to come afterwards? \\ ell, 
 my Lord Grey," he added, as that nobleman entered the 
 room with an anxious countenance, " we are all of your 
 mind now : running is the order of the day — Occupat ex- 
 iremum scabies. When I sent you to pick up long pieces 
 and ammunition from Albemarle and his rout, you showed 
 your sense. We all cried ' Oh !' upon you then : and 
 Fletcher — (Oh, Fletcher ! prophet Fletcher i) — Fletcher 
 turned up his lip, and the foam on it too, and bade me rid 
 the camp of you. But you see how minds will change! 
 You have made disciples of the stoutest of us," 
 
 " I don't understand, my lord,*' said Greyj with an of- 
 fended look, 
 
 " Ah, you are cunning !" said the Duke ; " and Fergu- 
 son here too, another cunning knave i — and the little devil 
 within, that was cunninger than the whole of you, and that 
 whispered in my ear, ' Monmouth be a King,' before your 
 brains, with all their art, had thought of it : the whole of 
 you together were too many for my moderate stock of com- 
 mon sense. Well, ruin's the word. Come, gentlemen, 
 come — come, the farce is at an end ; ^^et you to your tents, 
 and every man seek safety for himself^ At present, there 
 has been little mischief done ; but let it come to a battle, 
 and Janaes will flood the West with blood, for I know his 
 
206 THE DUKE OF MONMOUIH. 
 
 rigorous nature. Which of us do you think will 'scape 
 hanging or heading, if James of York, as we named him 
 in the farce, should lay hold of him ? Not I, for one. I 
 promise you, I have no desire to be put into a horn-book, 
 or make a moral for tales wrote hereafter against ambition." 
 
 But Monmouth did not know Lord Grey, when he as- 
 sailed him openly with so much vehemence. Grey was only 
 pliysically weak : his senses could not abide the shock of 
 dauger, but he had a degree of moral courage far superior 
 to that of Monmouth himself. Such is the problem which 
 history represents him to our view ; weak and yielding 
 on all occasions where animal nerve was requisite, but 
 firm, spirited, and uncompromising when it became a. 
 question of procuring safety, by premeditated baseness or 
 treachery. 
 
 " My lord," he said, surprised, as were all present, at the 
 sadden alteration which disappointment wrought in the 
 habitual manner of the Duke, " if you suppose that I am 
 one of those who will consent to seek safety by an inglorious 
 desertion of the cause I have embraced, you are deceived : 
 I will never forsake the standard of freedom while there 
 remains a chance of its success." 
 
 " Nor I," said Hume. 
 
 " Nor I," said Fullarton. 
 
 " Nor I," repeated Wade and Jones, and many others. 
 
 " Well, gentlemen," cried the Duke, *' chacun a son gout 
 — ^you will please yonrselves ; and if it please you to offer 
 your throats to the pike." 
 
 " Let the men be questioned," said an officer, " and see 
 if they will hear of a retreat." 
 
 "Aye, question them, question them!" cried several 
 Toices 
 
 " With all my heart!" exclaimed the Duke. " Go, sir," 
 (to an officer,) " and have the troops drawn out. If they 
 <vill rush on danger, why then let them not say the fault 
 eoQtinues to reat with Moaniouth." 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 207 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 Few, few shall part where many meet 
 The snow shall be their winding sheet. 
 And every turf beneath their feet 
 Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 
 
 The drnm immediately beat to arms , aud the Duke, ac- 
 companied by the principal officers, went to meet his men. 
 A rumour of tlie near approach ot the royal army had al- 
 ready spread through the town ; but the alacrity with which 
 the soldiery obeyed the summons of their leader, showed 
 plainly that they did not participate in his depression. On 
 the contrary, the tidings gave them joy. They were 
 heartily tired of their loitering inaction, and longed to come 
 to blows on any terms. A profound and anxious silence 
 tell upon them, therefore, when they saw Monmouth pre- 
 paring to address them. 
 
 " I never imagined," said he, "my gallant feilow-couutry- 
 men, that your zeal could be suflBicieut to overcome fortune 
 and our foes together. Had we only James of York and 
 his adherents to contend with, I could be content to dare 
 the worst ; but we are told there is a certain wayward 
 power that exercises a capricious influence over the affairs 
 of man, whose favours are bestowed at random, who gives 
 because she will, and withholds because she h not willing 
 to bestow, without regard to merit, justice, or necessity. 
 Poets and painters represent her blind, because she knows 
 not how to discriminate ; and they give her a wheel, for he 
 that is on the topmost spoke at morning, may be ground in 
 the rut ere nightfall. Gamblers invoke her, whether they 
 rattle dice for gold, or jilay out of cannon-mouths for poor 
 men's lives ; and in ancient times her favour was esteemed 
 so indispensable in the game of war, that good fortune, or 
 felicitas, was counted amongst the essential qualities of a 
 good general. There are some with whom she tarries for a 
 
Ii08 THE DOKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 day, and ot'iers whom she pursues with kindness from the 
 cradle to the grave ; some whom she crosses twice or thrice 
 in a whim, and others whom she dogs with misery 
 thr ugh life. I am one of the latter, in a sense. Feliciias 
 is not amongst the qualities of Moumouth ; and in this affair, 
 ray friends, she has declared against as. WherefcH-e, take 
 h?ed in time and look for safety. I have called you hither, 
 roy friends, 4o place your peril before you, — to thank yon 
 for your services, your devotion to the cause of Monmouth, 
 f.nd to bid you farewell, since fortune has declared against 
 us, and Providence pleases not to control her. I trust a 
 happier day may yet arrive for England, and that we may 
 meet again with better prospects." 
 
 This address excited loud and general murmurs amongst 
 the bearers. Some called out that Monmouth was betray- 
 ing tiiem^ aud others, that he only made experiment of 
 their fidelity. The clamour and confusion increased, the 
 soldiers left their places, aud ran to and fro, or gathered 
 into groups as if consulting on what should be done. No- 
 thing could be farther from their minds than the thought of 
 a retreat, at a time when they imagined trhe opportunity was 
 for the first time afforded them of striking a successful blovf. 
 Such was the fear of Monmouth, that on perceiving bo>v ill 
 his address was received, he again meditated the withdraw- 
 ing himself privately from the town, and abandoning the 
 men to their own counsels- 
 
 In the mean time tlie most talkative amongst the insur- 
 gent force were bnsy in their several quarters. 
 
 " A', boys," said Shamus Delaney, " an' is that the way 
 of it? an* will ye hear to a rethrate now, after all the 
 dhrillin, an' the marchin, an' the fine promises ? Sonuher 
 to the one o' me, boys, btit I'll tell ye what ye'll do. Let 
 ye gather togethei-, the whole o' ye ; an' if the Jake bo 
 still for pai'tiu us, let ye name any half-dozen ye like among 
 the whole o' us, to be king in his place, and leii tbeoi im^i 
 up for it. Jiimes LatLLe'''UJ** 
 
 -"Herer 
 
THE DDKE OF MOKMOUTH. 209 
 
 «* Pether Hangfire !" 
 
 "Here!" 
 
 " Solomon Scattherball !** 
 
 *• Here !" 
 
 " Very well ; I see ye're all there. Well, ye know a 
 sliip is no use without a ruddher, nor a flock of goats with- 
 out a herdsman, nor a congregation without a priest, nor 
 an army without a general, nor a counthry without a king. 
 Isn't that clear ?" 
 
 " Aye, aye, aye." 
 
 " Well then, if it comes to the vote, I suppose I may 
 count upon ye'r voices in case a king should be wantin, eh ? 
 Ye know the way I dhrilled ye." 
 
 "Aye, aye." 
 
 " Very well ; houl ye'r tongues a bit, for I see the Jake 
 is goin to spake again. 'T would be the rale touch if I 
 could shkame be some mains to go bnck a king to Bally- 
 hahill. Oh, tundher ! I think I see meself goin up the 
 road with a big shinin goold crown upon my head an' the 
 neighbours ready to take their oath 'tis Brian Boru himself, 
 or 011a Folia that's ruz from the grave. Well, all's in luck : 
 no matther." 
 
 By this time the soldiers bad pressed close around the 
 group of officers, amongst whom the Duke of Monmouth 
 stood, and were engaged in earnest remonstrances with their 
 general. 
 
 " What care we for the risk ?'' cried one : " we thought 
 of all that before we left our cottages." 
 
 " We knew well enough what stake we had in the game," 
 said another ; " but it's no matter for our lives when our 
 cause is good." 
 
 " Only lead us to the field !" exclaimed a third, " and 
 leave the rest to ourselves." 
 
 " Aye, aye, to the field ! to the field !" exclaimed a thou- 
 sand voices ; and a shout ensued so stunning, that it seemed 
 to shake the very earth on which they stood. 
 
 o 
 
210 THE DUKB OP MONMODTH. 
 
 " Give them thc'r way, my lord," said Ferguson ; " that 
 shout foreboded victory." 
 
 " Tiiey will not quit their arms," said a second 
 offi^jer. 
 
 " Except to meet with Feversham," added a third. 
 
 The spirit of his followers seemed to restore the confi- 
 Jence of Monmouth. After a little pause he said : 
 
 " Is it your desire then, soldiers, that we should go to 
 the field to-morrow ?" 
 
 " Aye, aye, to the field — husia !" was answered, as 
 before, in a voice of thunder. 
 
 " 'Tis well, then," answered Monmouth ; " I yield to 
 your desire. Feed well to-night, and rest well, for you 
 will have something to do before daybreak. Let everv 
 man have his matchlock for a bedfellow to-night, and be 
 stirring at the beat of drum. Aye, while you keep such 
 hearts as these, there is little fear of the issue. You are 
 to fight for England, against Englishmen. Trust me, yon 
 will not find them strong in their cause as we are. Huzza 
 then, once again, for liberty and England !" 
 
 Again the ready shout resounded through the town ; 
 ar?d Ml ';;mOT|y| having given his orders for the night, re- 
 tired to hisfwjpngs. The men dispersed to their quarters, 
 and prepared for the encounter of the following morning 
 with the alacrity which is inspired by a strong conviction 
 of right and confidence of success. 
 
 In the mean time, the royal generals, secure of an easy 
 victory, took little pains to incfeac^o that certainty by choice 
 ot situation or a well-ordered plan of engagement. Their 
 fully-armed and highly-disciplined force, they knew, was 
 more than siitHcient to meet any number of those inexpe- 
 rienced clowns that could be brought against them. It was 
 near evening when they entered on the plain of Sedgmoor, 
 vfhere they were to pass the night ; and the stragglinr; 
 manner in which they w^re suffered to take possession of 
 the ground showed plainly how little their generals appre- 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOt^TTf. 211 
 
 henclecl any attempt which coirfd be made by the Instirgeti'g 
 to disturb their position. The night was clear, and morn- 
 ing was stiJl far distant, when, pursuant to a preconcerted 
 plan, the army of Monmouth was drawn out in silence from 
 the town. Lord Grey, at the head of the cavalry, was sent 
 a, Kttle before, as the force least liable to suffer from a sur- 
 prise. Monmouth himself followed with the main body of 
 his army, nearly three tlioas;ind of whom were armed, and 
 in some tolerable degree of disci|)line. 
 
 The men, who had been well turiiished with the excite- 
 ment of strong liqnor, marched with alacrity, and reached 
 about one o'clock in the morning the edge of the moor. The 
 royal army h?d, however, already taken the alarm. Lord 
 Giey, at the head of five squadrons of horse, was ordered 
 to push forward and burst into the camp of Feversham, 
 but a wide and deep ditch wiiich intersected the plain be- 
 tween both arndos presented an unexpec ed p.nd effeciual 
 obstacle. As they rode along in search of a place where a 
 passage might be effected, volleys of musk< try were opened 
 upon ihem from the enemy's lines, and an awkward skirmirh 
 in the dark with a party of their own men, somewhat in 
 advance of them, completed their confusion. Lord Grey 
 himself, once more subdued by his infirmity, added a new 
 disgrace to that of Bridport, by flying wilh his troops to a 
 httle distance, where they took up a position out of the 
 range of musket-shot. The three remaining squadrons 
 made a gallant attempt to force a passage, but were re- 
 pulsed and obliged to retire in disorder. Monmouth now 
 ordered the infantry to advance. After a long continued 
 fire, which had only the effect of wasting the ammunition 
 of the insurgents, day broke upon the combatants, and dis- 
 closed to the eyes of Monmouth, the royal infantry at eighty 
 paces distant, quietly reserving their fire, and suffering the 
 artillery alone to answer the volleys of the insurgents, while 
 Feversham's cavalry, newly arrived from Weston, was 
 posted oa hia right flank. Without losing a moment, the 
 
212 THE DTJKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 infantry was ordered to pass the ditch, a manceuvre which 
 was soon eiFected. The imposing sight of Feversham's dis- 
 ciplined troops, with their artillery and tlieir calm and con- 
 fident aspect, as of men certain of success, might well have 
 checked the ardour of a newly-levied force like that of 
 Monmouth's. The latter, however, did not spare to pursue 
 their purpose. The signal for attack was given, and with 
 shouts of fury the insurgent yeomen dashed forward on the 
 royal force. It was impossible to resist the terrific energy 
 of their onset ; and the royal generals were astounded at 
 the gallantry displayed by these poor felloivs, who found in 
 their own conrage a substitute for all the skill and know- 
 ledge that are only gathered from experience. It was in 
 vain that Feversham put in practice all the manoeuvres of 
 the field in order to resist the vehement charge of the insur- 
 gents—now drawing his men into line, now condensing 
 them into squares and columns. The soldiers of Monmouth, 
 in indiscriminate masses, rushed forward to the charge 
 wherever they beheld a foe, and carried all before them 
 with an impetuosity which nothing could resist. The royal 
 army was routed and driven from the ground — it was 
 rallied and routed again — there was not a man on Mon- 
 mouth's side who did not labour as if he had been engaged 
 in single combat, and that combat for his life. Astonished 
 at what they beheld, the royal generals began to de.^pair of 
 the day, and their exertions now were bent to I'ender the 
 retreat as orderly as it was possible. But the triumphant 
 yeomanry pressed too close upon then* rere to admit of their 
 recovering order. 
 
 " It is in vain, Kirke," said Feversham, as that officer 
 galloped by him. "What are your lambs about ? These 
 fellows fight like furies. They will not leave a man of us 
 to tell the news." 
 
 " They seem to have changed their minds already," said 
 Kirke, " for they have ceased firing." 
 
 It was so in point of fact. Monmouth was at the iosUnt 
 
TEE DUKE OF MONMOnTTI. 213 
 
 pxalting in his victory as a certain thing — a victory which 
 woald, in all probability, have effected a permanent changi 
 in the dynasty of England. His astonishment, therefore, 
 was extreme when the firing ceased. The cause, unhappily, 
 was irremediable ; the ammunition of the troops had failed ! 
 The secret sonn became evident to the adverse force, who 
 gathered confiilence and strength from the discovery. They 
 rallied now without difficulty ; and while the insurgents, 
 perplexed and eager, seemed at a loss what next to do, a 
 most destructive fire was opened on them from the oppo- 
 site army. The scene which followed leaves description 
 powerless. It was to no purpose that the insurgents, un- 
 provided with the means of maintaining an equal combat at 
 a distance, rushed down in masses on the foe, and endea- 
 voured to effect by the mere momentum of numbers what 
 They could no longer do with weapons. By skilful 
 manojuvres the enemy evaded their onset, dividing into 
 numerous bodies, and galling them from one quarter while 
 I liey were striving to make an impression in another. It 
 was to no purpose that many were seen daaJiing all unarmed 
 upon the royal lines, and expiring beneath the pike and 
 musket to which they oftered their defenceless breasts. The 
 royal force prevailed, and Monmouth's army was on the 
 ])oint of ruin. At this instant Colonel Jones, the officer 
 f.lready named, who divided the command of the cavaliy 
 \vith Grey, looking round in vain for Monmouth, and seeing 
 the little army deserted by its commanding officers, took the 
 "uiiy step which could have given them a chance of safety. 
 Lord Grey, who had not ventured within range of musket- 
 shot since his first repulse, was stationed with a consider- 
 able body of cavalry in reserve, the Duke supposing that the 
 infantry could better conduct the heavy work of the day, 
 aud that the horsemen might be more advantageously called 
 into action in a crisis than as partakers in the general en- 
 {iagement. By charging vigorously now in front, they might 
 enable the infantry, who were at present saflfering severely, 
 
214 THli DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 either to effect a tolerable retreat, or to procure rime 
 recovei-ing coufidenee and order. 
 
 " Mr. Follarton," cried Colonel Jones to Arthur, whom, 
 as being attached to no corps, he retained near him in 
 quality of aide-de-camp, " ride to Lord Grey at once, 
 and order him to charge in front with all his force." 
 
 Arthur Fullarton put spurs to his horse, and galloped at 
 full speed towards the rising ground on which the cavalry 
 were stationed. The Colonel observed with an anxious eye 
 the result of his despatch. There was no movement amongst 
 the cavalry. Young Pullarton was seen to use a hasty 
 action, as if urging hia message ; but Lord Grey seemed ob- 
 stinate. Again, at full speed, his horse all bathed in per- 
 spiration and scattering foam around him, young FuUariou 
 returned to Colonel Jones to say that Lord Grey refused to 
 act upon the orders. Before the furmer could make an ob- 
 servation, the fate of the engagement was decided. Dis- 
 heartened at length by the tremendous carnage that took 
 place amongst their associates, a general panic seized ou 
 the insurgents, and a disordered flig'nt ensued, with all its 
 accompanying horrors. The victorious royalists continued 
 their fire while the routed army remained within range ol 
 their shot, after which the pursuit was maintained by the 
 dragoons alone. The musketry ceased firing, and no sounds 
 were heard except the fierce shouts of the revengeful con- 
 querors, the shritks and groans of the wounded and tiie 
 dying, mingled with the occasional thunder of the few pieces 
 of artillery that accompanied the royal army. Colonel Kirke 
 and his dragoons seemed thoroughly in their eiement, and 
 revelled like exulting fiends in the havoc which their wea- 
 pons made- A comparison of the loss on both sides shows, 
 however, the desperation with which the insurgents fought. 
 Three huudi'ed men were killed or wounded on that of 
 Feversham, while five hundred were left dead of the fol- 
 lowers of Morfmouih, in the course of three hours' fighting, 
 and in the flight which followed. The prisoners taken were 
 
 I 
 
Jf THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 215 
 
 about three times that nnmber. And so ended the battle 
 of Sedginoor, on which Monmonth's hope was set as on a 
 single cast. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Long before the aflfairs of his adherents had arrived at this 
 catastrophe, their terror-stricken leader had left the field 
 
 le had not even waited to see the two armies thoroughly 
 engaged before he fled the conte^f. Tt was not even yet 
 1 road day, when, in company with Busse, an officer who 
 had formerly served the Elector of Brandenburg, he galloped 
 northward from the scene of strite. From tlie summit of a 
 1:111 which overlooked the moor, they turned to look upon 
 the tumult. It then was raging at its height ; and through 
 t'ie clouds of smoke which rolled over the heads of the com- 
 batants, they witnessed the intrepid stand made by the re- 
 solute peasantry against the devastating shower of the 
 enemy's musketry, the thunder of the cannon, and the wea- 
 ) ')us of the cavalry that were spen gleaming in the morning 
 ^ j;ht as they arose and fell in the work of slaughter. While 
 
 ey watched the progress of the fight, they were joined by 
 .;)rd Grey, who had separated himself from his troops soon 
 
 cer he had learned the fliL;1it of Monmouth. They did 
 liiit wait to see the insiir.,'ent5 thrown into disorder, when 
 liicy turned their horses' heads in the direction of the Men- 
 dip Hills; Monmouth sufierirg his companions to precede 
 1 im, that he might indulge the flow of his own bitter 
 thoughts with less reserve. 
 
 As he huiTied from the field of ruin, too early for his 
 fame if not for his fortune, his garments soiled with dust, he 
 suddenly encountered FergiLSOb, »ho feia ried. tjwaiC.i hiiii 
 with a look of j.>y. 
 
216 THE DUKE OF MONMOUfH. 
 
 " Thank Heaveu, I see you safe ! Is your grace quite 
 sound ? no hurt — no wound «"' 
 
 " Ah, Mr. Ferguson, is it you ?" cried Monmouth, in his 
 usual mild and conciliating tone, though blended with an 
 accent of complaint. " AVell, all is over now ! What's to 
 be done ?" 
 
 " To preserve life and fi'eedom while we can, and wait 
 for better days." 
 
 " Days never to arrive !" said Monmouth with a look ot 
 anguish. " The storm has burst at length. Will yon now 
 believe I was a prophet ? Will you say I had not reason 
 when I crossed your speech in Holland first, aud bade you 
 never pour such poison in my ears again ? Where shall 
 your king turn, now that his part is at an end ? Where 
 shall he find the crown and sceptre that were to be had for 
 the claiming?" 
 
 " My lord," said Ferguson, " I will not answer your re- 
 proaches. Stay not to upbraid or mourn, but fly 1 There 
 yet be time " 
 
 " For deeper ruin ?" 
 
 " For safety and redress. Fly ! fly ! my lord. No 
 words, but fly !" 
 
 At the same instant he put spurs to his own horse and 
 lickly out of sight. The unfortunate Monmouth was 
 to follow his example, but a i andox shot had struck 
 loibe during the flight, and rendered the animal incap- 
 Rblii of fuithei* service. She staggered a pace or two aud 
 fell benc.'.tti her ridsr. At the same instant the sounds of 
 the diiiturtt ijght were heard behind. The horrors of a public 
 execntioo ^*ith all that such a fate might bring him, both of 
 shame and fear, flashed instantly upon the mind of Moi»- 
 moutb, awd filled him with terror. Extricating himself Ji*. 
 hastily m possible from his fallen steed, he hastened towajd"? 
 a farm-house uhich stood at a little distance, aud in the 
 door of which hu beheld the figure of thesame Quaker whoha i 
 delivered Lira the packet in iiis te/it ou tke previous CYouiDg. 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 217 
 
 " What do thee want, fnend ?" he asked, as IVfonmouth 
 pressed toward the door. " We admit no rebels here. ' 
 
 " For mercy's sake, good fellow," cried Monuioath, '' let 
 ine have shelter in your house." 
 
 " Off, rebel ! Isaac Josephs is a loyal subject ; and if be 
 even were to grant thy request, how long do'st thee think 
 tiiee could remain undiscovered when the dragoons would 
 come to search the house ? My hanging with thee would 
 do thee no good." 
 
 " Give me a horse, then !" 
 
 " Far be it from me to succour a rebol ! But thee is a 
 violent man and armed, and I am little able to resist thee ; 
 and if by force of arms thee will rob me of the key which 
 is in this open pocket, and enter through yonder stable-door, 
 turning the wards to the left, and giving the lock a hitch as 
 thou openest it, and if thee will take the prey that is ready 
 saddled at the manger, I cannot help my loss ; it is no more 
 than other loyal Englishmen have suffered already in the 
 cause of James. Oh, violence ! are thee offering outrage 
 to my person ! Help ! help ! He has robbed me of r.iy 
 key : he is taking my grey mare and all the furniture ! He 
 is off ! — he fleeth as the wind ! — my grey is lost ! Help I 
 help !" 
 
 He continued his lamentations until two or three of the 
 royal horsemen galloped toward the house. 
 
 " Have any of the rebels passed thi? way ?" cried one, 
 while the other searched the house and offices without cere- 
 mony. 
 
 " Oh, that I know they have ; too well I know it I Look 
 yonder ! See that stable door I — my mare ! — my dapple 
 grey !" 
 
 " What of her ?" 
 
 " She is gone ! A maa all armed hath rode away with 
 her.- 
 
 " Which way is he gone ?" 
 
 " Pray thee, excuse me ; I cannot aid blood-shedding : 
 
i! 1 <j THE DUKE OF MONMOUTii, 
 
 but there be four points to thg <5omp?ws, and ooe of tbeK is 
 the north, friend. My good grey S that i tad ot farmer 
 Kaikes for thirty-five gold pieces !" 
 
 The horsemen galloped away, laughing, in a northerly 
 direction ; and the Quaker continued to lament until they 
 were succeeded by another party, to whom he gave the same 
 account. 
 
 " Which way did the fellow fly ?" cr'u^i a dragoon. 
 
 "Ah, friend, thee wishes to stain thy hands iu iiis blood. 
 I dare not participate in thy crime by telling thee ; but I 
 know what point o' the compuss lies opposite to the north." 
 
 In the same manner he directed various parties in every 
 
 track but that which Monmouth really had taken. Mt.an- 
 
 while the latter, accompanied by Lord Grey and Busse, 
 
 whom he had now overtaken, continued his journey at the 
 
 utmost speed to which he could excite his horse by whJo 
 
 and spur. It was still early when he found himself near 
 
 the Mendip Hills, and out of hearing of the sounds of war 
 
 and of pursuit. Exhausted by the headlong race, the Duke 
 
 here deserted the common track, and struck off into the 
 
 well cultivated fields and friendly groves by which he was 
 
 surrounded. Here all was peaceful and abundant : the 
 
 woods were rich and quiet — the birds sang merrily in the 
 
 hedges and green lanes — the corn fields with their fertile 
 
 burden were waving gontly in the morning breeze — the 
 
 neighbouring cottages looked as if the contagion of political 
 
 disquiet had not touclied their thresholds — and over all, 
 
 he mellow splendour of tiie rising sun shed a tender, 
 
 ind, to Monmouth's eyes, a melancholy glory. Disguising 
 
 iLeir persons by the aid of porae friendly cottagers, they 
 
 leld a brief consultation ; after which they directed their 
 
 iight towards the New Forest in Hampshire, with the view 
 
 'f seeking shipping on the neighbouriug coast. It was near 
 
 .n-euing when they found themselves on Cranbourn Chase. 
 
 fearful to trust themselves to a peasantiy whom they did 
 
 not know, the fugitives desefted their horses and continued 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH* 219 
 
 their journey for a time on foot. They then separated ; 
 Lord Grey, with the peasant who had served them as a 
 gaide, taking one direction, while Monmouth and Basse, 
 turning aside into a copse of beech, and coaceahng them- 
 selves amongst the underwood, began to muse at leisure 
 on their miserable fortunes. 
 
 The remainder of the insurgents' army sought their safety 
 as they might. Arthur Fullarton, after remaining on the 
 field until all hope was lost, took the road to Taunton, with 
 tlie view of seeking security both for himself and his family 
 iu a foreign land. Less decided in his thoughts as to tne 
 best mode of escape, Sharaus Delaney, after seeing all his 
 I'encibles scattered or slain, remained wandering in th« 
 iieighbourhood of the field, shifting his place of concealment 
 Irom one place to another, as the probability of detection 
 seemed to diminish or to increase. 
 
 " So that's the way with the Lyme Fencibles !" he said, 
 communing with himself aloud. " Pether Hangfire shot, 
 and Solomon Scattherball an' Wainright prisoners, an' the 
 rest of 'em scatthered like powdher ! What's to be done ? 
 These thieves o' dhragoons will pin me, as sure as my name 
 is Shamns, if I stay in the field — an' where'll I run to out 
 of it ? I wish to my heart 1 was in Ballyhahill, out o' this ! 
 Here's more dhragoons. What'll become o' me ! I know 
 what I'll do. Sorrow bit but I'll pretend to be dead already , 
 ihe way they wouldn't see any use o' killin' me. Sonuher 
 lo the one o' me, but that's what I'll do, now that I suid it. 
 1 hope they won't think o' pluudherin." 
 
 The latter hope as applied to Kirke's dragoons was some- 
 what saognine. A few rode past Delaney as he lay ex- 
 tended on the earth, while others reined up their steeds and 
 uismouuted for the very purpose which he apprehended. 
 
 " Hould the horses, you," cried one of the dragoons to a 
 Htirade, " an' we'll give yoa a share o' whatever we got. 
 w on't we, boys ?" 
 
 *' Aje, aye," rejoined the rfest of his companions. 
 
220 THE DUKE OF MONMOCnH. 
 
 " Sonaher to the one morsel," said Shamns in his own 
 mind, as he softly opened one eye, " but it's Morty ! Well, 
 if this don't bate Europe ! it's no matther. I wish I could 
 give him a whisper." 
 
 The dragoons dispersed throagb the fields rifling the 
 pockets of the slain. As it happened, Morty Delaney it 
 was who approached the spot where Shamus lay, and sing- 
 ing in a load voice, began to thrust his hands into his 
 pockets : 
 
 He is in the field- of battle, 
 
 And his foes he does defy. 
 Like the rowling kiii^ of hoaonrf 
 
 All in the wars of Throy. 
 
 " What's here ?" Morty continued, as he drew forth tho 
 contents of his brother's pockets. " I'll lay my life this 
 was some would-be-gentleman or other, his pockets are in 
 such a state o' poverty. What's this ? a crust o' bread, 
 an' a ballad of Shaun O'Regan's portion, an' a little flask 
 Df usquebaugh, as one should suppose from the smell. We'll 
 make sure of it," he added, uncorking the flask and Hfiiug 
 it to his mouth. *' Ah, ha I if that didu't see the other 
 side o' the Channel, my name isn't Morty 1 That's the 
 ould counthry all over I I fancy I'm in Munsther again with 
 the taste o' it. Another drop will perch me on Ballyhahill." 
 
 Here Shamus having several times in vain endeavoured 
 to arrest his attention by whispering, " Erra, Morty !" — 
 "Morty, don't you know me?" — " Whisper hether, Morty!" 
 &c., now seeing him about to transfer thenswnaining contents 
 of the flask to his own person, effectually prevented his de- 
 sign by so sharp a pinch on the arm, that he sprang from 
 the ground as if he had been electrified. 
 
 " Well I" he exclaimed, rubbing the part afflicted with 
 one hand, while the other still clasped the neck of the flask, 
 " I have heard of dead men's pinches ; but if that be one, 
 it bates all t^ie living pinches in the world to nothing.-— 
 ^Vnat's here?" he eootinued, going cautiously over and peer- 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 221 
 
 ing down into the face of the dead man — " Eh ! what do 
 I see ? Both eyes wide open, an' one of them winkin at 
 me as cute an' as knowin as a fox ! Oh, sorrow bit, but 
 it's Shamus !" 
 
 " Captain Delaney, if you plase," said Shamus, raising 
 his head. " Is there any fear o' their seein me, Morty ?" 
 
 " It's all one if they do itself," said Morty, " you're my 
 prisoner, an' I'll take care o* you. A' Shamus, eroo, an' 
 is it yourself in airnest ? Well, if this don't flog all the 
 story-books in Munsther f — Stay quiet a while, an' yonll 
 tell me all by-'n-by. Never mind. The Cuinel is very 
 fond o' me, an' I'll get your free pardon without fail. Well, 
 after that, there's no use in talkin ! An' so you were in 
 the battle the whole time, an' I never knowin a word of it ?" 
 
 " I was so. Sure 'tis well you perched upon me, in 
 place o' one o' them other fellows. Hadn't they greaf 
 killin an' murtherin ?" 
 
 " A' what killiu, man ! The battle of Venthry Harboui 
 was nothing to it. Did you get e'er a touch at all ?" 
 
 " Not one. Did you ?" 
 
 " No. Stay as you are a while until I dhraw these 
 away, for fear they be throublesome, an* then I'll come 
 an' bring you to the Camel." 
 
 ^ 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 When the news of Monmouth's defeat arrived in Taunton^ 
 it seemed as if the town had been swept by a sudden pesti- 
 lence. The shops were for the most part closed, business 
 suspended, the streets deserted, the men seemed to wait in 
 helpless inaction the bursting of the tempest that they knew 
 was rolling toward their dwellings. Thongh the catas- 
 trophe was not yet known at Tone Cottage, nothing seemed 
 more surprising to Aquila than the general change which 
 
222 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 she found in the sentiments of her neighbours according as 
 the affairs of Monmouth began to decline. People shook 
 their heads and looked wise as oracles ; and many who had 
 shared all the enthusiasm of the multitude during his suc- 
 cess now listened to such sentiments with an air of frigid 
 coldness. Sha had a few days before been accidentally 
 pi'esent at a conversation in the town, where, for the first 
 time in her life, she heard even from his friends and parti- 
 sans expressions which astonished her, supposing, as shpi 
 had done throughout, that all were as sincere and disinte- 
 rested as herself. Already Monmouth (late his Majesty) 
 was spoken of ais an " adventurer" — " a disturber who had 
 no sort of title to the throne" — " an incendiarj' who could 
 embroil half a world for the making his own fortune." 
 AVithout participating in this change of feeling, Aqnila could 
 not listen without deep uneasiness to assertions falling from 
 the hps of Monmouth's partisans, which, in the zeal of her 
 own political prejudice, she had placed, when advanced by 
 his enemies, to the account of prejudice in them. She 
 thought of the vehemence with which both Kiugsly and his 
 sister sought to impress this upon her mind, and how har I 
 an car she gave them ; and she started now, and a wild 
 misgiving smote her, as the idea flashed on her mind, thac 
 during the whole time the wisdom might have been witu 
 them, and not with her. She shuddered at the though . 
 If this then were the case, and Monmouth's right in poiur. 
 of fact were not founded in law or truth, what colour mu £ 
 her own part in this transaction assume in her own eyes •* 
 Coald it be possible that she was wrong ? and she felt so 
 light and buoyant and firee-hearted in the sense of right. 
 
 '* I would," she said with herself, " that I had examineil 
 a little more nearly before I ventured to take auy part 
 whatever I But deUberation was ever a school-task to me, 
 wbich I avoided when I could. What a wretched mind is 
 mine ! I would not take the trouble to examine, and yt-t 
 I would be busy — nay, who so busy ? who so bold and 
 
THE DOKE OF MONMOUTH, S.?3 
 
 confident ? I needs mnst be a meddler, and yet not take 
 llie pains to render my interference just and useful. Pray 
 Heaven no evil to come of it ! for I could scarcely beai* the 
 weight of disappointment through the fault of others, to say 
 nothing of my own. I had ever an impatient mind. I wish 
 I had not meddled so far without a better light !" 
 
 Her anxiety increased as they waited daily for intelli- 
 gence from the camp of Monmouth. What added to its 
 keenness wf.s the recollection that she had herself engaged 
 her brother Arthur a second time to lend his efforts to the 
 cause, and that but for her persuasion he at least might 
 have been saved. 
 
 " Father," she said one evening, after a long and absent 
 fit of muring, " is it true, what we hear now so generally 
 asserted, that Monmouth has after all no title to the throne ?" 
 
 Gaspar, who did not share his daughter's scruples re- 
 specting Monmouth's right, was perplexed at such a ques- 
 tion ; nor did he at once perceive the great importance, 
 .supposing he had boon himself convinced upon the subject, 
 uf communicating his certainty to Aquila. 
 
 '• Et tu. Brute V said he, laughing. " Are yon like- 
 wise among the waverers ? Wliy, what does it signify to 
 IL'Uuiouth whether you believe he has a right or no?" 
 
 •' It is true, then, that it is uncertain, at least ?" asked 
 Aquila. 
 
 " It is true. What of that ?" 
 
 " Nothing indeed to Monmouth ; but it may be sonre- 
 thing to — to those who aie engaged for him." 
 
 Tne whole of the succeeding day and night, which was 
 that previous to the battle of Sedgmoor, the most torment- 
 ing fears assailed the mind of Aquila. She was worried 
 with incessant apprehensions. She could not eat nor sleep; 
 her whole attention was absorbed by the one engrossing 
 theme ; and if her mind wandered at ail from the army of 
 Monmouth, it was u\ 1 m iuuulge a fervent aspuation for 
 bis success. 
 
224 THE DUKE OF MOKMOUTH. 
 
 It was yet morning on the day of the battle, when Caspar 
 FuUarton, at the anxious entreaties of his dauj^hter, took 
 his hat and staflf, and walked to the town in order to leara 
 something of the fate of the insurgents. They knew that 
 the royal army had already passed the borders of this devoted 
 shire, and all who had friends and relatives engaged for Mon- 
 mouth were of coarse most eager to ascertain the issue of 
 the dread collision that was hourly expected. The parlour 
 of the Three Crowns was occupied by the same knot of 
 rural politicians who had been always in the habit of en- 
 lightening each other in that apartment upon all questions 
 of law and government. The only change in the outward 
 appearance of the establishment was, that the name of 
 " The Duke of Monmouth" had been substituted in flaming 
 characters on the sign-board that swuug before the door- 
 way, in lieu of that of " James the Second." In the ap- 
 pearance of the political conclave within, there was little 
 alteration, except that Godfrey Bunn the baker, and his 
 friend, Setright the miller, were both attired in the half- 
 military costnme of Monmouth's army. The disordered 
 condition of their dress, and the horror depicted in their 
 countenances, showed plainly that the news they brought 
 were none of the happiest. As Gaspar approached the 
 door, it was evident to him, from the crowds that pressed 
 around, and the looks and gestures of anxiety and fear 
 which he encountered amongst the press, that some consi- 
 derable disaster had occurred. Without staying to ques- 
 tion any of the people outside, he pressed forward into the 
 inn, and with some difficulty reached the parlour. Here he 
 found the landlord with an anxious countenance, Master 
 Grimes, the verger, with a look of trouble mingled with 
 profound sagacity, and many other citizens, listening with 
 dismay to the accounts which Bunn and his companion gave 
 them of the day's defeat. When they had concluded, a 
 general and fear-struck silence sunk upon the circle. 
 ,"At that rate, Master Bunn," said the landlord, glaac- 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 225 
 
 ing from one contitenance to another of the many that 
 surrounded him, while his hands were bnried in the pockets 
 of his grey doublet — " at that rate, Monmouth will scarce 
 be able to make head again." 
 
 *' If he be left the head that is on him," answered the 
 baker, " it is as much as I would venture to promise him. 
 I heard, as I came along, that Feversham had begun the 
 hanging already. I promise you, my masters, I had little 
 idea before to-day what it was to take the sword." 
 
 " There's no use in nonsense," said the landlord ; " while 
 a man's thriving, let him thrive. It can do no good to 
 Monmouth now that honest people should bring themselves 
 into trouble for his sake. While it could bring fish to his 
 net, I was willing enough to let him swing in the wina 
 before my door ; but now that's over, I think I'll even set 
 np our good King James again. What say you. Master 
 Grimes ?" 
 
 " What say I, host ? I say nothing ; Grimes is a block 
 — Grimes has never an eye in his head. Did Grimes say 
 here five weeks ago, when his poor opiuion was asked upon 
 the matter, that something would come of all that work 
 about Monmouth ? Did he, or did he not ?" 
 
 " Nay, that you did in tratb, Master Grimes," said a 
 neighbour in a serious tone. 
 
 " I heard him say it as plain as you hear me," cried 
 another, turning to Gaspar. 
 
 " And that there was something at the bottom of it," 
 cried a third. 
 
 " Very well, then," said the verger, " I say nothing. 
 But I tell you what it is, my masters, I have been vergor 
 here in Taunton for something outside fourteen years, and 
 ^ I promise you I would give a round piece or two to know 
 who will be verger in fourteen years more. I say nothing 
 ■ — ^I have never an eye in my head ; but you shall see, my 
 masters." 
 
 " As for me," said Bunn, perceiving the general dismay 
 
 p 
 
226 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTBl. 
 
 augmented by this oracular speech, "I have done wi'h 
 fightiog, if fighting will have done with me. No good 
 comes, my masters, of resistance with the sword. Passive 
 obedience is law of the land, as laid down by act of parlia- 
 ment in 74." 
 
 By this time the tidings had drawn great multitudes to 
 the place.' Men, women, and children pressed into the 
 throng in order to learn, if possible, the fate of a friend or 
 relative. 
 
 " Maester Bunn, did ye zee my husband ?" 
 
 *' Or my brother, Maester Bunn ?" 
 
 " Was Tom Staynes in the veel whan you left it, Maes- 
 ter Setright ?" 
 
 " Oh, Maester Setright, did thee see my child, James 
 Weston ?" 
 
 The eager voices of the people, and the cries of auguish 
 or murmurs of anxiety that broke from individuals of the 
 crowd, as their inquiries found an unfavourable or a doubt- 
 ful answer, seemed like a prelude to the scenes of woe which 
 might now speedily be expected. 
 
 With a heavy heart Caspar Fallarton returued to the 
 cottage. It may easily be imagined with what feelings 
 Aquila heard his news. She could hardly conceive it pos- 
 tible that two days could make such an alteration in a 
 cause that seemed so strong and promising. For a long 
 time after she had heard of its defeat, she continued wan- 
 dering from place to place with a restless air. There was 
 no account of Arthur Fullarton. Inquiry was in vain ; no 
 one had seen him after the defeat. The night passed over, 
 and he did not come ; and his sister rose from troubled and 
 spectre haunted sleep to waking fear and agony. . 
 
 Meanwhile the victors began to exercise with a strong 
 hand the powqr which their success had given them. The 
 gaol of Bridgewater was ibuud insufficient to contain the 
 crowds of prisoners that were brought, into the town guarded 
 by Kirke's dragocns, Tb«t officer himself soon after took 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 227 
 
 possession of the town, and commenced the work of ven- 
 geance^ It is not necessary that we should present a full 
 detail of all the severities that ensued ; still less is it in- 
 cumbent on ns to decide between conflicting historians how 
 far tradition may or may not have exaggerated in its pic- 
 tures ot the past. Nineteen of the prisoners were hanged, 
 it is said, by Kirke, immediately on entering the town, 
 without any form of trial : nor did the species of military 
 court which succeeded leave much room for congratulation 
 on the discontinuance of so arbitrary a mode of proceeding. 
 The house in which Kirke took up his residence was looked 
 apou with fear and shuddering as the den of some ferocious 
 animal. Feversham having drawn up his army near one of 
 the public roads that led to Bridgewater, began likewise 
 to deal summary vengeance on the country people for the 
 loss and peril of the morning. A more than ordinary spirit 
 of vindictiveness appeared to govern the conduct of the 
 royal generals in their suppression of this insurrection. Pro- 
 voked in part by the resolute opposition with which they 
 had been met, and partly stimulated by the cruelty too 
 often incident to military judges, impatient of the tardy 
 minuteness of examination necessary to establish individual 
 guilt or iimoccnce, and desirous only to punioh and terrify 
 in the m; ss, they forebore to mingle even the common show 
 of jusliceor of mercy with tiieir harshness. The battle 
 being wholly at an eiid> Feversham reined up his horse 
 upon the high road aheady mentioned, superintending a 
 general inspection of the troops in order to estluuite the 
 amount of kiUeO and wounded. There was at t5>.a same 
 time anotljer work of 9. more gloomy character going for- 
 ward. This was the erection of a number of gibbets for 
 the execution of the prisoners who had been taken. The 
 scene which followed had more in it to thrill the hearts of the 
 spectators with fear and anguish than all the wholesale 
 elauffhter of the forenoon. 
 
 Ti.ere was about a score of prisoners brought before 
 
228 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 Feversham. Having been taton in arms, ho likewise, thopgh 
 not sharing the inexorable cruelty of Kirke, did not think 
 it even necessary to try thera with a testing question, but 
 ordered th«m off for execution one after anoi^ier as they 
 were brought before him. What added to the poignancy 
 of the spectacle was, that many of the female relatives of 
 the prisoners, who had followed the course of Monmouth's 
 army, now pressed into the scene, and added to its horrors 
 by their cries and gestures of despair. The unfortunate 
 prisoners, almost to a man, evinced that resolution and for- 
 titude which adds glory to a good cause, and even to a 
 mistaken one imparts a degree of majesty and reverence. 
 Not one of them shrunk from confessing their allegiance to 
 Monmouth, whom they firmly believed to be their lawful 
 king. Even the soldiers who surrounded Feversham, and 
 who had suffered from their braveiy a few hours before, 
 were touched by th(S sincere and stubborn, yet unobtrusive 
 vehemence, with which thesa poor fellows adhered to their 
 principles in adversity. With pale yet steady features, and 
 without a word of complaint or of reproach, they were led 
 one after another to execution, as to a fate which they wil- 
 lingly embraced in testimony of their devotion to the cause 
 they had espoused. 
 
 There was one woman amongst the females present at 
 this horrible scene who had a husband and three grown 
 sons engaged for Monmouth, and now waiting in their turn 
 the fatal mandate of the royalist general. The father, a 
 stern-looking man about fifty years of age, was standing 
 erect, and with an expression of set and still defiance on 
 his countenance, as if he had manned his nattrre to the very 
 utmost in what he was about to do, and was anwilling that 
 his firmness should be put in danger by being taxed in the 
 least degree further. At this moment his wife broke iuto 
 the group, and flinging herself upon his neck, besought him 
 in the teuderest munner to seek safety by making submis- 
 sion and sce'.'.ing pardon of the i^eneral. 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 229 
 
 " Not YOr ye'r awn, but oar zakes !" she exclaimed. 
 *' Dvvon't ye be zaw desperd uQveeliu', Teiidy. Ax 
 pordcfl, won't ye, Teddy^ vor yerzel ; an' our deai" ladd — 
 won't ye zave 'em, husband ?" 
 
 " Naw, I won't thaw," cried the man ; " I zed I war 
 leady ta die vor Monmouth, an' I'll stick to it." 
 
 " Bit our bways, Teddy ! — ^shall tha uiver cum whim 
 any moor ? — you dvvon't thenk o' them 1" 
 
 " Eese, but I do thaw — God will take care of 'em. 
 Better vor 'era to have a dead true man than a living turn- 
 qut vor their vather." 
 
 So saying, and feeliug vexed at importunities that 
 weakened his resolution, he flung from her with impatience 
 and prepared to meet his fate. The woman flew to Fever- 
 sham. 
 
 "Zur!" she exclaimel with a bewildered look, her 
 shrivelled hands extended, and her eyes bent on him with 
 an expression of the intensest anguish, — " Gennelam — I 
 dwon't knaw ye'r name, bit tha pawor o' life and death is 
 in ye'r bond. Have pity on a poor hortbroken oomau ! 
 I humbly bezeech your porden lor the theazamy here — 
 my husband and my children ; and as you show mercy to 
 them, zo may the King of mercy and of grace show mercy 
 to you and yours in ye'r hoar of need and of atiliction ! 
 Oh, zur, let them go — and the heaven above rain awver 
 ye'r head all store of blessing and abundance !" 
 
 " Take them away !" cried Feversham, with a cold, re- 
 lentless look. 
 
 " Oh — naw — naw !" shrieked the woman, clasping his 
 stirrup with her hands. — " Oh, zur, have mercy ! Teddy, 
 why d'.von't ye speak? They uiver '11 do it na moor. Tell 
 — tell him ye uiver '11 do it na moor." 
 
 But the thirst of vengeance, yet unslaked within the 
 brfeast of Feversham, rendered him callous to her prayers. 
 He motioned with his hand, aiid amid her shrieks and en- 
 ireatles, as she was removed irom his presence, two of -her 
 
230 TBE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 SOUS were executed before her eyes. At this instant a close 
 carriage was seen approaching along the Biidgewater road. 
 The poor woman appeared to know the equipage, for she 
 darted by a vigorous effort frora the hands of the soldiery, 
 and flew along the road to meet it. The carriage presently 
 approached at a more rapid pace. It was already recog- 
 nised as that of the Bishop of Bath and Wells, who was 
 surprised and shocked, as he might naturally be, at the 
 scene of violence which he beheld. A deep interest was 
 excited amongst the spectators when they beheld General 
 Feversham ride towards the open door of the vehicle and 
 salute the dignitary as he sat within. A few only, how- 
 ever, of those who stood close at hand could hear what 
 passed between them. 
 
 *' Alas! general," said the Bishop, "what a sight is this ! 
 what horrid slaughter have we here ?" 
 
 " Only hanging a few rebels, my lord," said Feversham. 
 " And without trial or inquiry ?" exclaimed the Bishop 
 with a look of astonishment. " Do you not consider, that 
 now the law takes place of violence ? Sir, these men, 
 your prisoners, are your fellow-creatures also, made of the 
 same clay, informed with the same immortal spirit, and bred 
 in the same soil as you are. They have a title now to be 
 heard before their country, which you cannot legally refuse 
 them." 
 
 '* Rascals !" cried Feversham, " they merit not your lord- 
 ship's intercession. What hearing is there — what law for 
 knaves who are caught in arms against all law ?" 
 
 " Nay, but by your leave," said the Bishop, " were they 
 fifty times rebels, they are human creatures still ! and, alas ! 
 the more criminal the more deserving of compassion. Sir, 
 it is a dreadful necessity which at any time renders it a part 
 of human policy to strike at human life, to abridge in any 
 case the term of man's probation ; but when that is done 
 without warrant of law or of legitimate authority, it becomes 
 act ual marder : and I tell you, sir," be continued with in- 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 231 
 
 creasing energy of tone and manner, " that for every life 
 you thus destroy, without formal sentence of the law, you 
 are 'guilty of a murder in the sight of Heaven and man." 
 
 " At yonr lordstiip's instance, then," said Fevershani, " I 
 will suspend the execution of those men until the hollow 
 form of law be added to the stroke of justice. Let the 
 prisoners be conveyed to Bridgewater," he said to an officer 
 who stood near, " and committed to the common gaol till 
 our arrival." 
 
 The officer prepared to put his commands in execution, 
 and the Bishop drove away. We shall leave the military 
 tribunal Avhich was formed on Feversham's entering Bridge- 
 water to continue its summary vindication of the law, anC 
 rttum to other persons of our narrative. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 TnE sight of a troop of royal cavalry on one of the roads 
 leading to Tauhton induced Arthur Fullarton to alter the 
 course of his flight, and seek safety in the direction of the 
 Bristol Channel. It was evening when he turned his horse 
 loose on the public road, and continued his journey through 
 the fields on foot. The necessity of caution was eren more 
 pressing than he was aware ; for Kirke, who retained a 
 full remembrance of the past had sent a party especially in 
 search of him immediately on entering Bridgewater, and the 
 same it was of whom Arthur had got a distant glimpse as 
 he was hastening toward his home. By what he could con- 
 jecture, from the appearance of the country, as well as the 
 accent and discourse of the peasants whom he occasionally 
 met, he approached the northeni borders of Devonshire, and 
 •the coast wag not far distant ; but his uniform alone would 
 be a sufficient obstacle to his reaching thither in safety. He 
 darod not think of entrusting himself to the hands of the 
 
232 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 neighbouring farmers, who, for anything he could conjec- 
 ture, might as well be foes as friends. While he lay thus 
 perplexed, a group of country people came laughing and 
 talking through a green lane which passed close by the place 
 of his retreat. By their mirth, and by what he could hear 
 of their discourse, it appeared they formed a wedding-party 
 who had just been witnessing the union of some village pair. 
 They passed on, and Arthur continued to listen to the sounds 
 of rustic mirth as long as the faintest vibration reached his 
 ear. As he compared the condition of these poor villagers 
 with his own, one train of musing succeeded to another, 
 until at length he found relief both for his body and his 
 mind in a fit of heavy sleep. Soon after, a peasant, at- 
 tired in a blue working-frock rather the worse for wear, 
 entered the lane with a bill-hook and a rope upon his arm, 
 and began to cut faggots at the side of the hedge wlier& 
 Arthur lay concealed. 
 
 " Well, thore they go !" he said aloud as he proceeded 
 with las toil, and supposing himself .unheard : " tha ker- 
 nel's for woue mon, tha sheU vor t'other, in thes world ; 
 tha pea vor thes, tha pod vor hes neighbour, tha meat vor 
 Jo, tha bone for Eager, tha pulp vor yon, tha rind vor 
 nie. 
 
 " Down by the banks o' Barley, 
 
 Young Rager tends tha kee ; 
 There lonely by tha woodlant 
 
 Hes cottage ye may zee : 
 A sprey an' spicy vella 
 
 Vor 6nny keendest thing, 
 A zings beside hes cob-waU 
 
 As happy as a king. 
 
 " Nif thee plaguy mnrtain hadn't laid hold o* vather's kee, 
 et' injort dance at Robin's up-zetting to-night wej tha b-^.-^t 
 d' 'esi ; bat Time's a tumbler." Here he crossed the hed;:o 
 ■whirh divided hiaa from Arthur. " Yeet 'ehud es had tha 
 clathing though, vor there will be such an up-zettiug at 
 
THE DUKE OF MOXilOUTH. 233 
 
 ths varmer's ! They zay tha blind cmuJer will be thcro 
 vor zarten. Bi:t tes eart wone, eart t'other; ma turn may 
 come jeet. Well, Doraty, how d'ye try ? — how goth (vt 
 wey ye ?" He addressed a country lad somewhat younger 
 than himself who had just entered the lane and was hurry- 
 ing through, when he was observed by the faggot-cutter 
 from the copse where Arthur lay concealed. " To tha up- 
 zetting, eh ?" 
 
 " No," said the lad ; " 'cham vor nup o-zetting, Kester . 
 'Cham vor tha ghost." 
 
 ''Tha ghost!" 
 
 " Yees, zHre. Why, dedn't thee hire o* tha old haunted 
 manor-house down by tha Canjmon, where there has been 
 a ghost appearing night arter night, come last Hallandtide 
 twelvemonth ?" 
 
 " Xo, bless me, that es dedn't, zure. A ghost ! — no, 
 bless ma, thee dosn't zey zo ?" 
 
 " Yees, bet es do zey et ; wey two woundy gurt horns 
 lick Varmer Hosegood's bull down in tha park, an' gurt 
 viery eyes, an' a chrin as long as ma lady's train up to tha 
 Square's. Tha varmer zee'd et, an' hes two zods ; an' 
 tha pawson's to come down to-night to quesson et, zo he 
 is. Voaken thenk et must be there's a zight of money 
 bm-ied zomewhere about tha place, thet makes et trouble 
 tha houze." 
 
 " Lick enow. Well, go ye'r way." 
 
 " Aye, bet 'chell g'up to vather's vurst, to know nif es 
 be wanted tha night. 'Cham woundy lonesome to zee a 
 ghost na' ipeak wey et." 
 
 " Good ueavt, than !" sp.id t>)e faggot-cutter as the lad 
 dcpiUted, " an' vetcb zoine o' tka gold, mun, nif tha ghost 
 wnll let thee have et. Et were zometheng better the hew- 
 ing wood vor Vanjier Hosegood's vier, acd scaring birda 
 vrom iha corn, and pcufiHig tlia shc-ep in tha ditnmjt, an* 
 veeling tha length an' breadth o' tha old grammer's toa^-ue 
 at meal^ime.3. Wei!, time cures all. 
 
234 THE nCKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 ** Th^ bravest square in Ingland 
 
 Mart cnry Bager'g state, 
 Tlwf In hes lowly cottage 
 
 No powder'd zarrants wait : 
 No wasting care nor zorrow 
 
 Upon hes meals attend ; 
 He niver needs to borrow 
 
 Thate niver cares to zpend. 
 
 *' Eh ? look zee whot have we here ?" he added, as in 
 cutting his way through the underwood he discovered 
 Arthur lying fast asleep. " Zome strange animal znre, an" 
 zleeping in tha zun ! Look zee, whot clathers ? Nif ch'ad 
 bat zich veathers to make a show up to tha up-zetting ! 
 'Chell ztur en way ma foot. Hillo, vrend 1 do'st hire' 
 ma, vrend ?" 
 
 " Who's there ?" cried Arthur, starting up alarmed, and 
 laying his hand upon his sword. 
 
 " No oiFence, vrend : 'chaui bet a poor country vella, 
 cutting o' vaggots, an' meaning no eel to enny wone." 
 
 The alarm of the fugitive, at first so great, was removed 
 on his perceiving that the countryman was alone. While 
 he collected his thoughts to make inquiry of this man 
 respecting his situation, the latter seemed wholly absorbed 
 in admiration of his handsome uniform, now rubbing down 
 the skirts and hose with his hand, and uttering ejaculations 
 of surprise and admiration. 
 
 At this moment Arthur conceived the idea of prevailing 
 ^n the peasant to change clothes, and, in this disguise, of 
 /flFecting with greater faciUty his escape to the water's 
 side. Coming from his concealment, he signified to the 
 astonished countryman to suppress all apprehension. He 
 then made to him the proposal of exchanging their attire. 
 The peasant, who was evidently more than half a simple- 
 ton, seemed overjoyed at the idea. He jumped, he danced 
 on the ground, he handled Arthur's uniform, and clapped 
 his sides with his hands as if unable to contain his glee. 
 
THE DUKK OP MOKMOUTn. 235 
 
 Having retired into the wood, the barter was soon effected ; 
 and Arthur, happier in his hnmble than the peasant in his 
 rich attire, penetrated deeper into the wood and was quickly 
 •nt of sight. Meanwhile the countryman in his gay nni- 
 orm went merrily along the lane, hopping, dancing, sing- 
 jDg, and frisking with all his might in the excess of hi^ 
 delight. 
 
 "Ho! ho! ho! ho! Well, there be menVey heads 
 in tha wordle, and men athont 'em. Es know whare he or 
 es had a scooped turnip on tha shoulders whan a made zich 
 a bargain as thate. Poor vella ! Hewn zend en wit ! 
 Ilev I what Doraty want now, thet he halloes at zich a 
 rate ?" 
 
 " Ho-a ! Why, Kester ? Hallo, ho-a !" 
 
 " Why, what's tha matter, mun ? Thee'U be zcared 
 wi' summnt, 'chell warndy." 
 
 " Ye^ that es be, tha may be zartain zure. There 
 
 be -Bet what ! Eh, Kester, zure et can't be thee 
 
 own zell ?" 
 
 " Why, chara vine an' brave, bean't es r" 
 
 " Vine, mun ! Why, look zee, Kester, thee be'est a 
 king, mun. An' tha' kep an' tha veathers ! Kester, 'chud. 
 tha may ha' come honestly by 'em, that's oil." 
 
 " Yees, bet es did though, es tell tha. 'Chad 'em gied 
 na by a gennelman thet es vound a-zleeping in tha copse 
 yonder. But what has zcared tha, mun ? Have ye zee'd 
 tha ghoast ?" 
 
 " No, bet there's a pearty o' themmy horse dragoons np 
 to tha rawd, an' they wull have thet there's an cfficer^o* 
 tha Duke o' Monmouth's here about, for they zey they 
 voun hes horse net zo vur away, poor theng ! an' tha 
 saddle an' bridle on, zo that he can't have gwone much 
 vurthur. They zearched vathei^'s houze an' tha paddick, 
 an' they're rummagin oil the neighbourhooden. Thee may 
 stay an' be hanged nif thee Kkg, bet es have a reason vor 
 not choosina: et." 
 
236 TUE DUKE OF MOKIIOUTH. 
 
 He ran off, and left his companion standing aghast with 
 terror. 
 
 " Tha Duke o' Monmouth ! Tha woundy rebel that 
 has oil Zummerzet in yearms, an' thet tha King's trooijs 
 went a-hunting t'other day wi' tha gurt viel-pieces thet 
 had every wone o' 'em a mouth lick a vactory chimley ! Es 
 may ztay and be hanged, zeys he, may es ? Well, than, 
 nif a man's bora to be hanged, be wull escape huddling ; 
 an' tha country promishes zo well ziiice Monraonth's land- 
 ing, thet hanging es lick to become a naatal death avoia 
 long. Nif es must hang, es must. 'Chell have a daunce 
 up to tha varmer's up-zetting vurst." 
 
 So saying, he concealed his rope and biU-hook in the 
 hedge, and continued his journey, hopping, skipping, and 
 dancing until he reached the farmer's house, where his ap- 
 pearance excited a general scream of laughter and sniprise. 
 
 *' Why, Kester, mun, whot made thee zo brave ? Art 
 tha down-reert hanteck, mun ?" 
 
 " Where did thee get themmy vine thengs, Kester ?" 
 
 " 'Tes Hewn zens oil thengs, neiglibours, so let's be spry 
 an' merry," said the faggot-cutter, continuing to sing and 
 dance, without satisfying them. 
 
 " A spry an' vitty vella 
 
 Vor enny keendest thing, 
 He zings bezide lies cob wall 
 As hoppy as a king — 
 
 * Come, neighbours, dwon't ye stare — 
 
 " When in hes Zinday clathers 
 A zira tha porish pride. 
 Ma leddy's diz^n'd zarraat 
 
 Looks Kooterly bezide. 
 At yeavltng '' 
 
 While he was yet singing, and before they had dme to 
 question him further upon the means by which he had ob- 
 tained his rich attire, the horsemen who had been sent in 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 2o7 
 
 pursuit of Arthur rode up to the door of the farm-hoii-^f,'. 
 The bridal mirth of course was hushed at the appearance 
 of the military, and the poor dizened peasant resigned his 
 exultation for a look of utter dismay. As they entered the 
 room, the figure of the clown attired in the uniform of Ar- 
 thur soon caught the eye of the dragoons. He was brought 
 forth, beseeching with dismal cries that he might not be 
 hani^ed till he had seen his father and motb'»r — a favour 
 which the comet told him he had the best chancs of obtain- 
 ing by telling honestly how he came into possession of his bor- 
 rowed plumes. This he did without hesitation ; after which a 
 consultation was held as to the plan of search. It was 
 agreed to divide the company ; one party taking the road 
 which led to the coast ; the other, commanded by the cor- 
 net, remaining to search the woods and thickets in the 
 neighbourhood. Meantime Arthur Fnllarton, exhausted 
 by the labours of the day, by the battle in the forenoon, 
 the long and precipitate flight beneath the fervour of a 
 scorching sun, and the cruel fears by which he was tor- 
 mented, was unable to continue his journey more than a 
 few miles beyond the place where he had parted with the 
 countryman. The sun had now gone down, and he beg;ia 
 to look about for some place in which he might take a fe« 
 hours' repose without being exposed to the heavy dews of 
 the midsummer night. The moon, which was nearly half at 
 the full, gave him just sufficient light to 6nd his way through 
 the thinly-populated woodland in which he travelled. Hia 
 extreme hunger, likewise, made him regret that he had not, 
 even at some hazard, cast himself upou the hospitality of 
 some cottager before the night had advanced so far. While 
 he continued his journey a sudden opening in the wood re- 
 vealed to him a portion of those extensive flats among which 
 the river Exe takes its rise, and at a little distance one of 
 those ancient manor-houses of the Elizabethan era, some 
 ♦ of which even still survive tte ravages of time. Perceiving 
 2- light in oae of the mndows, and trusLing to hia disguise, 
 
238 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 1 
 
 he determined to seek shelter and refreshment from tht 
 inmates, and hastened toward the place. To his surprise, 
 the house appeared deserted. The front door stood open, 
 and there was no sound from within that gave indication of 
 its being inhabited by living thing. Treading as lightly 
 as possible, Arthur entered with the feeling of one who 
 ventures into an enchanted hall. He walked cautiously 
 through several winding passages, guided by the straggling 
 rays of moonlight that fell through the narrow windows in 
 various parts of the building, until he reached the chamber 
 in which the light was placed. Here again the door stood 
 open. He took the precaution to look in before he entered. 
 On a table before a blazing fire lay a cloth, a pair of lights^ 
 and the materials for a comfortable supper. There weie 
 one or two stools standing near, but not a living being to be 
 sees. The keenness of his hunger decided Arthur's reso- 
 lution. He took his place, and began to eat with the eager- 
 ness of a famished appetite. While he was thus employed 
 a slight noise at the door made him raise his eyes to look 
 in that direction. A young peasant stood gazing in with 
 his eyes wide open, as if uncertain what to make of the 
 intruder, and Arthur returned his stare, for several minutes, 
 without moving. At length this strange demeanour pro- 
 duced conviction on the mind of the clown. 
 
 *'Eh, look zoe, 'tes tha ghost!" he cried aloud, and 
 darted down the staircase. 
 
 Arthur judged that it would be soon no place for him 
 to remain with safety. He accordingly retired, and hearing 
 voices at the front door, stepped aside into a darkened 
 corner, from whence he could see and hear all that passed 
 without being seeu in turn. The group who were entering, 
 and whom he could distinguish plainly in the moonlight as 
 they stood in the open hall below him, consisted of three 
 stout-looking fellows, armed with staves and pitchforks : 
 ciue of them rather elderly, and having the appearance of a ^ 
 cuinfortable farmer ; tke second a £i.£ little figure, whosa 
 
TOE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 239 
 
 dress announced the clergyman — but the wildcess of his 
 look and manner, and his incoherent discourse, mixed up 
 ■with huQting phrases, and images of the straugest kind, 
 gave indications of insanity, which were far from being 
 deceptive. The third was the young peasant who had 
 detected Arthur in the act of diminishing the refreshments. 
 
 "Where did thee zee it, lad ?" cried the farmer: " tell 
 hes reverence." 
 
 " Es zee's et zitting on tha stool by tha vireside as plaia 
 as a zee ma bond, an' a-gutterin tha pigeon-pie — zo a did, 
 an' et a-looken up reert in ma vace jist lick ennytheng. 
 'Chad jist hirned in to hide a bit vrom themmy dragoons 
 that be a-chasing tha Duke o' Monmouth's voak over tha 
 country, whan es vonn et zitting an' eating above oil at's 
 ease. 'Chawr aghest to zee et." 
 
 " How long's it rising;" asked the clergyman — " how 
 long's it rising, d'ye say ? — Hoicks ! Tallyho ! there they 
 go ! — How long, d'ye say ?" 
 
 " Two years and a month come next Michaelmastide," 
 replied the farmer. " 'Chell warndee there's a mint o* 
 gold a-hide about here, nif a body could lay hold on't." 
 
 " No ghost — no ghost," cried the clergyman — '' this 
 ghost of yours is, after all, no ghost. I know it, for I've 
 seen them where they meet by thousands in the moonlight ; 
 and they never eat — nor hunt, poor souls ! though they are 
 often hunted. Look ! there they go, now ! — I was once 
 preaching at church, and a good five hundred listening, 
 decked out in their finest, when, before you could cry 
 • hoicks !' the flesh and clothes dropped ofi^, and left nothing 
 but the bare bones sitting in the pews and standing in the 
 aisle. And, poor souls ! they knew so little of it ! I was 
 fain to shut the book and come down. I never was tha 
 better for it since. But tell us, friend — tell us ! Did the 
 spectrum actually consume the viands, or make a hollow 
 show and semblance thereof?" 
 
 " Anau 1" 
 
240 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 " Tell hes reverence," said the farmer, " did tba ghoost 
 eat, or only make believe ?" 
 
 " Eat ? Ah, thate a did, an' woundily, 'chell be zworn. 
 Eh, bet themmy ghosts must work hard, zure, to eat up 
 to zich a rate." 
 
 " Go foremost, farmer," cried the clergyman. 
 
 " An*t pleaze ye'r reverence, zeem to I 'twar more be- 
 zeeming in ye to go vore.reert, being more book-larned 
 and more witty to zpeak to et than zich as es." 
 
 Here a long discussion arose to know who should go first ; 
 which was decided by the whole party ascending the stair- 
 case in a body, and proceeding in a phalanx to the haunted 
 room. Arthur, to whom every moment was an hour since 
 he had heard that his pursuers were already oq his track, 
 did not wait to learn the issue of the adventure, but, as 
 soon as they had passed the corner in which he had secreted 
 liimself, hurried down the staircase and into the open air. 
 After lurking about the neighbouring country during the 
 night and a part of the ensuing day, he took once more a 
 southerly direction, resolving at all risks to seek an inter- 
 view with his family in order to make arrangements for their 
 common safety. On the way he fell in with one or two 
 of the insurgents, fugitives like himself, from whom he 
 learned the disastrous tidings that Monmouth and his 
 companions had already fallen into the hands of the royal- 
 ists. Our narrative left him on the evening after the battle, 
 seeking a place of concealment, with the German, Basse, iu 
 the neighbourhood of Cranbourn Chase. During that night 
 and the greater part of the ensuing day, they continued al- 
 i:io3t without food or rest, shifting from place to place of 
 the close woodland, and fearing to trust themselves to the 
 open country while the search was still so hot on every side. 
 About one in the morning, hearing the tramp of horses at 
 a distance, and the voices of the dragoons calling to each 
 other in the quiet woodland, he separated from the Germau, 
 turned into a neighbouring tield, and sought a place of con- 
 
THEDUKE OF'-MOKMOCTH. 241 
 
 cealraent amongst the long fern with which the place wa? 
 overgrown. The horsemen were diligent in their searchi 
 and in the bottom of a trench, covered over with the fern, 
 which he had heaped upon his person, they discovered the 
 young aspirant to the throne of England ! 
 
 On searching his person, the officers could not avoid smi- 
 ling to see, amongst other things, a quantity of charms and 
 spells, and a tablebook full of astrological figures, with ma- 
 gical arCaua, songs, receipts for sickness, and prayers for 
 various occasions. There was something so miserable in 
 the appearance of the Duke when brought before the com- 
 manding ofl&cer, that the latter, notwithstanding his little 
 respect for the character of the young nobleman, could not 
 restrain a movement of compassion. Monmouth wept likt- 
 a woman and seemed wholly to have lost his strength of 
 mind, and even all desire to preserve the dignity of fortitude. 
 
 " You are fortunate, sir," he said to the officer : " well, 
 this will be your fortune. I trust, after all, my mia will 
 satisfy the King : he will not take a life that can no longer 
 injure him." 
 
 Though desirous to treat his prisoner with the respect and 
 courtesy due to his rank, Colonel Portman answered with 
 Eome sternness : 
 
 " It were well, my lord, if you had taken tha necessary 
 consequences of this step into consideration before it had 
 occasioned the loss of many lives beside " He paused. 
 
 " Beside my own, sir, yon would say," said the Duke, 
 observing the cause of his hesitation, " and far more valu- 
 able ones. I deserve the rebuke, and it may be a prophetic 
 one." 
 
 The officer made no reply, and the party soon after set 
 «nt for Kingwood. Here Monmouth found Lord Grey, whc 
 with the guide had been taken early on the previous morn- 
 ing, and Busse, whose apprehension had preceded his own 
 but two hours. It was a singular fact, that Grey, notwith- 
 standing his constitutional iu&rraity. showed nothing, aft^r 
 
 Q 
 
242 THE DUK^ OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 his apprehension, of the weakness and want of fortitude 
 which appeared in the demeanour and discourse of Mon- 
 mouth. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVir. 
 
 Queen. Hamlet, thou hast deft mv heart in twain. 
 Bamlet. Oh, throw away the worser part of it. 
 And live the purer with the other half. 
 
 Shakspeaee. 
 
 We will now leave the prisoners at Kingwood, while Arthur 
 FuUarton continues to seek his father's roof, and return to 
 a personage of our tale who was not less interested in these 
 events than the immediate actors. 
 
 ^Mention has akeady been made of the celebrated Lady 
 Harriet Wentworth. It was now some years since she had 
 left England in company with Monmouth ; and the gay life 
 which they led in exile, the marked attention paid to her, 
 during their residence at the Hague, by the Prince and 
 Princess of Orange, together with her affection, criminal as 
 it was, to Monmouth himself, had hithei-to contributed in a 
 degree to shut out reflection from her mind, and render a 
 life of guilt comparatively easy. But when political designs 
 began once more to take place of affection in the mind of 
 Monmouth, and when the Stadtholder thought it prudent to 
 withdraw his countenance from the exiles, and the elegant 
 dissipation of a courtly life no longer afforded a resource 
 against the visitings of thought, her firmness yielded to the 
 reverse, and the voice of nature and of conscience began to 
 be heard within her heart. She now for the first time felt 
 the pangs which she had been the means of inflicting on the 
 forsaken Duchess of Monmouth. " Even-handed justice," 
 in the beautiful language of the poet, " commended the in- 
 gredients of her poisoned chalice to her own lips." She saw 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 243 
 
 in her approaching loneliness the image of that to which foL 
 years she had consigned the blameless heiress of Baccleugh, 
 and the reproaches of violated justice were added to those 
 of shghted virtue and religion. Even the sight of her chil- 
 dren, far from quieting her mind, brought forcibly to her 
 recollection those whom she heard in fancy upbraid her with 
 the loss of a father of whose protection she had bereaved 
 them, and whom she had consigned to orphanage even while 
 their parents lived. The unhappy Lady Harriet was not 
 one of those who boast the 
 
 -fatal strength to st^el 
 
 Their minds to hide the pangs they feeL 
 
 She knew nothing of that terrible and snbtle pride which 
 fears the show of weakness worse than ruin, and covers the 
 hideous features of despair with the miserable mask of an 
 apparent firmness and hardihood. She longed for counsel, 
 but where was she to seek for it in a strange land, far from 
 her natural friends, and surrounded by acquaintances who 
 could only afford her a superficial sympathy ! She wished 
 to see a clergyman, but there were none of her own commu- 
 nion in the city, and to whom else should she apply ? The 
 mind of Lady Harriet was not, however, in this respect 
 like the minds of many others. The writings of the earlier 
 English sceptics, the dissolute manners of the period, and 
 *he interminable variety and increase of new sects and 
 creeds, had already contributed in many minds to lay the 
 foundation of that unnatural doctrine of religious indiffe- 
 rency which has since made such prodigious strides through- 
 out society, and reduced the. profession of Christian faith, 
 in practice at least, to something little better than a system 
 »f heathen morality. Lady Harriet had heard frequent 
 mention made, in the circles amongst which she moved, of 
 an Oratorian clergyman who had been in early youth the 
 preceptor and the friend of Monmouth, though they had 
 not met since the latter was recalled by Charles to the 
 
244 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 English conrt. To him in her present state of anxiety dii 
 she determine to apply for assistance, trostmg that his in- 
 terest in his former pupil, as well as the charity belonging 
 to his profession, might induce him to aid her in changing 
 the designs of Monmouth, or in some way relieving her 
 from the difficulties of her position. The last occasion on 
 which Lady Harriet was brought to the reader's mind, waa 
 that on which Shamus Delaney conveyed a note, committed 
 to him by her attendant Alice, to the Oratorian house in a 
 neighbouring street. Finding Monmouth bent on his des- 
 perate project, and terrified beyond measure at thought of 
 the desolation which awaited her, she could for some time 
 do nothing more than wonder at his polite and tranquil 
 callousness of feeling, and shudder at the prospect of her 
 misery. In the evening after Alice had sent her note, she 
 remained in an apartment of the house, as if expecting 
 a visitor, standing in the middle of the floor, with her 
 hands clasped close and pressed upon her brow. 
 
 " Alice," she said in answer to repeated questions from 
 her attendant, " I must in some way put an end to this. 
 There is in this city an individual who has a high repute 
 amongst its inhabitants for holiness of life. He has lived, 
 they say, from youth in a persevering renunciation of all 
 the joys that made the world dear to other men. Pleasni e 
 he both despises and abhors, allowing to nature scarce what 
 is needful to sustain existence, and embittering even thati 
 with mixtures hateful to the sense. He only leaves his cell 
 at stated hours, when the duties of his order call him forth, 
 OT when some call of charity arouses him from his lonely 
 eontemplations. In everything, they say, he strives to 
 emulate what Christians were in the world before all the 
 world was Christian. But what I most regard in his life 
 is, that he has, according to the practice of his faith, beea 
 daily in the custom of hearing the inmost secrets of human 
 aouls, conveyed to him in the deepest confidence. Sucli 
 knowledge should £;ive wisdom, for there is no experienc 
 
THE DDKE OF MONMOUTH. 245 
 
 that lies so deep. To none beside is it given trnly to look 
 through the fancied window of the heart which the ancient 
 sage aflfected to desire. The friend breathes not to the 
 friend, the wife does not whisper to the husband the secret 
 of her own internal evil. I would gladly speak with such 
 a one, for no two spirits can be more unlike in their expe- 
 rience than his and mine. I have always lived in freedom 
 — ^he in close restraint. I have never known what self- 
 denial means — he makes it all his practice ; his faith, which 
 aids him to support those labours, has never had an influ- 
 ence on me. Methinks that two such minds cannot have 
 much in common. I have sent to speak with him. I will 
 freely tell him what my difficulties are, and seek his coun- 
 sel. I must do something to subdue this torturing remorse 
 that nightly tears my mind with an augmenting violence. 
 Hark ! some one knocks again." 
 
 S!ie paused to listen, while the front entrance again was 
 leard to open, and footsteps ascended the staircase. A 
 servant entered, ushering in a figure, which contrasted 
 strongly with the splendidly furnished chamber and the 
 rich attire of its inmates. It was that of an Oratorian 
 friar of the very humblest character, his habit as coarse as 
 it might be without an affected singularity, and an inde- 
 scribable union of meekness and austerity marked upon his 
 features. Taking off his hat as he entered, he bowed low 
 to the lady, and then resting on his cane, with a smile 
 which while it invited confidence repressed the very thought 
 of familiarity, he seemed to await the lady's commands. 
 
 After Alice had retired, Lady Harriet remained for some 
 moments chilled and repressed by the exterior of her visi- 
 tant. The stranger at length, perceiving her agitation, 
 seemed to feel the necessity of breaking a silence which 
 was growing more embaiTassing. 
 
 ■ " I fear," said he, " that I have committed some mis- 
 take. A message left at our convent directed me to this 
 mansion, as I supposed, where it was said I should find 
 
1 
 
 246 THE DUKE OF MONJIODTH. 
 
 one in want of spiritual counsel and assistance. But I 
 fear," he added, casting his eyes around the splendid cor- 
 iiice, " that there must be some error." 
 
 " There is none, good father," said the lady, gathering 
 joufidence ; " it was I who sent for thee." 
 
 *' And to what end ?" asked the Oratorian, abruptly. 
 
 " To help thee to a work of charity." 
 
 " 'Tis my vocation, madam — the slender price I pay in 
 hope of measureless interest." 
 
 " Thou wilt be surprised to hear, good father," said the 
 lady, •' that she who has had the boldness to summon thee 
 from the tranquil cell in which thou layest up treasure for 
 eternity, is not of thy communion nor thy faith." 
 
 " Not less my fellow-creature, nor less entitled to my 
 charity," replied the friar. " Thou wishest, perhaps, to 
 have some points of faith ^explamed, which seem at present 
 clogged, to thy unsatisfied mind, with heavy difficulties. 
 If my poor learning can help thee to a clear perception of 
 celestial truth, I shall deem my time as well bestowed as in 
 reconciling wounded consciences to Heaven." 
 
 " Oh, reverend father !" exclaimed the lady, in a voice 
 which startled the friar by the inward pain which it ex- 
 pressed, " how keen a reproach does thy charitable con- 
 jecture send into my soul ! Alas ! alas ! they are purer 
 hearts than mine that are busied with the science of eter- 
 nity. I sent for thee as one long skilled in the secrets of 
 human souls, to learn if thou couldst apply a remedy to 
 mine, for none more deeply need it." 
 
 " All that is in my power to do for thee," said the Ora- 
 torian, preserving still the same untroubled tone, " thou 
 tamest command most freely." 
 
 •' I heard so much," said Lady Harriet, " of thy repute 
 for sanctity and ptuity of life— of thy sternness to thyself 
 and thy tenderness to all beside, that I rather cboso to 
 trust my thoughts to thee than even to those whose minds 
 and habits more nearly resemble mine. Thou blashcst> 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 247 
 
 father ! Is it possible that praise from one like me shouIJ 
 thus disturb thee ?" 
 
 " Pride," said the Oratorian, " never quite deserts us. 
 Thou couldst almost find some sparks amid the ashes of 
 the dead. But, pray thee, to the purpose. What is it, 
 lady, thou wouldst have me do ?" 
 
 " Alas, sir !" said the lady, " my object is entirely sel- 
 fish. I do but seek some peace for a dbordered mind — 
 for a heart oppressed with guilt and self-reproach. Thou 
 hast, they say, beyond all other men, the art of healing a 
 diseased mind. Thou must, in thy long study of the souls 
 of men, have met, no doubt, with many labouring,' like me, 
 beneath the self-inflicted torment of remorse ; with many 
 who have bartered fame and virtue for an illusive dream of 
 happiaess, and found lasting bitterness where they have 
 looked for joy." 
 
 " Lady," said the Oratorian, " thy language has not the 
 clearness that becomes a spirit conscious of weakness and 
 d<'sirous of health. If thou wish that my assistance should 
 avail thee anything, speak, I pray thee, without disguise ; 
 — speak with the plainness that becomes a mind sincerely 
 anxious for the best and happiest peace— peace with itself 
 and Heaven." 
 
 Lady Harriet bent down her head and wept profusely 
 before she answered. " It is long, very long," she said, 
 *' since I have heard words that showed so near an interest 
 in my wretched fortune. I will then, charitable father, 
 speak sincerely. Thou beholdest (I yet have grace enough 
 to blush at the avowal) the mistress of him who owns thu 
 mansion in which we stand, — the guilty mistress, who 
 leaving for him (ah, rather for herself — for her own shame- 
 ful passion !) her friends, her country, and her honourable 
 fame, now writhes in ceaseless anguish, at the sense of her 
 "degradation — at the consciousness that what she rashly, 
 criminally cast away in joy, not all tlxa sorrow that residts 
 in huQian bosoms can restore." 
 
248 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTB. 
 
 " Thei^ is a difference," replied the Oratorian, " betweeT» 
 the judgments of the world and of its Maker, that the one 
 are always placable, the other seldom." 
 
 " The Duke of Monmouth once was known to thee ?'* 
 said Lady Harriet. "I heard that thou wert present 
 when Lord Crofts committed him to the care of thy reli- 
 gious brethren at Paris." 
 
 " I remember him well," replied the Oratorian after a 
 pause, and sighing as he spoke. 
 
 " I forsook for him," continued Lady Harriet, " a gen- 
 tleman who had been my friend and intimate from child- 
 hood, and to whom I was at length engaged, though 
 privately, in marriage. His wrong is not the least of what 
 disturbs my mind at present." 
 
 " It is but natural," said the Oratorian, " that injury 
 and ciime should breed remorse." 
 
 " And yet how is it," said the lady, " that others whom 
 I see pursue the same dark track appear quite free from 
 that unquiet spirit that makes my nights and days one 
 ceaseless agony? Oh, sir, there are solitary moments, 
 when, as I sit in my room alone and think of all the past, 
 a fire seems to arise within my breast, and courses through 
 all my limbs and every sinew of my frame, until I am 
 compelled to press my face with all my force against those 
 cushions, lest I should shriek aloud in suffering. I tell 
 thee, that when I read in childhood of those who rend their 
 flesh and tear their hair in exquisite torment of mind, ag 
 if the sharpest anguish of the body were a relief in the 
 comparison, I thought the whole a wild poetical exaggera- 
 tion ; but now such hours are those of which I speak, that 
 to save myself a single one, I would gladly walk barefoot 
 on bummg iron while my limbs continued to uphold me. 
 Vet others do not feel the same remorse. How many at 
 the English court, even now, with guilt like mine upon 
 their minds, live gaily, shine at feasts and junketings, and 
 otteu put the innocent and timid to the blush 1" 
 
THE DUKE OF MOJ^mOUTH. 249 
 
 . ♦* And do yon envy them, madam," asked the Oratorian, 
 " their frightfal and unnatural repose ? If so, you are not 
 so wise as experience might have made you. Rather bless 
 vour Maker for that inward torture by which He seeks to 
 draw you to Himself. The living heart that still can feel 
 remorse is not quite abandoned by the Deity. Besides, be 
 not too siffely guided by appearances. Perhaps some fellow- 
 creature draws from your own demeanour, when in public, 
 conclasions similar to those which you deduce from the 
 apparent gaiety of your contemporaries at the English 
 court. — Madam, you have dealt with me without reserve, 
 and you have a claim to equal openness from me. If you 
 would be freed from this unhappiness, remove its cause. 
 Renounce this detestable intercourse. Break off an attach- 
 ment that cannot be maintained with peace of mind or 
 honour, and return to your country, where you will find in 
 the consciousness of acting right, not only a refuge from the 
 terror which you .feel, but a more solid happiness than ever 
 j'our unhappy paramour could bestow upon you, — the sum 
 of which, perhaps, consists in bursts of passionate affection, 
 which are more than neutralised by long intervals of bitter- 
 ness, by torturing jealousies, and misconceptions frequently 
 recurring." 
 
 Lady Harriet shook her head in deep feeling, as if 
 assenting to the truth of the picture which the friar had 
 drawn of her daily life with Monmouth. " Alas !" said 
 she, " I sent for thee as the physician of human souls, and 
 thou piescribest me already a desperate remedy." 
 
 " Be convinced," replied the Oratorian, " that no remedy 
 can avail the heart that is not willing to be healed. In 
 this particular the power of him who administers medicine 
 to the mind is less than that of the physician of the body ; 
 for the latter does not, like the former, require the co-oper- 
 ation of his patient's will. Ah, madam ! abstinence from 
 sin and the flight of its occasion is a light penalty to pay 
 for everlasting paidon." 
 
 K 
 
250 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 " What ? never see him more I" replied the lady. " Were 
 it not enough, good fcither, to refrain from guilt ? To what 
 purpose were the cruelty of forsaking him who is of the 
 two the less in fault ?" 
 
 " Your common reason will inform you," answered the 
 clergyman, " that if you did not, while yet surrounded by 
 tte guards and grace of innocence, preserve that innocence 
 from injury, you scarce would show more fortitude now, 
 when, the descent to guilt has by custom grown familiar — 
 when shame, alas ! is weakened, and when grace is dead. 
 You would fall before you weU had risen. For the van- 
 quished there is left no safety but in flight. If you truly 
 hate the sin, you will flee from the temptation. But, 
 madam, I fear you rather long to be relieved from self- 
 reproach, than to be restored to vu-tue." 
 
 Oh, su-, do not think so hardly of me yet I" replied the 
 unfortunate lady. " The condition on which you ofter me 
 some prospect of repose is unexpected, and, alas ! it seems 
 severe, but I have not rejected it." 
 
 " Neither, madam," said the Oratorian, do I desire to 
 press you to any step which you may not sincerely judge es- 
 sential. I have dealt with you as it became me, — plainly. 
 You showed me your disease, and I have furnished you the only 
 remedy. Return to your country, madam, to your friends ; 
 break off at once, this day, this very hour, the guilty pas- 
 sion that enslaves your soul ; and remember that every link 
 you add to the long chain of crime but makes the hope of 
 liberty more faint." 
 
 Lady Harriet, who could not but acknowledge the truth 
 of what he said, sat musing for some moments at the picture 
 of recovered peace which the words, *' return to your country 
 and your fiiends," called up within her mind. 
 
 "My reason hath not an argument, father," said the lady, 
 " to urge against your counsel, although my heart has many, 
 but, alas I that heart has been to me too treacherous a guide 
 already. I believe yoa truly mean me well ; bat what 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 251 
 
 means, what opportunity have I to put your counBel into 
 act ? I am alone, an unprotected woman." 
 
 The Oratorian paused for a moment and then said : 
 " I can at present suggest no remedy, and my hour is 
 already, almost come for returning to the convent ; but I 
 will think of it, and doubt not to find some means of ena- 
 bling you to fulfil your resolution, if you should hold it be- 
 tween this and morning." 
 
 He departed, and on the following day a passage was 
 procured for the unhappy lady in a fishing vessel bound for 
 the southern coast of England. With the assistance of the 
 Oratorian, Lady Harriet and her attendant were enabled to 
 reach the vessel without observation, and on the following 
 evening set sail in the same direction which had been taken 
 by Monmouth only a day before. Her voyage, however, 
 was not equally favom-able. The small vessel in which she 
 took her passage was more than once obliged to put back 
 and come to anchor ; and almost the first news she heard 
 on her landmg, exhausted by fatigue and anxiety, upon 
 the English coast, were, that the fate of Monmouth's expe- 
 dition had aheady been decided, and that he was himself a 
 prisoner. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 After the decisive battle of Sedgmoor, being ordered to 
 iontlnue the search for the fugitive Duke, Colonel Pembroke 
 took the way toward the sea-coast, where he soon learned 
 the intelligence that Monmouth had fallen into other hands, 
 finding his services no longer needed in the field, he re- 
 signed his command, and retired to his own mansion, where 
 he began to devote himself, as before, to the care of his de- 
 pendants and to quiet study. 
 
 Pembroke was not one of those beings who are driven on 
 
252 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 the first disappointment tq despair, to indolence, to tflfsan- 
 thropy, or dissipation. Pew were aware how far his pros- 
 pects with regard to Lady Harriet had proceeded ; and 
 when they changed, he tamed his failure to a better ac- 
 count than he might, in all likelihood, have made of his 
 success. 
 
 "I can declare with truth," he said, speaking with 
 a friend who remonstrated with him on the secluded life 
 which he was leading, " that I was ignorant of my own 
 nature till what you have called and what the world calls 
 disappointment, taught me to open my eyes upon myself, 
 and to discover within my own mind and breast a field of 
 action far beyond that narrow one which the world pre- 
 sented to my eyes, and on which I was once so eager to 
 become distinguished. I look upon that mind as a garden 
 committed to my charge by the All-seeing Owner, who is 
 one day to demand a strict account of that which is purely 
 and originally his. If Cicero, a heathen, refrains from 
 blaming the philosopher who secludes himself from the 
 world with the sole view of cultivating wisdom, do not you, 
 a Christian, censure the man who seeks in solitude a far 
 nobler and more important end — the attainment of a solid 
 virtue? You do not blame the geologist, the naturalist, the 
 florist, whose whole time is devoted to the classifying of 
 genera and species, though no one ever hears of him or of 
 his labours. Then be consistent, and censure not him who 
 levotes all his time to the rearing up within his own soul, 
 the flowers of moral and religious goodness. He beholds 
 that garden which was given him that he might make it 
 worthy the eye of its owner, overrun perhaps with weeds, 
 a frightful hideous desert, where scarce an useful or an or- 
 namental herb can be discerned amongst the rank entangling 
 thing? that overspread the whole. Is it doing nothing, 
 iien, to pluck up one by one fi-om that foul mind, the 
 ricious weeds, the passions that deform its native beauty 
 and devour its strength ? And even suppose he has made 
 
THE DTTSCE OF MONMOUTH. 258 
 
 clear the soil, how much even yet remains to be done — how 
 much care and toil to be expended before the vices he has 
 removed can be replaced by opposite virtues — before hu- 
 mility shall take the place of pride, patience of excess, and 
 charity of self-love ! The world calls this an idle and use- 
 less life, and it is but consistent in so doing, for it is. natural 
 that it should undervalue all that is not done for its own 
 sake. Until you can show me, however, that the paths of 
 ambition, of love, of pleasure, or of avarice, have something 
 in them more rational than that which has for its end the 
 regulation of the mind and the purifying of the heart, you 
 must excuse me if I remain contented with my solitude and 
 prefer my own busy idleness to the idle business which you 
 propose for me." 
 
 One morning soon after his return home, while he was 
 yet at the breakfast-table, a servant handed him a pealed 
 note. It had been brought, he said, by an old man, who 
 still was waiting for an answer. The contents, which were 
 traced ^vith a hand that seemed enfeebled either by sickness 
 or agitation of mind, ran in the following words : 
 
 " If Mr. Pembroke will accompany the bearer of this 
 note, he will lead him to an object worthy of his chanty 
 and his assistance." 
 
 There was neither name nor date ; but neither wag ne- 
 cessary. Pembroke took his hat and without asking a 
 question of the messenger, he accompanied the latter from 
 the house. After walking quickly for about a mile, they 
 reached a miserable inn, which the guide informed him was 
 the place of their destination. In a small and dimly-lighted 
 apartment, which appeared still more dai'k to Pembroke as 
 he came from the broad daylight that shone without, he be- 
 held two female figures, one seated in deep mourning near 
 the narrow window, the other reading aloud at her feet. 
 As he lifted the latch of the unpanelied door, the former 
 turned her head and looked upon him. Wasted, and pale, 
 and wretched as it was, Pembroke was at no loss to recog- 
 
254 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 nise the countenance. The recognidon was snfficient to 
 awaken all his sympathy. Everj'thing was forgotten, ex- 
 cept that she had been once his friend, and that she now 
 was miserable. There was even an eagerness of courtesy 
 in the manner in which he hastened from the door to greet 
 her. Yet it conveyed unintentionally a severe reproof 
 The very generosity, the respectful delicacy and gentleness 
 of his demeanour, cut deeper to the heart than the harsh- 
 est words could do. A silent and almost unconscious form 
 of greeting had scarcely passed between them, when, over- 
 come by shame, and by a thousand recollections awakened 
 in all their force by the sight of this friend of her childhood, 
 the unhappy lady with a deep sigh fainted in her chau-. 
 
 While her attendant, assisted by Pembroke and the peo- 
 ple of the house, employed the usual means to restore con- 
 sciousness, Alice gave him an account of their voyage, and 
 of their landing two days before at a small village on the 
 southern coast, where they were stunned by the intelligence 
 of Monmouth's defeat and capture. 
 
 By this time Lady Harriet had recovered her self-pos- 
 session, and made an eflfort to act her part with firmness. 
 " Alice," she said, " and you, good friends, as I have some- 
 thing to say to this gentleman that concerns no other ear, 
 I will beseech you to retire. Remain within call, but do 
 not enter until you hear my voice." 
 
 They retired at her desire, and Pembroke, with a re- 
 strained and respectful air, awaited her speech. 
 
 " You have kept your word, Mr. Pembroke," she said, 
 " in answering my note as you have done. It was no 
 longer dated from his house : no writing of mine shall ever 
 be dated from his house again. It is not now my virtue, 
 but his misfortune." '^ 
 
 *' I am glad," said Pembroke, " that yon have at length 
 come back to your friends. For MonmOnth, let that name 
 no more return to yoar memory. You were our ornament 
 and our delight until he knew you." 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 255 
 
 ♦' Alas !" said Lady Harriet, " he is now a dying 
 man." 
 
 Pembroke paused for some moments, during which 
 Nature struggled deeply in his breast against habitual self- 
 discipline. By what arts, he thought in his own mind — by 
 what abhorred mystery of hell, what fiendish trick, what 
 cunning of the arch-enemy, did he contrive to reverse affec- 
 tion, to shoulder Nature's self from her position, and turn 
 love the inside outward, as even still to keep the name 
 and sufferings of Monmouth of all others nearest to her 
 soul ? Ah, fire of lawless love ! how arduous is it ever to re- 
 store to its first order and first beauty the house where thou 
 hast once consumed and blackened I — to reinstate deranged 
 affections — to restore the delicate sense of good and evil, 
 that for the most part, once scorched by that detested flame, 
 dies utterly and from the root. — But it is true indeed, he is 
 a dying man. 
 
 After a few minutes' silence, during which the involun- 
 tary burst of feeling passed away, he approached the chair 
 on which Lady Harriet was sitting, and wringing her hand 
 bard between both his, without being conscious that he did 
 so, he said : 
 
 " See now — what a hypocrite is Pembroke ! he prates 
 of charity and he knows not what it means. Forgive, if 
 I have said anything amiss. I can listen calmly now; — 
 and I have already told you that I long to serve you. 
 What is there I can do for you ? Speak, for you know 
 you can command me." 
 
 " I fear to name it, Pembroke." 
 
 " Do not fear it. If it be not guilt, and sure it cannot 
 be, what should yon fear in speaking it ?" 
 
 " In two days, Monmouth is to die." 
 
 " Monmouth again !" 
 
 ." Oh, Pembroke, do not deal so hardly with me ! That 
 he is guilty, it is past denial. That I am guilty, it is full 
 as certain. Bat now there is an end of guilt, though not 
 
256 THE DUKE OP MONTJODTH. 
 
 of sufferirig or shame. There is now no need of counsel or 
 remonstrance. The prison and the axe are vehement rea- 
 soners, and the divorce they make irreparable." 
 
 " What is it you would have me do ?" * 
 
 " Procure me speech and sight of Monmouth." 
 
 " Is it possible ?" said Pembroke, in a voice of still sur- 
 pinse. 
 
 " I knew you would refuse me," said the lady, " but my 
 means were desperate. Yet hear me, Pembroke — calmly, 
 dispassionately hear me. If Monmouth had succeeded in 
 this enterprise, — nay, if he had escaped with life from its 
 disastrous issue, — I never would have seen him more. The 
 Power that beholds all hearts and their designs knows 
 truly that it was the firm and resolute purpose of mine 
 never more to meet with Monmouth. A reverend, holy 
 man, with whom I spoke in Holland, with words of calm 
 and frigid truth so smote and chilled the sense of passion 
 at my heart, so changed my reason and alarmed my soul, 
 that I had firmly resolved no more to see or speak with 
 James of Monmouth. But now the case is altered : he is 
 to die — and what was crime before appears like duty now. 
 I know not why it is I feel assured that I am right in this, 
 but I do strongly feel it." 
 
 '' Do you think," said Pembroke, " that your conversa- 
 tion is that which most would serve him in his dying 
 hour?" 
 
 " Pembroke," said Lady Harriet, " the mind of Mon- 
 mouth is not as the minds of other men. Thou may'tt 
 thyself be present at our interview. What I would say to 
 hiin is neither unmeet for me to speak nor him to hear." 
 
 There was a conviction in the calm, distinct sincerity 
 with which Lady Harriet said those words that Pembroke 
 did not feel an inclination to resist. 
 
 " Harriet," said he, " I will comply with your desire, 
 though I fear your hope is sanguine. I will be myself 
 your escoi't in this journey, and 1 trust that Heaven may 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 257 
 
 put tliat persnasiofl on your tongue to make him see bis 
 heart with the same eyes with which yoa look on yours." 
 
 In something more than an hour after this conversation, 
 Pembroke and Lady Harriet, accompanied by Alice, were 
 on the road to London, in a travelling carriage belonging 
 to the &°st memioaed of the three. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 Soon after the apprehension of the Duke, Heniy Klngsly, 
 who was under the orders of Colonel Kirke, presented him- 
 self before that oflScer to solicit leave of absence. The 
 severity with which the system of proscription was followed 
 up made him anxious to do something with as little delay 
 as possible for the safety of the Fullartons. He had heard 
 nothing of the Fullartons. He had heard nothing of tlie 
 particular directions privately given by Kirke for the ap- 
 prehension of Arthur Fullarton, nor was he aware of the 
 existence of any cause for such resentment ; so that he 
 anticipated no difficulty in obtaining the furlough which he 
 s-ought. To his surprise, however, it was instantly re- 
 luscd. 
 
 " Home, sir ?" cried Kirke, with a look of astonishment, 
 " and y(;ur duty scarce well conunonced ! Impossible !" 
 
 " But for a time, Colonel " 
 
 " Impossible, sir, I tell you." 
 
 Kingsly was piqued no less by the abruptness than the 
 , d(. termination of Kirke's manner in refusing his request. 
 
 '• Well, Colonel," he said, " since you refuse me tha 
 favour I have asked, I must find some other means of ac- 
 complishing my wishes ; for I could not think of absenting 
 myself from my family at such a time, now that ray servicei 
 may be so easily dispensed with." 
 
 Saying th^so wordo, he was about to leave the room. 
 
 H 
 
258 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 " Co!^c hither, sir," said Kirke ; " (here are peculi 
 reas.iDs why I caimot just no'/ comply with your desire. I 
 have a despatcn to forward to General Feversham, who is 
 ?,t present in London, and you must be the bearer. On 
 y'.!nr retuni, you will be at liberty to take leave of absence 
 for uny reasonable time that you may judge convenient." 
 
 To this Kingsly had "no reply to make, and he left the 
 room, chagrined at what had passed, and wishing much that 
 Kirke had found some messenger to whom the hono'ir io- 
 tc:u-eG might be more acceptable. In a few hours after, Kirke 
 senc for him again, and gave the despatches to his charge. 
 
 " Stephens !" said Kirke, laughing, after Kingsly had 
 left the room, addressing an officer who stood near, " how 
 foolish those high-mettled fellows look when they imagine 
 they are carrying it off with the utaos''. dignity ! How 
 piquant it is to ibol such spirited wiseacres ! Playing a 
 sturdy trout is nothing to it. That gallant yeoman liitle 
 dreams what kind of commendation he carries in his 
 despatch to Feversham." 
 
 " And what may it be, Colonel ?" 
 
 " Thou wouldst be prying too ? There may be a timo 
 hereafter to satisfy thy cm-iosity also. — But I see more 
 prisoners. Rogues ! how sturdily they brave it out ! — No 
 news yet of this young hero — this Fullarton, to whosu 
 family no less than to himself I have so much cause to feel 
 obliged ?" 
 
 " None whatever. I have caused strict inquiry to bo 
 made amongst the prisoners, but in vain. His family are 
 still at Taiinton." 
 
 " Any evidence against them ?** 
 
 *' Some against the sister." 
 
 " Let her pass. We shall easily hear of her at any 
 time after we have laid hands upon the brother ; so muc'i 
 I know of them. Let the search for him be still coutiuued 
 >>ithout delay." 
 
 In the meantime Kingsly pursped his jonmej to London, 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 259 
 
 ^vhere he found all minds occnpied with the defeat and 
 capture of the Duke. The deepest interest prevailed' 
 throughout the capital to learn what might be the result of 
 the approaching meeting between the King and his rebel- 
 lious nephew, thongh few anticipated any favour for the 
 latter. On the third day after his apprehension, crowds 
 had assembled in the streets leading to Whitehall and 
 around the palace in order to witness his arrival. Under- 
 standing that Feversham was with the King, Henry waited 
 near the palace for an opportunity of delivering his de- 
 spatch, 
 
 " I doubt it will go hard with him, neighbour," said a 
 citizen, who had made holiday to see the prisoner, address- 
 ing a wealthy silversmith, who had secured j, an advanta- 
 geous position near the spot where Kingsly stood. 
 
 " Sir," replied the silversmith, with an oracular look, 
 *' the pitcher has gone too often to the well ; I question if 
 it will ever go home sound again." 
 
 " He has friends at court, however." 
 
 " Aye, courtly friends mayhap. What says old Web- 
 ster ? ' Flatterers are but the shadows of princes' bodies ; 
 the least thick cloud makes them invisible.' — But see ! 
 there's a stir toward Charing-cross." 
 
 While they spoke, the carriage in which the Duke was 
 seated drove rapidly through the crowd, escorted by a 
 body of cavalry, who, as well as the equipage itself, were 
 covered with dust from the journey. There was a rush to 
 see the prisoner, and Kingsly had some difEculty in secnr- 
 ing an advantageous place. The Duke descended from the 
 carriage, pale and anxious, yet still retaining something of 
 vhis customary gentleness and placidity. Next came Lord 
 Grey, who seemed to Kingsly to bear his fate with greater 
 firmness. Both were conducted to the apartment of Chif- 
 finch. In a few hours after, the Duke re-appeared with a 
 countenance still more agitated than before, and once more 
 entered the carriage, accomjjamed by Lord Dartmouth. 
 
2 BO THE DUKE OF MONS:ODTH. 
 
 Tho whisper speedily circnlated that he was to die, an3 
 that James, in answer to his entreaties for the royal mercy, 
 had told him that by usurping the title of King, he had 
 :*endered himself incapable of pardon. The carnage drove 
 rapidly away to the Tower, and the unhappy Monmouth 
 LOOn found himself within that dismal abode, made dreadful 
 by the memory of the many royal and noble victims, as 
 well as criminals, who had met a violent death within its 
 walls. As he gazed upon the gloomy fortress, the tragical 
 end of Essex and of other companions of his past career 
 came back with an oppressive force upon his recollection, 
 and gave a hue of deeper terror to his own approaching 
 destiny. 
 
 There was again, as Kingsly learned, a remarkable con- 
 trast in the conduct of Monmouth and Lord Grey when in 
 the royal presence, and generally since his capture. While 
 Monmouth, who was never charged with a lack of personal 
 bravery, now betrayed every symptom of weakness and of 
 fear. Grey, on the contrary, whose want of courage had 
 joccasioned the repulse at Bridporfc, and even, it was said, 
 icontributed chiefly to the defeat of Sedgmoor, was firm and 
 spirited, asking no favour and making uo disclosure. 
 
 On seeing Monmouth leave the palace, Kingsly hastened 
 'to present his despatches to General Feversham. The 
 latter glanced hastily through them, and desired to see 
 Henry on the following forenoon. Young Kingsly left him, 
 again chagrined at the delay, and did not fail to present 
 ! himself before him at the time appointed. To his utter 
 'disappointment. General Feversham now told him that it 
 iTf ould be impossible to allow him to leave London for some 
 .days, as he had despatches in return for Colonel Kirke^ 
 iwhicb could not be made oat before that time. 
 
 After leaving Feversham, he walked slowly and with a 1 
 mind full of uneasiness in the direction of the Strand, where 
 he purposed lodging for tho time of his stay in one of the 
 |irmcipul streets which raa at right angles to the water's 
 
THE DUKE OP MONMOUTH. 261 
 
 edge. He had nearly reached his lodging, when he heard 
 his name pronounced in a gentle tone by a person who had 
 for some time past been following him at the distance of a 
 few paces. Turning hastily round, young Kingsly beheld 
 a figure which he had not much difficulty in recognising. 
 It was that of the man whom he had seen treated with s» 
 much cruelty by Kirke, some weeks before, in the barrack- 
 yard, and whom at various times afterwards, while he re- 
 mained attached to that officer, he had the opportunity of 
 rescuing from similar chastisement. The man had after- 
 ward exchanged the service of Kirke for ihat of Feversbam, 
 but did not leave his gratitude behind i im. 
 
 " Mr. Kingsly," he said, " can I speak a word with you 
 iu private ?'' 
 
 " On whose part ?" 
 
 " It is your own affair." 
 
 " Come in then, and say what you will.** 
 
 They entered the house, and on reaching Kingsly's 
 chamber the man placed in the hands of the latter a toru 
 letter which he had picked up at Feversham's soon after 
 Henry left it The name, he said, had caught his eye, and 
 when he nad read a few lines the nature of the contents 
 was such as he trusted might render the breach of confi- 
 dence on his part somewhat excusable. The letter was 
 written b/ Colonel Kirke, and that portion of it which re- 
 lated to Kingsly signified that FeversLam would confer a 
 favour on the writer by detaining the bearer in the metro- 
 polis for as long a period as might be- Still Henry was 
 more perplexed than alarmed by this discovery. What 
 object could Kirke have in holding him aloof from his 
 family ? He determined, under all circumstances, to wait 
 a moderate time for Feversham's commands, and should 
 the delay become unreasonable, to resign his commission 
 and return home without them. With this view, he thanked 
 the man, who took his departure after promising to be on 
 the look-out for any coming misciiief. 
 
262 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 On the eve of the day appointed for bis exccntlon, the 
 l)ake of Monmouth at the usual hoar was shut into the 
 narrow cell in which he was to pass the night alone. 
 
 " The tenth !" he said to himself, as he paced uneasily 
 the apartment in which he was confined, " and the fifteendi 
 will be St. Swithin's day ! If I could but procure a respite 
 until that day were past, I might by the astrologer's pro- 
 phecy live many years." 
 
 The cliance was not too wild for a desperate mind to catch 
 at. He wrote pressingly to the King, soliciting a second 
 interview, and offering to make disclosures well worth the 
 respite of a few days, for which he petitioned. In some 
 hours after, General Feversham arrived at the Tower, on 
 tiie part of the sovereign, to learn what it was he offered to 
 commanicate. Nothing, however, was elicited during the 
 iateiview, and Monmouth was once more abandoned to his 
 own reflections. 
 
 ^'hen he found all hope of life was at an end, he pre- 
 pared to meet his fate in such a manner as to sustain his 
 former reputation with the people. He received his friends 
 with cheerfulness, and even gaiety, and seemed desirous 
 rather to avoid his own society than that of the humblest 
 individual with whom he spoke. Such was the state of 
 Monmouth's mind as the hour approached in which he was 
 to TOike his exit from the stage of life ; and the poorest 
 peasant, could he have read that mind in all its windings, 
 need not have envied him his dukedom, though years of 
 health were added to enjoy it. 
 
 All that remained to him of this world's business had 
 been completed. He had seen and spoken with his long 
 forsaken wife and children, and exchanged, with little ap- 
 pearance of emotion, a formal forgiveness with the injured 
 Duchess. 
 
 While he sat in the chair, his attention was caught by a 
 noise at the prison door. The key turned, it opened, and 
 the Lieutenant of the To«»*.' aj?peared. 
 
w 
 
 THE DDKK OF MONMOCTE. 2G3 
 
 " Well, Mr. Lieutenant, what's the matter ?" 
 
 " My lord," said the officer, " a visitor desires to see 
 your grace." 
 
 " So late, sir ?" 
 
 *•' So late, my lord, that bat for the company in which 
 she came, she woald have had much ado to find her way 
 beyond the gate." 
 
 " It is a lady, then, who desires to see me ?" 
 
 " One of Eve's daughters, an' it please your grace," said 
 tlie Lieutenant : " and since they will all be called ladies 
 i.ovv-a-days, I see not wherefore \ve should refuse her a share 
 !•! the title." 
 
 " Pray, Mr. Lieutenant, let her enter," said the Duko 
 V ith his natural suavity : " yet I know not one in England 
 i'lom whom I should look for so much interest in my fate." 
 The Lieutenant retired, and soon after returned ushering ia 
 a female figure closely veiled and in the deepest mourning, 
 ^Monmouth placed a chair, but his visitor continued standing. 
 
 " It is- but a poor abode," said the noble prisoner, ap- 
 proaching the lady with a coui'teous air, " in which you come 
 to visit ]\Ioumouth — will it please you to be seated ? and 
 say to whom I am beholden for so much charity." 
 
 " Oh, Monmouth," said the lady in a voice that startled 
 him, " too little need there is to tell you who it is th^it comes 
 to visit you !" 
 
 As she spoke these words, she raised her veil, and dis- 
 played a countenance as pale, and worn, and wretched, aj 
 grief, remorse, fatigue, and fear could render it. 
 
 " Is it possible. Lady Harriet ! How kind, how generous, 
 to afford this happiness to Monmouth before his earthly 
 career must close for ever !" 
 
 "Monmouth," said the lady, " did I not forewarn you of 
 this evil ?" 
 
 " You did indeed ; you showed yourself a better politician 
 than the best amongst us. Yet it went well enough at 
 £ist ; but that wily Ferguson and the dastard cowardice of 
 
264 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 Grey would have marred a thousand plots, thongh they had 
 been planned with the wisdom of a prophet. 'Twould charm 
 you to have seen how the people flocked to us." 
 
 " That's over now," said Lady Harriet. 
 
 *' Aye, so it is indeed, and let it rest. But how did yon 
 make the voyage ? You must have suffered deeply from a 
 thousand causes. And more wonderful than all, how did 
 you obtain admission to the Tower ? for this Lieutenant is 
 a very rigid fellow." • 
 
 " My lord," said Lady Harriet, " yon mast pardon me 
 if I answer none of those idle questions. It is enough that 
 I am here, that I speak with you, and that both of us know 
 you are to die to-morrow." 
 
 " Be certain," said the Duke, " the Lieutenant will not 
 fail to remind me of that at the appointed hour. For us, 
 dear Lady Harriet, while time remains, let us think and 
 speak of something else — of what remains to you when the 
 last act of Monmouth's tragedy is over." 
 
 " But, ray lord, that must be thought of too, and'in time," 
 said Lady Harriet, "or it will be thought of wheu it shill 
 be too late. There is a scene, my lord, beyond that act of 
 which you speak, in which it is needful that we be well pre- 
 pared to play our part with safety. The curtain may fall 
 to the eyes of this world wlien the axe has done its office ; 
 but there is that behind — a dread reality, where no stage 
 trick, no art of eloquence, no skill of tongue or gesture can 
 win us praise, — where, if we be not what we seem, we must 
 be worse than nothing. Oh, think of it, !i\Ioumouth, — thiuk 
 of it while there is time I" 
 
 " Dear Lady Harriet," said the Duke, " what means 
 this change of manner ?" 
 
 " My lord," said the lady, " I have sought you at this 
 late hour, not to gratify a fond affection in our parting, but 
 to startle and alarm you, if it were possible ; — not to soothe, 
 but to disturb and shake your soul. Listen to me, Mon- 
 mouth 1 lu four hoars more the sun will rise again ; and 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 205 
 
 jefore his next decline yoa will be judged on every word, 
 aad thought, and act, that has ever taken place between 
 ns. Our deeds of guilt and hell were done beneath the veil 
 of darkness, but they shall be judged in open light. I 
 would have you think of this, and not of what shall yet 
 become of me on earth ; for, wretched partner of my crime, 
 hear this I What once I would have thought a judgment, 
 now would seem a mercy. It would be now to me relief 
 that I were not a mother, — that there remained no mise- 
 rable living monument of our transgression to perpetuate 
 our shame, perhaps our guilt." 
 
 *' Is this your faith," said Monmouth, with a reproachful 
 look, " your tenderness — ^your aftection ?" 
 
 " Oh, fatal word !" said Lady Harriet, lifting her hands 
 with a look and attitude of utter misery, — " how many 
 3vils are inflicted in thy name ! If painters rise hereafter 
 ••ho would represent Affection, let them trace her on the 
 canvass in the gloomiest colours of their art. Let her 
 smile, but let the dagger lurk beneath her garment ! and 
 let her mingle poison unseen with the very milk that feeds 
 the baby at her breast. Love ! let the name no more be 
 heard, but call him murderer instead, for his trade is break- 
 ing hearts and damnhig souls. When he has ceased to 
 feed in infant minds the thirst of soul-corrupting pleasures, 
 to make the way of duty more difficult to the feet than 
 sloping ice, to deck vice in smiles and hang garlands on 
 the brow of crime, then give him the old name, and let hi;n 
 take his seat amongst the angels ; but until then let him be 
 called the fiead he is." 
 
 " There was a time," said the Duke, " when Lady Har- 
 riet regarded Monmouth's love with different sentiments." 
 
 " There was a time, my lord," said Lady Hamet, "^when 
 that unhappy being would have been anything that Mon- 
 mouth would have made her. Think not, my lord, that in 
 seeking to arouse you to a sense of your own guilt, I seek 
 to make it an apology for mine. No i bath have sinned. 
 
266 THE DJKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 and each shall bear, I know, the burden that belongs to 
 each. But let me speak more calmly ; for I wish to say 
 that, Monmouth, which must not be weighed as words of 
 passion are, but as we hearken to that which we know 
 ccmcerns our dearest interests. Think of your danger. 
 Monmouth ! tiiink of to-morrow morning — of your preciou: 
 soul. I clarge you, Monmouth, if there were anything ot 
 good in that love with which you once regarded me, by 
 that I charge you to remember that heaveu is just, and 
 that guilt shall not pass unpunished." 
 
 " To what puipose," said Monmouth, after a long pause 
 RJ: J in an altered tone, — " to what purpose this warning 
 ROW ? You have spoken things too dreadful even to think 
 of, and to no end that I can see." 
 
 " Is penitence nothing, Monmouth ?" said the lady. 
 " While there is life, there still is time for that. If amongst 
 the thousand sounds that at every moment strike upon your 
 mind, you hear a cherub voice that calld you to repent, be 
 deaf to all beside, and give your ear to that. While time 
 remains " 
 
 At this instant the bell of the Tower was rung for mid- 
 night, and both started as if some spiritual voice had sud- 
 denly called on them to separate. Before they had again 
 spoken, the door of the cell was opened, and the Lieutenant 
 appeared, and having shown himself, again withdrew. 
 
 " I am coming," said Lady Harriet. " Monmouth, fare- 
 well !" He took her hand and bowed his forehead upon 
 it. " I return to the home which many years since I left 
 with you upon a mournful errand. I carry back with me 
 in your place, two gloomy fellow-travellers — a loaded 
 memory, and a breaking heart. There are yet some hours 
 to sunrise, and I conjure you use them well. Let me have 
 at least the consolation of hearing in my solitude that Mou- 
 moutti showed at his death some sense of what his life had 
 been. I am called again. Once more. Monmouth, fare- 
 weU !" 
 
f THE DUKE OF MOKMOUTH, 267 
 
 She departed, and Monmouth remained for more Shan 
 au hour absorbed in overwheimiDg thought. The book or' 
 the past seemed distinctly to unfold itself before his eyes, 
 and page after page was turned as if by some spirit-stirring 
 hand, while none appeared that was not stained with some 
 oflFence that aow assumed to his eyes a dismal magnitude. 
 Nor whe?}, at length, exhausted by mental torture, he flung 
 himself upon his pallet, did the half-waking sleep that 
 visited his brain afford him respite from his ten'ors. The 
 shades of the distant and the dead came slowly floating by 
 his couch^ and seemed to stare upon him with an air of 
 menace and reproach. The form of Charles his royal father 
 appeared to taunt him with his repeated treasons, his re- 
 bellion, and his disobedience. Then came the shades of 
 FiJney and of Rnssdl, — their gory tresses dabbled in blood, 
 and their necks bearing the mark of the avenging axe ; 
 then Essex shook his bloody razor in his sight, and smiled 
 upon him with a terrible despairing eye ; and last of all, 
 but not the least appalling, the ghosts of the wretched 
 V. 23tem yeomanry, who even now were suffering for his 
 defeat, seemed so muster in shadowy crowds around his 
 bed, and to say, while their dead fingers were pointed 
 toward his pallet ; 
 
 " Ah, Monmouth ! why did you bring ruin to our happy 
 nc'jies ? To your ambition wo have suffered in out blood 1" 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. "^ 
 
 On the following morning immense multitudes assembled 
 to see the execution. Young Kingsly, whose increasing 
 anxiety with respect to the FuUartons made him now most 
 anxious to hasten his return to Somersetshire, was acciden- 
 tally compelled to remain and witness the closing of the 
 young adventurer's career. Of the private faults or fail- 
 
2G8 THE DUSE OF KONIICUTH. 
 
 mgs of the noblo convict, the crowd made little acccant : 
 they remembered him as their former favourite and idol, 
 and were far from sinking all memory of past attachment 
 in his late unfortunate attempt. 
 
 While Kingsly stood pacing to and fro with an uneasy 
 ftir near the place of execution, a young ensign with whom 
 he had some acquaintance approached him hastily, And 
 said in a low voice : 
 
 *' Kingsly, have you friends in Taunton of the name cf 
 FuUarton ?" 
 
 " I have," replied Henry, starting at the question : 
 " why do you ask ? what of them ?" 
 
 " Nothing ill as yet that I know of," said the ensign, 
 " but much that is impending. I would strongly recom- 
 mend to you, if you have any interest in London, and feel 
 any interest yourself for theii security, *,o lose as little time 
 as possible in exerting it on their behalf." 
 
 *' What is it you have heard ?" asked Kingsly in deep 
 alarm ; " pray let me hear it. What danger is it that 
 threatens them ?" 
 
 " I will tell you all I know. You are aware that a 
 certain mild and beneficent gentleman, named Kirke, is at 
 this moment commaudiag at Bridgewater." 
 
 '' I know it." 
 
 " Well, you know likewise that he is not altogether $i\ 
 very dove — that he can upon occasion overcome his natural 
 feelings of lenity and kindness." 
 
 " I fear too many will have reason to know before the 
 year is ended." 
 
 " Well, then, take a fi-iend's advice, and take care that 
 your acquaintances the FuUartons be not amongst the num- 
 ber. I have it from good authority, that a youth of that 
 name was reported lately to Kirke as having distinguished 
 hiii^elf pretty handsomely at the fight of Sedgmoor, and 
 that Kirke is looking out for him with as eager an eye as 
 eviii- iowlur cast aiter a ^araidge iu a stubble-fi 'rl. Ft •> 
 
THZ DUKZ OF moi,*Mout:j. 2C9 
 
 hmi sapientilus — ^you know f.he rest. It ecerrrs there rvas 
 some old quarrel, of what kind I know not, but Kirke has 
 been heard to speak of it — and he is not a xnzt to wasto 
 wo)'ds without the intention of making them good." 
 
 " I am most indebted to you for this-—! thank yon sin- 
 cerely." 
 
 "Not a word: I'd expect yoa*d di as anch for me. 
 Farewell, and lose no time." 
 
 From the moment he had heard these news, the anxiety 
 of Kingsly to hasten his departure increased tc at «ixtent 
 that was almost intolerable. Bat Feversham had orders 
 for the West which could not be made out Tintii after the 
 execution bad taken place. 
 
 lu the mean time, Monmouth prepjj-ed to meet his end 
 ic such a manner as might not disgrace his memory atcongst 
 the people, with whom the show of firmnjss and wurage 
 at the last hour will cover many a failing. 
 
 Two clergymen were appointed to attend him at hie 
 dying moments. They had been more than o.ice with the 
 prisoner since his condemnation, and now, about an hour 
 before his death, entered a small apartment adjoining that 
 in which he lay. One of these was a man of mild demean- 
 our., and evidently desirous to make some impression On the 
 heart of the prisoner ; the other, by his sfern and gloomy' 
 air, seemed oae who was rather looking to Tying n-om him 
 a confession of ar:or, than to be assured that he sincerely 
 felt it. 
 
 " Is th« Duke risen yet, master Lieutenant ?" fisVsd ths 
 milder of the two. 
 
 " Long since, sir. He was xfp ere sunrise. He haa 
 passed much of the morning in writing letters to his friends, 
 .i tiiink I hear him stir." 
 
 *' I am concerned to tell you," said the more severe look- 
 ing of the two, " that I cannot remain longer at prcs'jut; 
 bat I hope to return eve all is at an end. I feel anxious 
 to do so, for he requires to be aroused, 1 pressed him hard 
 
270 THE DUKE OF MONilOUTH. 
 
 the two last interviews; yet; strange to say, the mere 
 veheTr.eat was my exhortation the less he seemed aiit'cted. 
 I am afraid you take him too mildly — too quietly, and that 
 his precious soul will slip through your fingers while you 
 : re considering how to put your admonitions in the least 
 ofiFensive form. The shock must be electrical that would 
 ai-ouse the dead." 
 
 " It is of importance indeed," said the other gently, 
 '' that he should be drawn to « feeling of his state." 
 
 " Drawn to a feeling ! That is very well. You should 
 know that it is only the innocent and child-like who can 
 be drawn to penitence. The hardened sinner must be driven 
 to it ; and that is what makes me loth to leave him in 
 your hands, — I fear you have not energy enough to drive 
 him to it." 
 
 " I shall do my best in the case," said the other, desirous 
 to avoid an argument. 
 
 " WaII, Heaven prosper your eflforts, and give you the 
 strengtli you want ! Above all things, remember that he 
 be distinct in his declaration of religious principle, and that 
 he make open profession of soitow for his scandalous course 
 of life. These are points that concern the souls of the 
 multitude, who may be swayed by the example of one 
 whom they almost adore." 
 
 " And while we lead him to make open profession of his 
 sorrow, it may be as well, moreover, if we can contrive to 
 make him feel it." 
 
 " Thou carpest at my words, good brother ; but it is 
 5urely necessary we should have something definitive to say 
 apon the subject to those who may raise doubts of his con- 
 version." 
 
 " In the mean time," said the other, " it may engage bia 
 attention a little, if he should see that bis own welfare ig 
 not wholly out of our thoughts on the occasion." 
 
 " Why ghould yon thiak that 1 would have it other- 
 wise ?^" 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOCTH. 271 
 
 Before any replj was made, the door opFcned, and Mon- 
 mouth appeared, dressed in a suit of black, pale, anxious-, 
 and unquiet in the expression of his features, but with an 
 air of resolution, as if his mind were wholly bent on meet- 
 ing the fatal stroke with a becoming firmness. He greeted 
 the divines with his wonted courtesy, especially him who 
 seemed the milder of the two, bat not with the look of o)je 
 who looked for either cousolatioa or advantage from their 
 bociety. 
 
 " My lord," said the more forward of the two, " I hope 
 you have considered what I urged apon your grace when 
 last we spoke together. Remember, my lord, that after 
 death there is no time for repentance. The world is aware 
 of the profligate course you have pursued ; and it is fittiUji 
 at this hour that you should make some atonement to the 
 world, and to her who has been for many years the mise- 
 rable accomplice of your crime." 
 
 " Sir," said Monmouth with an offended air, " there may 
 be charity in your intention, but I would there were more 
 in your speech. Yet one word may suffice for all : I thiuk 
 the connexion of which you speak was innocent in the sight 
 of Heaven, and I trust that it may so be viewed hereafter." 
 
 "Oh, monstrous!" cried the clergyman. " He justities 
 it! This is worse and worse! Innocent, sayest thou ? — 
 take care, and heap not sin on sin — scandal on scandal ! 
 Is seduction nothing ? Is adnlteiy nothing ? Is it nothing 
 for the father to forsake his wedded wife and his children ? 
 Is that innocent in the sight of Heaven, which Heaven de- 
 clares abominable in its sight ?" 
 
 " Good sir," said Monmouth with impatience, " I desire 
 no more of this. It is not in an hour that men's minds are 
 changed, and I do not know the length of time in which 
 Buch language and such demeanour as yours could alter 
 mine." 
 
 " Hardened and obstinate man !" exclaimed the clergy- 
 man, ■' ; leave you in your wilfulness! Yet, remember 
 
272 THE DUKS OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 I 
 
 that the condition which you represent as Innocent is one 
 accursed of Heaven, and shameful in the eyes of man. So 
 miugle soulless things their mortal destinies : there is no 
 mystery — no holy rite at the espousals of the race that 
 beat the air and grovel on the earth ; so live they — so they 
 die ; but not so will it be with them when life is at an end !" 
 
 Hedeparted, much to thesatisfactionof hi3companion,\vho, 
 after a little pause, addressed the prisoner in a kinder tone. 
 
 " My lord," said he, " you wers to blame to let the good 
 man go away in anger." 
 
 " HoAv dared he, sir, to taunt me with such words ?" 
 
 " Alas, my lord," said the clergyman, " if the maauer 
 and the heart were one, the name of friend and foe v/ould 
 oft change places." 
 
 The Duke paused, and then said : 
 
 " Speak you, sir — I will listen to you."- 
 
 " I had rather not, my lord," replied the clergyman. *' I 
 had rather you would look into your own breast, and never 
 heed me. You will there find a better counseller than eit: , r 
 of us." 
 
 " Pray speak, however, sir," said Monmouth : " it was 
 listening to the counsel of my own heart that brought ma 
 here." 
 
 " My lord," said the clergyman, '* I should be loth to 
 offend you, and yet I should be still more loih to see you 
 close your days in error. Do you think you said the truth 
 when you declared you thought that criminal intrigue to 
 which my friend alluded was innocent in the si^lit of 
 Heaven ?" 
 
 " I do !" cried Monmouth with veheroeace ; '• I am suro 
 ihac ii was iuuocenc." 
 
 " The sense of good and evil, my lord," replied the couii- 
 sellor, " is more delicate than good repute itself. Did you 
 think it innocent, my lord, when first that thought sug- 
 gested itself to your mind — when you first beheld that lady, 
 and fii'St thou;iht ot abauduuiii^ tor her the claims uf a Lu;i- 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 273 
 
 band and a father? My lord, your Dachess hoaoured 
 and was true to you. Is it not true, my lord ?" 
 
 " It is — most true — it is." 
 
 " And in return for that," continued the monitor, " you 
 have bequeathed her misery ; while to her wretched sub- 
 8titnte in your a£fections you have left a moral ruin irre- 
 trievable for this world, and it may be for the next. Do 
 yon call that innocent in the sight of Heaven, my lord ?" 
 
 " Sir," said Monmouth, " I see it was not to flatter me 
 that you reproved the roughness of your friend." 
 
 " Whatever your own looee ap'nions were, my lord, you 
 saw plainly enongh that you led that unhappy lady to vio- 
 late the strongest natural feelings of conscience and of duty. 
 AY hat you say you did with the sanction of your false con- 
 science, you led her to do against her true one. Do you 
 call that innocent in the sight of Heaven?" 
 
 Monmouth raised his person as if to answer, but meeting 
 the steady eye of the questioner, ho drew back again and 
 was silent. 
 
 " In your own person to transgress the law of nature 
 itself, and to lead a hapless fellow- creature to violate that 
 of Nature's Lord — to destroy her peace of mind, to cut 
 her off from the good and pure amongst her species — to 
 leave her destitute of that which on the throne or in the 
 cottage is woman'^ crown of gold, and stripped of which 
 she is but a lump of clay — spiritless — graceless — lightlesa 
 — valueless ! — Do you call that innocent, my lord ?" 
 
 Monmouth rose hastily, and looked as if he would gladly 
 have left the room if it were possible. He paced rapidly 
 two or three times across the floor, stopping short several 
 times as if about to speak, and then resuming his hurried 
 pace in full conviction of the weakness of his argument. 
 
 " Yon best remember whom you chiefly injured," con- 
 tinued the clergyman. " Methinks you will not find them 
 amongst the foremost to join you in that sentiment." 
 
 While he was speaking, Monmouth's mind reverted to 
 
274 THE DUKE OF MOKMOUTH. 
 
 the past. Old scenes, old recollections, thronged upon him ; 
 his heart, naturally compassionate, was stirred at the painful 
 retrospect. The memory of years gone by — ^years wasted 
 in idle pleasure, or stained with sin — came vividly before 
 his mind. Again he saw his monitress of the preceding 
 night a gay and happy girl, bounding along those walks 
 and hedges with the elastic joy of innocence ; again he saw 
 her features brighten up at his approach, as she flew to meet 
 him with unchecked and unsuspecting ecstacy. And then 
 the dreary change came darkly on his mind. He saw that 
 home deserted — that happy countenance grown haggard, 
 thin, and conscience-stricken — that happy heart consigned 
 to lasting anguish ; and while the thought " this was my 
 work" came over his mind, the heart of rock was softeued, 
 and he covered his face in silence. The reverend coun- 
 sellor, raising his hands and eyes unseen behind his chair, 
 seemed to pray that Heaven might take him in his tender 
 moment, and change the heart while it was melted. 
 
 "You would not now say, my child," said the clergyman, 
 laying both hands on the shoulder of the Duke, and ad- 
 dressing him with a paternal air, — "you would not now 
 say that bond was an innocent one ?" 
 
 Monmouth stood up, and giving his hand to the clergy- 
 man, was about to answer, when the second divine, who had 
 left the room, suddenly returned. He had evidently caught 
 the last words that were spoken by his companion, for he 
 repeated them. 
 
 " No," said he, " you would not now, my lord, I trust 
 declare it innocent ? I am glad to see that you have come 
 to a sense of your unhappy course. Those tears, my lord, 
 look well. Though often a deceptive mark of penitence, 
 they are ofcen likewise signs of the sincerest sorrow. I 
 a«k yon now again, if you think that bond was innocent ?" 
 
 " I do, sir," said Monmouth, laying aside all appearance 
 of emotion ; " I consider it innocent in the sight of Heaveu 
 and mW 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 275 
 
 As he said these words, the bell of the Tower tolled, the 
 door was thrown open, and the guards appeared who were 
 to conduct the prisoner to the scaffold. From this moment 
 Monmouth's whole mind seemed bent on meeting his end 
 with firmness, and doing nothing to forfeit in his death that 
 sympathy and favour of the mnltitade on which he had fed 
 through life. 
 
 " Lost in his error 1" said the clergyman who had last 
 addressed him. 
 
 " Brother," said the other, " thou hast done irreparable 
 evil : thou hast throst thy zeal between him and the grace 
 of Heaven .'* 
 
 So ended the hopes of Monmouth : bnt not so ended 
 the consequences of his fall to his numerous adherents in 
 the West. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 "We left Arthur Fullarton in the act of making his escape 
 from the disastrous field of Sedgmoor. The royal army 
 still occupied a portion of the highway leading to Taunton, 
 50 that he found himself under the necessity of avoiding the 
 public road, making his way on foot through the pasture 
 and woodlands, with which he was well acquainted. With 
 the utmost speed that he could use, the second evening had 
 begun to close before he came within sight of the town ; 
 and even then his apprehension of encountering the victo- 
 rious royalists made him linger about the groves and thickets 
 in the neighbourhood until the night had fallen. 
 
 In the mean time his return was expected with the most 
 mtense anxiety in the cottage. The uneasiness evinced 
 by Aquila was so excessive, that her father began to be 
 alarmed no less for her health than for the safety of hii 
 aoQ. 
 
276 THE DUKE OP IKJSMOUTH. 
 
 " Yon must be patient, Aquila," he said to her at length 
 ■with anger : " I desire that you will not once more leave 
 the cottage. It will not quicken his approach one step, 
 though you should run to the door a thousand times in an 
 hour, and devour with your eyes every object that appears 
 upon the Taunton road. Your very anxiety will defeat it- 
 self. Your conduct will be observed by strangers, and will 
 excite suspicion." 
 
 " I am weak, sir," answered Aquila, — " very weak. I 
 thought I had strength of mind, but I have not, — I have 
 not the least. Exactly in proportion to my pride and con- 
 fidence am I now cast down and powerless. There is no use, 
 father, in attempting a disguise which I cannot support. 
 I Hark ! did you hear a knock ?" 
 
 " Stay, stay ! it is your fancy, child." 
 
 " I was sure I heard a knock at the front-door, a low 
 tap — tap, like that," (tapping with her bended finger against 
 the wall,) " as if some person wanted to come in, but was 
 afraid of being heard by somebody else beside the people 
 in the house. I heard it fifty times last night between 
 asleep and waking. Every time I dozed, it came, — tap — 
 against my door or window ; but when I started up and 
 flew to answer it, I found all as silent and as lonesome as 
 the grave.'' 
 
 " You let your fancy run away with you." 
 
 " Oh, father, there is still a difference, and a wide one, 
 between my case and that of even the wretchedest beings 
 who are at this instant lamenting over the misfortune which 
 as yet I only fear." 
 
 " And what is that ?" 
 
 *' I stimulated Arthur to this course. He was about to 
 fly from Taunton, for he saw that Monmouth's hopes were 
 at an end, but I urged him to remain and join the camp. 
 Rash fool ! how dearly have I sufilered for it ! If anything 
 happen Arthur, father," she continued, starting from her 
 seat with a wild air, " I will not answer for the consequence^ 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH, 277 
 
 to my mind. I know it is a weak one — miserably weak, 
 and I am sure it could not bear so dreadful a calamity." 
 
 " It is weak because you will have it so," said her father 
 angrily ; " our will is always in our keeping. Pray, child, 
 be quiet, and do not add to oar disappoiatmeat by such im- 
 patient words." 
 
 " Well," said Aqnila with a troubled air, " a little pru- 
 dence is worth all the fervour in the world. I would I had 
 been better advised ! It is easy to endure misfortunes 
 which are not of our own making." 
 
 " There is merit still," said her father, " in enduring those 
 that are." 
 
 He had hardly said the words, when Aquila started from 
 him with a faint cry, and rushed from the room. He had 
 heard nothing, but her more watchful ear had now for the 
 first time detected a real sound at the front door. It was 
 already near midnight, and the moonlight shone so brightly 
 through the uncurtained window as to render lamp or can- 
 dle needless. In a few minutes Aquila returned leading ia 
 her brother, who was muffled in his riding-cloak, and even 
 by the imperfect light showed evident signs of long fatigue. 
 
 " I was afraid to be seen approaching the cottage before 
 night," he said, although I knew you were anxious. Has 
 there been any search ?" 
 
 " Are you safe and well, Arthur ? No hurt ? no wound ?" 
 
 " None, none." 
 
 "Thank Heaven for that ! All's ready, everything is 
 packed in the rooms ; we can leave the cottage in an hour 
 if you desire it." 
 
 *' Impossible 1" said Arthur ! " it is now too late to think 
 of making our escape by flight. We must only shift our 
 quarters as we can until the storm has blown away. For 
 you, and for ray father, I have a plan arranged, by which 
 I think it probable that you may rest unmolested even here, 
 but for myself, there is no corner too close for me until the 
 first fury of the government has paj^gd away." 
 
278 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 " They have begun their work already, I can heai ," said 
 Caspar. 
 
 " And I conld see it too," said Arthur, " notwithstanding 
 all my care to keep out of the way of the troopers. The 
 whip, the gibbet, are already active." 
 
 *' Already ! is it possible ?" cried the old man. 
 " I have seen it, so that I may well believe it," answered 
 tis son. 
 
 " Oh, tyrants !" exclaimed Aquila with a look of hon-or, 
 •* the day shall come when you must answer this ! But, 
 Arthur, what is to be done ? You must not tarry here — 
 and — stay 1" she added, pressing her hand upon her brow, 
 and remaining for an instant wrapped in thought, "I have it ! 
 I know it ! I will yet secure you 1" 
 
 " How do you mean, child ?" asked her father anxiously. 
 " — Look yonder !" cried Aquila, drawing Arthur to- 
 ward the window, and pointing to the distant church, the 
 spire of which appeared above the trees, looking spectral 
 in the sombre light — " look yonder," she added in a whis- 
 per, audible only by her brother ; " do you remember the 
 story of the cavalier and the little heroine of the tombs ? 
 our mother's vault 1" 
 Arthur started. 
 
 " You have fixed upon a dismal lurking-place," he said, 
 "but a secure one." 
 
 " Come, then, Arthur, come quickly, if yon deem it so." 
 " They will not think of searching there indeed." 
 " Come, Arthnr, life is precious — so is reason." 
 ** What was it brought that gloomy story to your memory, 
 Aquila ? I should have died a thousand times before I 
 could have thought of it." 
 
 " Come, Arthur, why do you delay ? I'll tell you all 
 when you are safe. — Ha ! do you hear ?" 
 
 The tramp of horses was heard distinctly in the calm 
 moonlight; it approached along the Bridgewater mad. 
 Without farther delay than was necessary to provide them- 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 279 
 
 selves with the meaus of entering the vault, Arthur and hie 
 sister left the cottage, going out by a back door, and hur- 
 ried together in the shadow of the hedges toward the church- 
 yard. They reached it unperceived. All here was silent, 
 calm, and motionless. The faint, low wind of the summer 
 midnight scarce moved the aged and ivy-mantled bough g 
 that overshadowed the melancholy village of the dead. Be- 
 fore them stood that building within whose walls, a few 
 Aveeks before, Aquila had almost given her hand to Kingsly, 
 «n J where her fatal enthusiasm in the cause of Monmouth 
 hail first burst forth in all its vehemence. 
 
 " Quick ! quick !" she said, as Arthur paused to look 
 upon the grass-grown vault in which he was about to take 
 np his dwelling ; " I still can hear the echo of those terrible 
 feet behind us." 
 
 Having opened the vault, Arthur Fullarton bade farewell 
 to his sister and prepared to descend. 
 
 " I will come to you before dawn and after nightfall every 
 day until we are sure there is no danger, or until some cer- 
 tain opportunity of escape presents itself. Farewell, dear 
 Arthur!" 
 
 He entered the vault, and his sister so drew the neigh- 
 bouring shrubs and briers across the mouth that the open- 
 ing could not be detected. Having made all sure she 
 hurried back to the cottage, where she told her father in 
 what manner her brother had concealed himself. Before 
 daybreak, Aquila was at the vault again with a supply of 
 food sufficient for the day, or even, in case of any interrup- 
 tion to her visits, for a long time. Morning and evening 
 for more than a week she continued to present herself be- 
 fore him at the appointed hour, and to give him all the 
 information which she had been able to collect of the pro- 
 cecdiogs of the royal army. 
 
280 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 After the death of Monmoiith, Henry Kingsly took his 
 way from the metropolis, full of the intelligence he had re- 
 ceived before the execution, and in the utmost anxiety to 
 ascertain what had become of those friends in whom he had 
 so much cause to feel an interest. As he approached that 
 part of the country which had been the scene of the insur- 
 rection, the fearful evidences of its failure became manifest 
 at every step. Parties of horse were seen galloping in all 
 quarters in search of the proscribed. Within sight of the 
 pubhc road, the gibbet groaned beneath its victims, and 
 the shrieks of the unhappy wretch who was doomed to the 
 triangle made the summer noon more terrible than midnight. 
 Desirous to avoid the sight of evils which he could not alle- 
 viate, Kingsly put spurs to his horse, and continued his 
 journey at the top of his speed. It was late in the evening 
 when he entered Taunton. The streets were deserted, many 
 of the shops closed, and although the royal generals had not 
 yet proceeded with their sanguinary inquest farther than 
 Bridgewater, the silence of the place, the throwing up of 
 a window now and then as he trotted through the streets, 
 and the look of timid curiosity that was cast upon him as 
 life approached, gave token of some public calamity either 
 experienced or expected. 
 
 On entering his father's house, he beheld upon the dimly- 
 lighted staircase a figure in black, which he quickly recog- 
 nized as that of his sister Tamsen. Greeting her affec- 
 •ionately, almost his first inquiry was after the Fallartous. 
 Respecting Aquila and her father, Tamsen was able to set 
 his doubts at rest ; but of Arthur she had learned nothing 
 since the battle. It was rumoured indeed amongst their 
 acquaintance that he had been seen about Tone Cottage a 
 short time before that event, but with what truth she was 
 taable to ascertain. 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. "" 281 
 
 While they were still conversing in a low tone upon the 
 staircase, the voice of Captain Kingsly was heard above. 
 
 " Tamsen, whose was that knock ?" 
 
 " A friend's, sir — 'tis my father," she said to Henry, 
 " Come and speak to him." 
 
 They ascended and found the old royalist at the open 
 door of the withdrawing room, leaning on his crutch, and 
 looking worn with anxiety. 
 
 " Ha 1 Henry ? Thou art welcome," he exclaimed, em- 
 bracing him. " Art thou come to take thy share in the 
 great lesson ? There is now some hope that men will see 
 with clearer eyes. Look all around ! There is not now a 
 point of the compass to which you can turn your eyes, 
 where you may not discover some of the disastrous eflFects 
 of disloyalty and insubordination. So that unhappy noble- 
 man, that three-piled rebel, has paid at last the public for- 
 feit of his crimes ?" 
 
 " Sir, I saw the Duke of Monmouth die." 
 
 " Well, silence to the dead. How did he die ?" 
 
 " With more firmness than I should have expected from 
 one not wholly callous to remorse, who had so much cause 
 to fear that passage. When he came upon the scaffold, it 
 would almost appear as if he were about to dispense some 
 general good amongst the multitude, so fervent was the 
 sympathy which the sight of him awakened in their bosoms. 
 He bade the executioner, with the gentlest voice, to do his 
 work well, and not, as in the case of Lord Eussell, to make 
 it necessary to repeat the blow ; but the wretch seemed 
 daunted by the counsel, for he struck so faint a blow that 
 we could all see Monmouth raise his head from the block 
 and look fixedly into his face. The pity of bis executioner 
 made death more cruel to this unhappy nobleman, and it 
 was not until threats had been employed to make him renew 
 his efforts that the work was done." 
 
 " So let him rest ! His last few weeks amongst us out- 
 went his whole past life in evil. Let him rest 1 So fares 
 
232 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH, 
 
 it, soon or late, with the rebel and the peace- disturber ! — 
 But the Fullartons, Harry ! — thou hast heard of them ?" ' 
 
 " Something I heard, sir " 
 
 " What — not all ? Not that they have declared for the 
 Duke, and were over head and ears throughout in the re- 
 bellion ?" 
 
 " I heard all that — and it was hardly more than I anti- 
 cipated long before. I foresaw the almost certainty, from 
 what Aquila said on that morning, that in case of Arthur's 
 return, he would be stimulated to join the camp of Mon- 
 mouth ; and it was therefore I sincerely hoped that he 
 might not return. But it is now too late to grieve tor their 
 delusion." 
 
 " Yet not too late to rejoice in your escape." 
 
 *' Escape! From what, sir?" 
 
 " From a connexion which would have bound you for 
 ever to that nest of rebellion and of treason." 
 
 " Is it possible, sir," said Henry, '' that I hear you 
 speaking thus of a family with whom you have lived upon 
 Buch intimate terms !" 
 
 " I knew them not I" cried Captain Kingsly ; " bat now 
 that I do, I bless the chance that we all considered then a 
 deep misfortune ; — I bless the chance that saved you, and 
 saved us all from such an union." 
 
 " Are you serious, sir," said Henry, after a pause of 
 eome astonishment, " in what you say ?" 
 
 «' Have you ever seen anything in my conduct, sir, that 
 would lead you to doubt it ? Have you ever seen me desu*- 
 ou3 . to become hand-and-glove and hail-fellow-well-met 
 with rebels and conspirators, that you think I should be 
 anxious to do so now ?" 
 
 '• That the Fullartons have been misled," said Henry, 
 " is their misfortune and ours — but I have not learned that 
 they mingled with their error any wilful and positive of- 
 fence ; nor, while they remain free from the taint of any- 
 thing knowingly dishonourable, can I cease to look upon 
 
THE DCKE OF MONMOUTH. 283 
 
 tLem as the friends they have ever been to me since wa 
 were first acquainted." 
 
 *' What do you say ?" exclaimed his father, looking with 
 sternness in his face. " Do you say that you will still con- 
 tinue to meet the Fullartons, avowed and open rebels, as 
 your friends ?" 
 
 " Assuredly, sir : we know the Fullartons too well to 
 doubt the purity of their motives at least in what they have 
 done ; and now that it is no longer in their power to do 
 evil, it would be ridiculous in as to maintain even the form 
 of hostility against them." 
 
 " And so," said the Captain folding his arms and walk- 
 ing towai'ds his son, " I take it for granted you will visit 
 this family again, and be on the same terms as formerly 
 with them, if they should escape the claw of justice ?" 
 
 " Certainly I intend it," answered Kingsly ; " nor do I 
 tliink yon could really desire otherwise." 
 
 " And, perhaps — he-he — perhaps you — he -he — perhaps 
 vnii may even be disposed, if they should press you on it, 
 rii renew the very creditable union that was on foot be- 
 tween the families — eh?" 
 
 Henry was silent ; and his father said, in a serious tone : 
 
 " Do you think, after what has occurred, of renewing 
 your addresses to Mifes FuUarton ?" 
 
 " I should look upon myself as base no less than stupid," 
 said Henry, " if anything that has occurred since I left home 
 could make the least change in my sentiments towards her." 
 
 " There it is," said Captain Kingsly ; " I was right from 
 tlie beginning. It was the first time in my life I ever 
 thought it possible that an acquaintance might be safely 
 formed with a person of suspected principle, and in that 
 solitary instance I have been disappointed. It will be a 
 lesson to me for the time I have yet to live ! And for that 
 time, now hear me. I have set my face against this con- 
 nexion. Do you hear ? I command you, as " 
 
 " Dear father," exclaimed Henry^ " do not utter com^ 
 
284 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 raands that it is impossible I can obey. My honour and 
 my conscience both forbid it." 
 
 " Your honour and your conscience may forbid what 
 they please ; but I tell you plainly, that a loyal father be- 
 fore me left me a pretty estate here, near Taunton, which 
 it is my hope to leave to a loyal son after me ; and if your 
 conscience and your honour persuade you to marry Miss 
 Fullarton, a square foot of that estate you never shall pos- 
 sess." 
 
 Henry Kingsly made no reply, and soon after his father 
 left the room for the night. 
 
 In the course of the evening, after all the news, with 
 which the reader is already acquainted, had been communi- 
 cated on both sides, Miss Kingsly observed her brother sink 
 into a mood of deep thought, from which she made many 
 fruitless efforts to arouse him. At length she questioned 
 him directly respecting its cause. 
 
 " I will tell you plainly," said he, " what troubles me. 
 I was thinking of the danger of the FuUartons." 
 
 " It is a thought that has often broken my sleep within 
 the last few weeks," said Tamsen ; " but where's the 
 remedy ? I see no way to deal with our suspense except 
 to endure it." 
 
 " There is a way," said Henry, " by which some chance 
 at least of safety might be secured to them." 
 
 " And what is that ?" 
 
 " That Aquila should fulfil her engagement to me, and 
 that her brother and Mr. Fullarton both should leave tha 
 Qouutry. For her, I can find it easy to secure her safety." 
 
 *' And what of our father's menace ?" 
 
 " Oh, that will be forgotten when the affair is past 
 remedy. He is not to be argued with just now." 
 
 " I fear," replied Miss Kingsly, after a pause, " that 
 you would find a difficulty in putting such a plan in exe- 
 cution. These miserable times have altered all things— 
 they have changed the face of society, they have toi-ned 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 285 
 
 the hearts of friends. I doubt whether you nlll even find 
 Aquila's still the same as when you left her." 
 
 " I will try it, however," said Henry, rising from his 
 seat, " and try it even to-night, although the hour is rather 
 late ; and what is more, I feel the strongest assurance of 
 success." 
 
 His sister did not oppose him ; and having changed his 
 uniform for a suit of plain clothes, he threw his cloak over 
 his shoulders and hnrried across the fields in the direction 
 of Tone Cottage. 
 
 With a lonely heart, he opened the little gate which led 
 to the cottage, and walked pensively along the gravelled 
 path which wound by the scattered shrubs to the front door. 
 There was no stir in the house as he approached, and he 
 missed the form of Aqnila, which, almost as soon as he had 
 laid his hand upon the gate, used to appear at the open 
 door to welcome him with such a smile as he could not meet 
 elsewhere. He had now to knock and to question a strange- 
 iooking woman servant, (for Donald had followed, and had 
 not since returned,) from whom he learned that Miss Ful- 
 larton was in the parlour. Her father was confined to his 
 chamber with a slight indisposition. 
 
 Young Kingsly paused for a long time before he could 
 command sufficient calmness to present himself before his 
 betrothed and almost wedded bride. Before he had done 
 so, the parlour-door opened, and Miss FuUarton, pale, worn, 
 and anxious, appeared at the entrance. Seeing a stranger, 
 she retired hastily, and Kingsly immediately followed. Her 
 alarm increased on perceiving Kingsly close the door be- 
 hind him, and it was even apparent in her manner. 
 
 " Am I so changed in a few weeks, Aquila," said Henry, 
 ** that yon should not know me ?" 
 
 At the sound of his voice. Miss Fullarton uttered an ex- 
 clamation of surprise. 
 
 " Henry !" she exclaimed ; and then suddenly restrain- 
 ing herself as she was about to hasten towards him, she 
 
286 TBB DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 aiTested her steps half-way, and supported herself with dlf- 
 ficulty, while she added with the deepest agitation — " I — 
 I am glad to see you, Henry, — you are welcome — you are 
 always welcome — I — " 
 
 " Alas, Aquila !" said Henry, taking her hands and 
 speaking with kindness, " there is now need of this restraint, 
 —'tis out of place — 'tis idle. It is six weeks now, since 
 I took this hand in mine, and was about to call it mine 
 indeed. "Was I not a prophet then ?" 
 
 " Oh, Henry !" exclaimed Aquila, bursting into a con- 
 vulsive fit of weeping, " my kind — kind friend ! I would 
 give worlds that I had listened to your counsel on that 
 morning ! Would I had heard your voice ! — ^You wonder 
 now, I see, how entirely all that bravery has left me ; but 
 it was a false and unreal strength. I make no effort to 
 conceal my weakness, for it has even overcome my pride. 
 My spirit rose with our success, and with it fell. I was 
 ever but the creature of the hour and the event, and yet 
 always ready for hazard. However, I was right at least 
 in doing what I thought my duty ; but what imprudence 
 governed all our fortunes ? Would — would I had been 
 guided by your words, my friend and counsellor ! but I was 
 proud and confident, and now I pay the penalty of pride 
 •ven in my inmost heart." 
 
 Again she burst into a fit of weeping, which continued 
 long in proportion as it had been long denied her. 
 
 " And were the past and present all we had to tremble 
 fcM*," Aquila continued in a calmer tone, " our lot were very 
 tolerable still — nay, blissful in comparison with thousands 
 of our friends : but the future it is that harrows me." 
 
 " You fear for Arthur ? Have you heard of him ?" ,, 
 
 Aquila was silent. 
 
 " Am I not right ? Was it not for Arthur's sake you 
 feared?" 
 
 " It was." 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 287 
 
 *' Do 3'oa hesitate to tell me of him ?" said Kingsly with 
 a cinile. " Do not fear that I shall play you false." 
 
 " Oh," said Aquila, " the danger I apprehend is from a 
 quarter far less placable. Yet thus much for the present, 
 — Arthur is safe ; where, you may learn in time. And 
 now, Henry, shall I own to yon my folly, my despicable 
 weakness ? Do you conjecture who it is that fills my mind 
 with terror of the future ? You cannot ; for except from 
 my own lips you would not credit the account of my feeble- 
 niindedness ; and yet there is also the most actual cause of 
 tear. Do you remember Kirke ?" 
 
 " It is not a month," said Henry, " since I spoke with 
 him." 
 
 Aquila started as this speech brought to her mind the 
 recollection that Kingsly was engaged on the same side with 
 the person whom she had named. 
 
 " My dread of him," she said, " was once ima^nary ; it 
 now is real. It is not now the memory of his hideous looks 
 and fearful voice that troubles me. It is the accounts which 
 reach us day after day of the appalling cruelties he is per- 
 petrating in Bridgewater that strike fear iuto my soul. The 
 ■very thought that any friend of mine should fall into the 
 hands of such a monster, is to me a thousand times more 
 terrible than death or anything I can conceive of bodily 
 torment." 
 
 " Yon have named him truly. He is indeed a monster." 
 
 " No plea heard — no question asked — no proof — no trial; 
 — to be a prisoner is to be guilty, condemned — and witu 
 no barren condemnation neither ; for it is his custom, they 
 say, to superintend in person the execution of his judg- 
 ments. But, Henry, to imagine Arthur in the poiver of 
 such a man ! — If I dread his very name for love of those 
 whom I have never known, how great should be ray fear 
 ■when I foresee the possibility that Arthur — my only brother 
 — born in the same hour with myself, and my companion even 
 from the cradle, may, before many hoois have pa^ed, be ki 
 
288 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 I 
 
 the predicament of those whose fate makes ns shndder d 
 after day, as we hear it from the people who pass throiigli 
 Bridgewater on their way to the south and west !" 
 
 " They say," added Kingsly after a pause, feeling that it 
 would but facilitate his views to let Aquila see the full ex- 
 tent of the danger in which her friends were placed, — " they 
 say that his house in Bridgewater is more like the den of 
 some carnivorous beast of the forest, or the palace of some 
 cannibal monarch, than the abode of a Christian gen- 
 tleman. The executions take place before his very win- 
 dows, and at his very meals. Those who know him are no 
 longer at a loss to form a conception of the character of 
 those tyrants whose lives have darkened ancient history. 
 He seems, say they, to feel a genuine and piquant pleasure 
 in the sufferings of his victims ; and not altogether neither 
 from that vicious thirst of excitation which stimulates the 
 petty tyrant of the tropics to his cruelties, for Kirke knows 
 nothing of lassitude — he is active in his work, a zealous 
 blood-spiller. Whatever sympathy he holds with his species 
 appears to act by contraries ; for their suffering is his joy — 
 their fear, his hope — their pain, his pleasure. Oh no, 
 Aquila ! far from looking lightly on your dread of Kirke, 
 I share it ; and it was my share in it that brought me at 
 so late an hour to speak with you." 
 
 " And with what view ?" asked Aquila in an anxious 
 tone. 
 
 " I would not trust what I have to propose to your ear 
 alone, Aquila," said Kingsly, " for it does not depend on 
 you alone to receive or to reject it. Let me see your father, 
 or Arthur if he be at hand, or both." 
 
 " Arthur yon cannot see to-night," said Aquila ; " al- 
 though I intend myself to be your guide to-morrow morning 
 to his place of concealment : but my father is— —But I 
 will let him know you ask for him." 
 
 She departed and in a few minutes returned, desiring 
 Kingsly to follow her to the old man's chamber. Gaa|t«r 
 
THE DUKE OP MONMOUTH. 289 
 
 Fallartou received his intended son-in-law with delight, 
 and listened with evident satisfaction to his proposal that 
 the union which had been interrupted by this unfortunate 
 , enterprise should now, for all their sakes, be completed. 
 
 " You are generous and faithful, Henry," said the old 
 man, wringing his hand ; " and may you find in long 
 domestic ease and happiness some part at least of the 
 reward you merit ! Well, speak, Aquila, — what say you 
 to this ? Why do you look so drooping ?" 
 
 liis daughter came to the side of the bed on which her 
 father lay, and taking his hand in hers, said with tears : 
 
 " My father, can you wonder I am silent ? Henry pro- 
 poses that you should leave the country— you and Arthur 
 — and that I alone of my family should remain in 
 Taunton." 
 
 " And is it anything new or unheard of, that a wife 
 should prefer the house and country of her husband to 
 every other in the world ?" 
 
 " But at such a time, my father, and with so much cause 
 to fear for your security " 
 
 " The surest and the easiest way to accomplish that, 
 believe me, Aquila," said Kingsly, " is to act on my pro- 
 posal. Any member of my own immediate family I can 
 easily secure, but no one else, though he had been my 
 highest earthly benefactor. Let me entreat you, therefore, 
 now at least, to be guided by my wishes, and not to lay 
 the foundation for any new calamity." 
 
 After much discussion, it was agreed that the plan 
 should be submitted to Arthur Fullarton ; and in case of 
 his approval, Aquila declared her wilUngness to accede to 
 tha general desire. 
 
290 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXni. 
 
 It \t»s arranged that Kingsly should hs at Tone Cotta 
 once more before daybreak on the following morning, 
 order to accompany Aquila to her brother's place of cu- 
 cealment. After a night of troubled slumber, he aro^u, 
 and previous to his setting out threw up a window-sash, 
 in order to ascertain whetlier there were any persons in the 
 street who might be likely to watch his movements. He 
 saw no one. The town was solitary, though not dark 
 for the clearness of the heave-is, even without the aid o 
 moonlight, would have enabled him to see i much small, 
 object than a human figure. It did not follow, however, 
 that because he could not see others, he was himself 
 unseen. 
 
 There is a vulgar adage, that " Providence gives a long 
 tether to the wicked." An instance in point presented 
 itself, in the street of Taunton, less than half an hour befon 
 Kingsly threw np his window to look out. While many j 
 sturdy fellow who had followed Monmouth to SedgmiOt 
 because he thought him his king, and believed he was 
 doing his duty, lay now a stark and mouldering corse be 
 iieath the plain which he had moistened with his blood, 
 some of those adventurers, who had taken arms in the sain 
 cause from the basest and most selfish motives, survivec 
 the scene of carnage to prolong their span of roguery anjj] 
 meanness. Amongst these were three of those recruit' 
 whom Dare, the luckless emissary of Monmouth, hn 
 enlisted at the inn of the Three Crowns some mouths befori 
 In verification of another adage respecting birds of simiL; 
 plumage, it happened that these three worthies were re 
 united within less than a week after the battle, and cnteret 
 Taunton together on the morning of which we speak. 
 
 **Siep asiuc, Andrews," said one, "and let us cousai' 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTE. 291 
 
 fa this corner on what course ^ye had better take. Tlie 
 ehade is best for our complexions in tiiis sultry weather." 
 
 '• It was an evil day," said another, " when first I 
 sought or listened to your counsels ! What will become of 
 \ae now ?" 
 
 *' As for me," said the first speaker, " the very air of 
 the country will be poison to me ere long. When I passed 
 through Chard in triumph, a few weeks ago, a maggot bit 
 me to play off my foolish dignity of captain upon my old 
 master, as he stood gaping wider than one of his own galli- 
 pots behind the counter ; — a freak that may cost me the 
 stretching of a neck or so before the summer's out ; for the 
 rogue owes me something for the short warning I gave him 
 at my departure, many a year since." 
 
 " Have you not wit enough remaining, Caryl," said 
 another — " or have we not wit enough amongst the three 
 of us, to discover how the gallows may be cheated yet ?" 
 
 *• Hist, lads," said Andrews ; " I think I heard a noise.'* 
 
 " I heard a window open," said Mowbray. 
 
 " I see it," exclaimed Caryl, " and a man looking out." 
 
 '* I know the house," said Andrews ; " the great cava- 
 lier captain — Captain Kingsly — lives there." 
 
 They drew back into the shade, and in a short time beheld 
 the door open and Henry Kingsly make his appearance. 
 
 " It is the cavalier's son," said Andrews; " what busi- 
 Bess can he have afoot so early in the morning ?" 
 
 " Stand close," said Caryl, " and let us watch him. It 
 may lead to something worth knowing." 
 
 They kept close iu the shade until Kingsly had passer" 
 the spot where they were standing ; after which they fol- 
 lowed him at a cautious distance. They tracked him 
 through the fields and to the gate of FuUarton's cottage. 
 
 '."My lads," said Andrews, "here's something worth onr 
 heed. Those folks were friends of Monmouth ; I know it 
 well. What can the young cavalier have to do at the 
 house of a Whig at such an hour in the morning ?" 
 
292 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 They continued to observe the movements of Kiugsly 
 while he proceeded along the avenue and knocked softly at 
 the cottage-door. It was opened immediately, and in a 
 ghort time after three figures issued from the house., one of 
 them bearing a dark lantern. They proceeded along the 
 small shrubbery near the cottage, and entered a green lane 
 which led to the church already so often mentioned. 
 
 *' Come, follow — follow, lads," said Andrews, in a low 
 voice ; " here's game worth seeking. Let us keep a civil 
 distance, and we shall see some sport ere long." 
 
 Arrived at the church-yard, Miss FuUarton caused the 
 servant to cover the lantern before they approached the 
 vault. Arthur Fullarton had been now so long in this dis- 
 mal place of concealment, from which he ventured only m 
 the night-time, that he was desirous at almost any risk to 
 change his situation. Disheartened by the failure of th| 
 cause in which he had beea engaged, and feeling deeply for 
 .the misery that failure had brought on all around him, he 
 became almost indifferent to his own destiny ; and but for 
 the necessity, now stronger than ever, which bound him to 
 his father and sister, he would not have regretted much 
 any accident which might place him in the power of Kirke, 
 On this occasion, when he heard the sound of more thai 
 one voice at the entrance of the vault, an involuntary hop* 
 started into his miqd that they might be Royalists, who hac 
 discovered his lurking-place. His suspicions were aug- 
 mented on perceiviug^a man in a cloak, and bearing a duri 
 lantern in his hand, descend into the vault. The disma 
 apartment of the dead was capacious and well-built ; noi 
 did the rays of the lamp which Kingsly carried in his h;i,n'. 
 extend to the figure of Fullarton, who sat-at a distance 
 a heap of heath and rushes which had served him for 
 bed. When Kingsly at length had found him, he vvaj 
 astonished at the change which disappointment, the wanj 
 of wholesome rest, and anxiety of mind, had made in hi 
 appeai'auce. 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 295 
 
 *' Do you not know me, Arthur ?" he said, in a low- 
 whisper, stooping over him. 
 
 *' Know you? What! Kingsly?" 
 
 In an instant the young men were silently folded in eacli 
 Pther's arms. 
 
 " This is pleasure indeed," said Arthur, still speaking ia 
 .1 whispering tone, — '' and unexpected pleasure too. Oh, 
 Ivingsly, I would give five hundred I could name of Mon- 
 mouth's men for such a Eoyalist ! Well, my good fellow, 
 and are you well? — quite well ?" he added, smiling, with 
 the strongest delight, as he laid his hand on Kingsly's 
 shoulder. 
 
 " I had more need to ask that question, Arthur ?" 
 
 " Tut, no ! I am well enough — too well for an honest 
 "xTx to be, when so many are — tut ! what was I about to 
 
 y? — words heal no bruises. How did you find me out?" 
 
 " I had a guide." 
 
 *' I guessed it, — and I guess whom too. Oh, Kingsly, 
 forgive me ! but our dead King was worth your living one 
 a dozen times over." 
 
 " Still loyal in your disloyalty, Arthur ?" said Kingsly, 
 with a smile. 
 
 '' Well, perhaps I should not speak of the King ; let it 
 pass. Your Colonel, perhaps I should say, Henry, — the 
 tyrant whom you call your Colonel. Was it not enough 
 that the leaders of this wretched enterprise had shed their 
 blood upon the scafibld, that many who were taken in arms 
 immediately after the battle were hanged or shot or scoui'ged, 
 to glut his vengeance, but he must still hunt out new vic- 
 tims by the cottage fire-side — new sacrifices to his Nero- 
 humour ?" • 
 
 " Come out, Arthur — come out into the air. This ia 
 HO place for angry looks and words." 
 
 " No, you say right, it is not. No, kvieed, — lead on ; 
 much as I abhor your Colonel, good fellow, I am glad to^ 
 eee von welU" 
 
•294 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 They passed into the air, where Aquila and her maiii 
 awaited them on the most shaded side of the monument. 
 Arthur Fullarton tenderly saluted his sister, and then, full 
 of his subject, turned round to Kinsfsly. 
 
 "I say, your Colonel, sir, — this Kirke — ^}'0ur Tiberius — ^ 
 your Caligula — whatever you may please to call him — T 
 beard of him as I came hither. Is this to be a conqueror ' 
 There is scarce a hedge near Bridge water that does n' 
 bear some instance of his miserable wrath. It is nothisi 
 to him that they are his countrymen as well as fellow 
 subjects, — that the same soil nurtured him and them, the 
 same sky smiled or frowned upon them, the same tongue 
 told their earliest wants and wishes ; it is enough that they 
 once startled the successful rival in his royal dream u( 
 power and indolence to make them to the gibbet and tha 
 stake his enemies. Oh, cowardice! thou bitterest avenger! 
 there is none of all the passions that possesses the heart 
 with half so deadly a hate, or wields the sword so merci- 
 lessly as thou dost." 
 
 " Arthur," replied Kingsly, " you speak of one you know 
 not. The King may be, and I dare aver he t'a, as far a 
 stranger to the cruelties his generals are enacting in his 
 name, as T am from approving either them or the provoca- 
 tion that occasioned them. When time allows the truth 
 to reach his onrs, we shall learn if he were really the author 
 of all that is laid at his door." 
 
 " "Well — well, we will not quarrel in the case," said Ful* 
 larton ; " only I would that the poor wretches were left to 
 till the soil in quiet. If you strike a cur with your staff, ho 
 will turn and bite the instrument that galled him ; but it is 
 not so with us ; we look from the weapon to the hand that 
 Miclds it, and the detestation that Kirke and Fevershaui 
 excite is all referred to James." 
 
 Here Andrews nudged his companions. 
 
 ' "Stand close, lads," he said, and listen. We may gather 
 
 something out of this little conversation that may go far to 
 
 save our neck»^" 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 29* 
 
 *' 'Tis plain treason," said Mowbray. 
 
 *' High treason," added Caryl. 
 
 " Aye, steeple-high, moautain-high, — lesemajeste,'* whis- 
 pered Andrews. 
 
 " Arthur," said Kingsly, "I did not seek you here to 
 waste time in useless controversy, but to consult on what 
 we had all best do for our happiness and safety." 
 
 " I am sure of it. And what would you propose ?" 
 
 " I have already made my wishes known to Aquila and 
 her fother, and both refer me to you. You know in what 
 a juncture the first intelligence of this unhappy enterprise 
 arrived. Aquila then was all but mine. Let her become 
 entirely so, and she will be secure ; while for you and 
 for your father, I can provide a safe conveyance from the 
 country." 
 
 " Mark that, my lads," said Andrews. 
 
 " Aye," added Caryl, " a pretty Royalist !" 
 
 " What say you, Aquila ?" asked her brother, aftgr a 
 long pause. 
 
 " Nay, what say you, Arthur ? I have already spoken." 
 
 " I agree with all my heart," said Arthur ; and a bless- 
 ing on his heart who thought of it I And now how is it to 
 be put in execution ?" 
 
 " You must run a little risk for a few days, in order that 
 you may be secure for all your after-hfe," replied Kingsly. 
 " I will leave town immediately for Minehead, where £ 
 can make arrangements so that the marriage may be cele- 
 brated. An open boat must be your refuge there, and some 
 point of Ireland your place of shelter for a time. To-mor- 
 row evening, as soon as the sun goes down, it will be timo 
 for Aquila, you, and Mr. Fullartou to set out upon your 
 journey. I will have all things ready before you, and the 
 \\ '.(lie may be happily concluded within two days from this 
 time." 
 
 " If it be so," said Arthur, " I may venture to take up 
 my lodging in Tone Cottaije for one day, at any risk. Since 
 
296 THE DUKE 05" MONMOUTH. 
 
 it is to be almost the last before our parting, I could wish 
 to spend it with Aquila." 
 
 To this Kingsly saw no objection, acd they prepared to 
 leave the place cf death together. 
 
 " It is something," said Aquila, " since we are to part, 
 that we shall be together for a day at least." 
 
 Farewell, said Arthur in his own mind as he left the 
 place of tombs, — farewell, thou dismal lodging, where for 
 so many days my companions have been the bitterest and 
 the saddest tbonarbts that ever yet, I think, took np their 
 dwelling in a human breast ! Farewell, too, mouldering 
 clay, whose neighbourhood made even that gloomy house 
 endurable ! The dead, at least, are peaceful. Kirke may 
 play the hangman, and they feel it not ; they care not who 
 is King or Duke, who conqueror or convict. Here, with 
 a heartier will than Nero had, Kirke could not play the 
 tyrant that he does amongst the living. 
 
 '^ You heard all ?" asked Andrews of his companions, as 
 the party from Tone Cottage left the grave-yard. I 
 
 "Aye, aye, we heard it plain enough," they answered. 
 
 " The King's a tyrant. You heard that ?" 
 
 " Yes, and Colonel Kirke another." 
 
 "Very well. Now listen to me. What, think yon, 
 might be his fate who should enable Colonel Kirke to lay 
 his hand on such a pair of arrant rogues ?" 
 
 " He would reward him handsomely." 
 
 " Fair play the whole world over. Now if I were that 
 scurvy trickster you would sometimes make me appear, 
 what hindered that I should privily seek the Colonel, and 
 earn his favour for myself alone ? But being no such 
 thinw, I hereby move that we all set forward to Bridge- 
 water together, like honest fellows as we are, and tell our 
 tale in chorus." 
 
 " Well, Andrews," Mowbray exclaimed, " if ever there 
 be a kingdom established where the chief officers of state 
 ehall be filled by rogues, traitors, and ingrates, I war- 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 2D7 
 
 rant thee for a chance of rising high in the govem- 
 ment." 
 
 " Then make me prime minister here," replied Andrewat 
 *' There need be no delay to my promotion, for the worl3 
 is already full of such states as thou describest. But why 
 dost thou choose the present moment to pay me such a 
 compliment ?" 
 
 " Are not these the worthy folk with whom thon and 
 I, some weeks since, spent a comfortable day on our escape 
 from that precious enterprise in Scotland ?" 
 
 " Shall I help thee to some mineral waters ? What a 
 stomach thine must be, to be unable in a whole fortnight 
 to digest a kindness !" 
 
 " I warrant thee for needing no Jesuit's bark in that 
 regard." 
 
 " Well, say how you are disposed. If yon will take 
 share in my good fortune, welcome ; if not, I go the road 
 to Bridgewater alone." 
 
 The proposition was accepted on the instant, and the 
 three worthies were on the Bridgewater road before the 
 mornins: dawned. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 That morning broke terrific on the inhabitants of Bridge 
 water. The many who thronged the prisons, who loaded 
 the gibbets on the wayside, or who shrieked beneath the 
 torture, had not yet half sated the thirst of cruelty that 
 burned within the breast of Kirke. There are some minds 
 inspired with a principle of action and of energy that loathes 
 the very thought of rest : for good or evil they must be 
 ever active, and in neither can they bear the sense of 
 mediocrity. Fortunate is it for such bwngs and for their 
 inecies when their energies are directed aright, for they 
 
298 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH, 
 
 will excel in vii^ue ; most disastrous when they take an 
 evil aim — for ueither will they be surpassed in evil. It is 
 observed by moralists, that after a certain age the human 
 character rarely receives a change. " There is a tide in 
 the aifairs of men," is true in a far more important sense 
 than that in which it was intended by the unrivalled bard 
 who penned the line. While youth continues, even though 
 the mind may wander far astray, there is yet a hope of ita 
 security. The character is yet malleable — it wavers — the 
 shining tide of truth presents itself before it ; there is a 
 struggle still between habit and conscience, and it may 
 embrace the happy opportunity and float on to safety. But 
 when once maturity has arrived, there is an end of doubt, 
 and the fate of the individual is commonly d'3cided. If he 
 be a devotee of pleasure, he will continue so until the sod 
 shall cover him ; if he hunger after gold or worldly honour, 
 old age will find him still following the same niggard path ; 
 and if he have despised religion, his heart will rarely open 
 after to her sacred voice. And, what is equally observable, his 
 devotion to the course he has embraced, whether it be good 
 or evil, will increase in proportion as it obtains exclusive 
 possession of his mind. 
 
 With all his hideous thirst of blood and pain, it seemed 
 strange to many that Kirke was not altogether and at all 
 times in his appearance and in his manner, while he 
 remained in Bridgewater, the dreadful monster his actions 
 proved him to be. To those with whom he associated, and 
 over whom he had no power, he was social, gay, and even 
 polite. Even those who watched him with the closest eyes 
 could not detect in his countenance or demeanour the 
 slightest symptom of compunction, or even the faintest 
 consciousness of the hideous nature of his life. Neither 
 fear nor pity nor remorse seemed known to Kirke. In him 
 the voice of conscience appeared to be utterly silenced ; 
 and while he smiled and jested and played the savage, he 
 presented f* horrible example of what man may be, when, 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOCTH. 299 
 
 . In pnnishnient of good inspiratious repeatedly disrtgarded, 
 the Deity visits him with the direst curse our race can un- 
 dergo — tranquillity in guilt. 
 
 The most fearful tales were related by the peasantry and 
 townspeople of the detestable levity which the Royalist 
 Colonel mingled with his cruelty. But the expression of 
 his indifference was not confined to mere levity ; he could 
 even talk eloquent sentiment, and speak of the charms of 
 nature, and indulge in romantic retrospection, between the 
 acts of the terrific tragedy in which he was the leading 
 ac:or. How is this possible ? There is no man who pos- 
 sesses ten acquaintances in the world, but must have found 
 amongst them more than one instance of this blind and 
 seemingly unconscious hypocrisy,— but must have turned 
 disgusted from the sentimental parade of feelings which 
 were belied at every instant in the conduct — but must have 
 heard with loathing the fade finery of poetical sentiment, 
 or the flourish of wordy generosity, where he well knew 
 be could find little either of poetry or generosity, except tha 
 talk about them ? Was it that Kirke really did not think 
 himself the wretch he was ? or was it that he thought he 
 could so blindfold others as to make them give credit to 
 the sincerity of sentiments which every act belied ? It were 
 vain — utterly vain and idle to inquire. • The Searcher of 
 Hearts alone can read those mysteries. 
 
 On this morning Colonel Kirke arose, as was customary 
 with him, at an early hour. The subaltern, Stephens, who, 
 by some tact in adapting himself to the humour of his 
 Colonel, enjoyed at present the largest portion of his confi- 
 dence, was at his bedside before the dawn, and both walked 
 out together. 
 
 They proceeded in silence along the banks of the small 
 river which runs through the town, the parasite not daring 
 to commence the conversation, and Kirke apparently 
 absorbed in thought. As they walked along, the morning 
 broke around them in all the brilliancy of summer. Full* 
 
800 TtlE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 disked, and promising a burning day, the sun already 
 mounted in the East, restoring to the rich and varied land- 
 scape by which they were surrounded its innumerable charms 
 of light and shade and hue. The wind scarce stirred the 
 surface of the Parret, and, though favourable to the shipping 
 going down the stream, was so little capable of impelling 
 tlie unwieldy hulks, that the crews were obliged to go 
 ashore, and tow the vessels onward. 
 
 " Is it not strange, Stephens," Kirke said at length out 
 of his reverie, " that all the parties I have seal in pursuit 
 of this runaway adherent of Monmouth should have returned 
 without being able to give me the slightest intelligence 
 respecting him ?" 
 
 " I assure you. Colonel, the fault is not mine," replied 
 Stephens. " I charged them all to spare neither horse- 
 flesh nor men's labour in the search." 
 
 " I do not speak as imputing blame to you," said Kirke, 
 *' though I have cause to feel dissatisfied. I cannot tell 
 3'ou with what feelings I look upon every object that re- 
 minds me of the time I spent in this part of the country 
 after our return from Tangiers. You know not, Stephens, 
 the cause I have to remember it ; nor why it is that the 
 FuUartons, beyond all the rest of its inhabitants, are so 
 near to my recollection. 'Twere difficult to say of how much 
 importance to my own mind might have been the issue of 
 that visit, had it prdved other than it was. But, as in 
 every case in which I have been specially interested, I suf- 
 fered disappointment — bitter as it was unexpected — and 
 with me grief ever turns to gall. I know nothing of that 
 woman's woe which finds relief in tears. The hearts are 
 numberless that ached and still are aching for that slight 
 to mine." 
 
 He accompanied these words with a wicked tranquillity 
 of look that to the eye of his companion seemed almost 
 demoniacal. 
 
 " I had uo idea^ Colonel," said tho latter, " that you 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 301 
 
 ever thought of seeking any permaueut connexion with that 
 family." 
 
 " Why, not at the first. But there arose a cause which 
 led me to desire it. That I failed in the attempt, I will 
 remember; nor do I forget the manner of my failure. Enough 
 of that. It were best for my own quiet, and perhaps for that 
 of ma.ny another mind, that I should not recall it too exactly. 
 But I only alluded to it now for the purpose of giving you 
 k hint why it is that I am now so anxious to learn tidings of 
 the Fullartons. Be diligent. Inquire amongst all such 
 prisoners as are brought hither from their neiglibourhood — 
 all such as you can find to have known anything of him we 
 seek either before or after his becoming engaged in Mon- 
 mouth's cause." 
 
 " Never fear any want of vigilance on my part, Colonel. 
 The gaol of Bridgewater shall not want his countenance for 
 lack of any industry that I can use." 
 
 With such discourse they returned to the town. They 
 had just reached the front door of the house in whicli 
 Colonel Kirke for the present took up his residence, when 
 the estimable party who had left Taunton before day- 
 break entered Bridgewater. The frightful appearance, the 
 shrieks of the wretches who were led to torture, the lamen- 
 tations of the friends of those who were condemned to 
 death, the ferocious looks of the soldiery, and, what was 
 more terrible to tliem than all beside, the siglit of the nu- 
 merous victims who were hourly led forth to execution, 
 combined to shake their resolution. Putting a bold face 
 upon it, however, Andrews and his companions entered the 
 town with a hasty pace, and approached that part in which 
 Kirke resided, just as the latter, with Stephens, was about 
 to enter the house. 
 
 '' Well, who are you ?** asked Kirke, as they drew near. 
 
 " Lads, please your honour,'' said Andrews, brisiil/, 
 
 r*' who would be glad to serve the King." 
 " Aye, but we are on no recruiting party now ; we are 
 
302 .THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH, 
 
 on the look out for the Duke's recruits, not for the 
 King's." 
 
 " An' please your hononr," said Caryl, " perhaps we 
 could give you a helping hand in that way too." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" 
 
 " We have found a rebel, sir," said Andrews. 
 
 " So — so. And which amongst you is the knave ? for 
 you have all three, to my apprehension, an equal portion 
 of gallows written in your countenances." 
 
 " An' please your honour, he is not amongst us. He 
 was somewhat too sturdy game for us to meddie with, see- 
 ing that the boar is in his own lair. But if you will furnish 
 me with a suflScient force, say six of -these worthy gentle- 
 men whom I see on horseback, I will be bound to bring 
 him tied neck and heels to Bridgewater before the moon 
 is up." 
 
 " Say yon so, friend ?"' cried Kirke. " And what now 
 if I were to 'furnish* you, as you are pleased to term it, 
 with half a dozen of my lambs — ia what direction would 
 you choose to lead them ?" 
 
 " To Taunton." 
 
 "Ha!" 
 
 " Where you will find, in a certain cottage on the banks 
 of the Tone, as thorough a Whig as ever opened his lips 
 against the state — Master Arthur Fullarton, who caused 
 more trouble to those gentlemen at the fight of Sedgmoor 
 than any fifty, I will be bold to say, in Monmouth's camjr 
 besides." 
 
 " Soft you, sir," said Kirke ; •* did you say this per- 
 sou's name was Arthur Fullarton ?" 
 
 " I will be sworn to it." 
 
 " And that he lived " 
 
 " At his father's house. Tone Cottage, within less than a ' 
 mile of Taunton." 
 
 Kiike seemed profoundly struck, and maintained a loog 
 snd thoughtful silence. 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 303 
 
 " And you are sure that Arthur Fallarton was at Sedg- 
 moor ?" 
 
 " Sure of it, ^ur honour ? I am as sure of it as that 
 I stand here this instant." 
 
 " I do not ask you now, how you obtained the know- 
 ledge. I will furnish you the men you ask for ; and I 
 promise you, if you bring not Arthur FuUarton here to my 
 lodgings alive or dead before moonrise, I will furnish a 
 halbert's point with your knavish head, and with those of 
 your honourable comrades." 
 
 " With all my heart, Colonel," said Andrews ; " in the 
 name of my comrades, I accept the terms, — only stipulat- 
 ing, in case of success, at least vice versa ; that is but fair, 
 I think." 
 
 " Thou art an impudent rogue," said Kirke, " and wilt 
 not lose thy head at any time for lack of speech, I'll be thy 
 warrant. Well, get you gone, and do you'r business 
 rightly. Let Cornet Green with six dragoons accompany 
 this man to Taunton." 
 
 " And harkye, Colonel," cried Andrews, gathering con- 
 fidence with success, " you will do well to secure at the 
 same time a young cavalier of the name of Kingsly, who is 
 a sharer in his treason." 
 
 " What, Kingsly of Colonel Pembroke's regiment of 
 militia ?" 
 
 " The very same, Colonel." 
 
 " You are treading a step or two beyond your tether. 
 The yonng gentleman of whom you speak is an nuimpeAclicd 
 and unimpeachable Royalist ; and, indeed, the very fact of 
 his connexion with the Fullartons might lead me to listen, 
 with more doubt than I might otherwise have done, to 
 your imputation against them." 
 
 " " Well, Colonel, as you please ; bat all I will say is 
 this, — that on this head (which you are pleased to let me 
 know I hold till sunset only as it were upon tick) there 
 are certain appendages called ears, aad thosa ears, as my 
 
 Ifef 
 
304 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 companions here (poor fellows, for whom I must implore 
 your worshipful clemency) can witness, were prii^y to a 
 conversation held this morning before daybreak in a certain 
 churchyard nigh Taunton, in which Master Kingsly and 
 FuUarton both bore a part, and in which it was determined 
 that the latter should be smuggled out of the country by 
 the way of Minehead ; Master Kingsly being thereto aidiug 
 and assisting, in consideration of certain family connexions, 
 concerning which your honour may obtain more exact infor- 
 mation from the parties themselves, when safe in custody." 
 
 " This is not improbable," said Kirke. " You will also, 
 then;" he added to the officer, " take iuto custody any mala 
 members of a family of the name of Kingsly, to whose 
 residence in the town of Taunton our worthy friend here 
 will direct you." 
 
 The officer bowed ; and Andrews being furnished with a 
 seat behind one of the dragoons, the whole party soon left 
 Bridgewater. His companions were ordered into custody 
 until tho success or failure of their spokesman should decide 
 tlieir eventual destiny, 
 
 & 
 CHAPTER XXXV. ""* 
 
 The day had just broke after their early visit to the lurk- 
 ing-place of Arthur FuUarton, when Kingsly retraced his 
 steps, through the town of Taunton, to his father's door. 
 It was opened by his sister, who knew of his design, and 
 was eager to leai'n its issue. 
 
 " Well, Henry, have you seen him ?" 
 
 *• Give me joy," said Kingsly ; all is as I hoped, and 
 before another sunrise, if I be not the most unfortunate 
 knave in England, I shall be the happiest that ever 
 breathed. She has consented — all have consented — aud 
 1 leave Taunton in another hour to see all put in order for 
 the marriage." 
 
 m 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUnf. 305^ 
 
 ** May it prove a happier bridal than tho last !" said 
 Miss Kiagaly. 
 
 " You must go with us, Tamsen ; ao prepare your 
 travelling-dress. We have arranged that Mr. Fullarton, 
 you, and I leave town immediately ; and Arthur and Aquila 
 follow after sunset." 
 
 " But my father he is so totally altered in his feel- 
 ing toward the FuUartons. There came a neighbour in to 
 us last night, who told him for the first time of Arthur's 
 !. iving been seen in arms at Sedgmoor; and there is no 
 being, since, too bad to be Arthur's parallel." 
 
 " We must find some cause to divert his suspicions for 
 a day," said Henry. *' My father is unreasonable only 
 v/iiere there is any question of loyalty » there is no reason- 
 ing with him, but he will approve it all when it is done." 
 
 While Kingsly was busy in preparing to depart, Aquila 
 and her brother took their way homeward by the most un- 
 frequented paths that lay between them and the cottage. 
 Until the afternoon of the same day, both were busy in 
 preparing for their journey. Tiie former was in the act of 
 tasteuing in her small trunk a dress, which was intended 
 to grace her bridal, when a sudden bustle before the hall- 
 door attracted her attention. Looking up, she beheld a 
 number of horsemen in the act of dismounting, and one or 
 two had already entered the open door. There was not 
 even time to think of concealment or escape. Arthur Ful- 
 I irton was writing at a table when one of the soldiers, led 
 by Andrews, entered. There was but one chance, and 
 even in this dreadful crisis Aquila did not lose her presence 
 of mind. She rushed upon the foremost man the instant 
 he appeared. The rufiian struck at her, and his weapon 
 just grazed her neck sufficiently to draw the blood ; but 
 the violence with which she darted on him was sufficient to 
 drive him backward past the threshold, and she shut an 1 
 locked,the door upon the instant. 
 "Fiy, Arthur! fly! — the window! — yon will yethave time." 
 
 II 
 
sou TliE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 Bat before phe conld say more, and before ber brothpf 
 conid form a clear understanding of iter meaning, the 'Ann 
 partition door was shattered to trajinTients, and the irritaK^d 
 troopers burst into the room. The contest that ensu' d 
 was soon decidid. Seeing his sister amongst those rnflians, 
 Arthur drew his sword and struck at the man who had 
 wounded her. Almost in the s^ime instant he received 
 himself a thrnst which deprived him of the use of his sword 
 arm, and rendered him an easy prey. ' For him, and per- 
 haps for Aqnila, all might have been ended at the iustanr. 
 but that the voice of Cornet Green was now heard outoiuc, 
 commanding the soldiers to desist from further violence. 
 Arthur was bound, and immediately placed on horsebacs 
 before one of the dragoons. 
 
 "And now away with all speed for Bridgewater," said 
 the cornet. 
 
 " Stay ! stay!" exclaiir.ed Andrews ; " it is ill done to 
 make the haul before the net is full. What's to be done 
 with the fairer rebel ? she should not be left behind. By 
 this time to-morrow we nught play hide-and-seek for her 
 to no purpose, in case the Colonel should ciiose to have a, 
 fight of her shining couiiten ince." 
 
 " Let her stay and keep house," exclaimed the officer : 
 "wo had no conmiission to bring women this turn. And 
 now for this Eitherside — this Captain Kingsly : let UB sea 
 the place at once, or we shall be late in Bridgewater." 
 
 " As you please, sir," said Andrews ; " the place is not 
 far distant." 
 
 " Let Sergeant Duddle and two of the men," continued 
 the cornet, " convey the prit^ouer on the Bridj^ewater ro.id, 
 while the rest proceed with me to the residence of this sauio 
 equivocal loyalist." 
 
 The order was obeyed, and before his sister had re- 
 covered from the swoon into wliich she had fallen, im- 
 mediately on beholding Arthur in the hands of Kirkp's all- 
 dreaded '' iHoibs," the iattCi. was already out of si^gbt and 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 807 
 
 hearing of Tone Cottage. His fate was now, as he con- 
 ceived it, certain, and he manned himself to meet it with 
 a becoming spirit. He called religion to his aid, and en- 
 deavoured, as they hurried him along, amid the coarse jests 
 and coarser ruffianism of his escort, to collect his thoughts 
 to prayer and resignation. What most he feared for the 
 present was, that the sight of Kirke, reviving the remem- 
 brance of his former insulting conduct to Aqaila, might 
 surprise him into the expression of feelings which now were 
 best suppressed, for any good their utterance could do either 
 to himself or to his friends. 
 
 Captain Kingsly had but just arisen from table, when 
 Cornet Green, accompanied by Andrews and the men, rodo 
 into the streets of Taunton. Perplexed by the absence of 
 his son and daughter, who had long since set out for Mine- 
 head with old Gaspar Fullarton, he paced the parlour to 
 and fro in a fretful and impatient state of mind, venting 
 his indignation on all the rebels who had ever taken arms, 
 from Absalom down to Monmouth. 
 
 " That ever I should have the misfortune," he exclaimed, 
 twitching his wrist with an impatient air, " to allow the 
 name of Kingsly to be committed by such an alliance! 
 \\'hat ! take a Whig — a slip of the detested Koundhead 
 •lock — into my house and call her daughter ! And whom 
 have I to blame for it ? — whom else but ray own weak and 
 yielding self ? Did I not see it all ? Were not my eyes 
 wide open ? clear of sight, and not, like Harry's, dulled by 
 the fog of passion ? Did I not know they had a taint — . 
 an old, inveterate taint — a Scottish taint — the worst and 
 most indelible of all ? And how know I what may be tak- 
 ing place this instant that I speak ? At this very moment 
 they may be plotting with the PuUartons to heaven knows 
 what end. Oh, bocanse I am an old man, now I am de- 
 spised! They think to hoodwink the poor cavalier; but 
 tbey shall see I have that within me wh'ch will not be fooled 
 nor flighted. I am not too cU to love my sovereign 
 
SOS THE DUiS OF MONMOtTO. 
 
 ?tlll, and serve him. I'll — I'll — Well, what's the matter 
 now ?" 
 
 " Oh, maester dear !" exclaimed the old woman-servant, 
 running in with a countenance ajjhast with terror. 
 
 " What ? any news of Miss Kingsly or Mr. Harry ?" 
 
 " Oh, dear maester, no ; but there be theazamy horse- 
 diagoons that are hunting after the Duke o' Monmouth's 
 men " 
 
 " The Duke of Monmouth, woman ! there is no such per- 
 son or title as the Duke of Monmouth. Speak of James 
 Walters, for such he was, and nothing more, the instant 
 that he raised a rebel hand against his king. Well, what 
 do those soldiers want ?" 
 
 " Oh, tha za there be rebels in the house vor zarten, an' 
 iha be corain in to zeek vor'n." 
 
 " Rebels in my house. They are welcome to search it.. 
 That were a tale indeed I" 
 
 Here the voice of Cornet Green was heard below. 
 
 " Let the men divide, and mind the doors in front anil 
 rere, while one comes up to search above with me." 
 
 Thoagh somewhat otiended at the unceremonious manner 
 in which his house was thus intruded on. Captain Kingsly's 
 heart was too warmly interested in the royal cause to allow 
 him to complain. He therefore met the officer at the par- 
 lour-door, with a smiling and courteous aspect. 
 
 "You are welcome, sir," he said, — "you and all who 
 come recommended by that uniform. If any of these knaves 
 have crept into ray house through chink or crevice without 
 the owner's privacy, you will do me a service and a plea- 
 sure, by getting it rid of them." 
 
 " Sir," said the officer, " your courtesy is nothing tlie 
 worse that I happen to have no need of it, for it is my 
 duty to take leave whether you are pleased to give it or no." 
 
 " Your duty, sir," said Captain Kingsly, " is paramonu* 
 to all beside. I know what it is to serve the King." 
 
 "Indeed?" 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 303 
 
 ** It is true, .sir. Old as I am, I have seen hot work in 
 ray time ere now, I promise you. Ah, those were days ! 
 Well, all must have their turn : it is but fair. But I can 
 tell you, sir, though now I carry a staflf, — or, to say better, 
 though a staff carries me, — I have seen the time when this 
 poor old arm could do something in tlie King's cause. — No 
 'njatter." 
 
 '• The Duke's, sir, you would say, perhaps," replied the 
 officer in a frigid tone. 
 
 " The Duke's ? Eh ?" 
 
 " Come, sir," said the coronet, " we have got no time to 
 waste. If you feel so much friendship for the King as you 
 ■would have me think, you will probably save me the trouble 
 ■of a search by answering honestly a few simple questions." 
 
 " Speak, sir," said the Captain with courtesy ; " let me 
 hear the names of the person or persons whom you seek, 
 and I will readily tell you whether you are likely to find 
 •them on my premises or no." 
 
 " The name is easily told," replied the cornet. " Is there 
 *any person in the house of the name of Kingsly ?" 
 
 *' Kingsly ? Kingsly ?" said the Captain with a look of 
 perplexity. " Why, sir, that is a very extraordinary ques- 
 tion to ask in this house." 
 
 '• Perhaps so, sir ; but my duty compels me often to put 
 even more unpleasant questions still." 
 
 '• Pray, sir," asked the old man, " is it possible that your 
 piosont quest is after a person of the name of Kingsly ?" 
 
 '• I have said it, sir," replied the officer, " and will feel 
 obliged by your answering me with as little delay as possible." 
 
 '■ Why, sir," said the Captain, "there must be some 
 strange mistake in this, or the Kingsly after whom )0U 
 seek is a person of whom I know knothing ; and a heavy 
 affliction 1 deem it that any person bearing such a name 
 should di-:grace it so far as even to become a subj.tct uf 
 suspicion." 
 
 " Tiiat is all very fiu ;." cried the officer, " but it has 
 
810 THE DUK£ OF MOKMOUTH. 
 
 mothirig to do with the business I liave iu band. It is enough, 
 lor lue, if his name be Kingsly, and if he reside in Taunton 
 or its neighbourhood. He must settle the rest with Colonel 
 Kiilce and the court-martial." 
 
 *' And pray, sir, may I ask," said Captain Kingsly look- 
 ing still more pei-plexed, " what grounds there are for sup- 
 posing any person bearing that name to have rendered hini« 
 self obnoxious to the judgment of a court-martial ?" 
 
 *' In courtesy, sir," replied the officer, " I shall answ er 
 yow question, although the pressing nature of my orders 
 might well excuse me. Know then, sir, that a certain Captain 
 Kingsly of Taunton stands accused of treason to his King." 
 
 " Poh— poh !" 
 
 " — That he was overheard in the act of plotting with 
 some of Monmouth's adherents " 
 
 " Poh, poh ! — ha, ha !" interrupted the Captain, fuiciiig 
 a laugh. " Kingsly — Monmouth's adherents ? Very good. 
 Ha. ha !" 
 
 " — In order to forward the escape of some of the most 
 notorious rebels in the shire " 
 
 " Ha, ha ! Very good." 
 
 *' — And was seen in close communication for that pur- 
 pose " 
 
 '• Ha, ha, ha ! Indeed ?" 
 
 -With a family of the name of FuUarton- 
 
 At this word a sudden light seemed to flash upon tl.e 
 Captain. He started back and lifted his hands with a look 
 of horror, and remained for some moments fixed in astonish- 
 ment and dismay, while the officer concluded — 
 
 '♦ — Who, but for such timely information, might have 
 tftected his escape by means of Mr. Kingsly's aid, and so 
 have defrauded the King's gibbet of one of the moat egiL- 
 gious malefactors that eyer died by the cord. Now, sir, are 
 you content 
 
 " F'ullarton ! I see it all, — persons of the name of Fni- 
 lartuu !" exclaimed the old cavalier in a faint tone, aad 
 
THE DUK£ OF MONMOUTH. Sll 
 
 stpggering as if he had received a sadden blow. " My 
 jsoor HaiTy ! Oh, w oe ! uuhappy old man that I am ! and 
 U it come to this ?" 
 
 " What !" exclaimed the officer, " you know this person 
 then ?" 
 
 " Alas, sir !" exclaimed the old man with tears in hii 
 eyes, " I know him bat too well, and often have I warned 
 liim against the danger of disloyal associates. Will you 
 have the goodness to let me know of what nature is the 
 charge which is preferred against him ?" 
 
 " Nay, that is past my power. My commission reaches 
 only to his apprehension. So, sayat once if he is in the 
 house." 
 
 " Xot in this bouse," replied the cavalier. " Would he 
 had never entered it, rather than he should be sought there 
 u^ion such a quest ! He is not in the house at present." 
 
 "Nor any person of the name of Kingsly?" said the officer. 
 
 " Nor any person excep^t myself, who have the misfortune 
 to be the father of a suspected son." 
 
 " Oh, ho ! so you thfu with whom I have been speaking 
 are the very Captain Kingsly of whom I have heard so 
 iiiuch upon the road from Bridgewater, and whom I have 
 it in commission to arrest upon a charge of treason." 
 
 " Treason ! Me I Arrest me upon a charge of treason ?" 
 
 " It is even so, as I fear you will find to your cost. 
 Arrest him, soldier, and look to him, while I search the 
 Louse for any other masculine bearers of the name, pursu- 
 ant to my orders." 
 
 Astonishment and indignation for a time deprived Cap- 
 tain Kingsly of the power of utterance. Tiie unparalleled 
 tfFrontery, as he conceived it, of daring to charge him with 
 treason, whose foible, as all his friends could but too truly 
 tesu'fy, lay all the other way, was tpo much for the old 
 man's stock of patience, Without saying a word of re- 
 jiroach or of exculpation, lie raised with both hands the 
 cane on which he leaned in walkinj^, and discharged wL^t 
 
312 THE DUKE or JfONMOTJTH. 
 
 he meant to be a heavy, bat what was in reality a very 
 feeble blow, upon the iron headpiece of the dragoon. The 
 .atter did but langh at the doughty onset, and twitching 
 the cane from the hands of the insulted loyalist, in an in- 
 iitant pinioned them behind his back, and awaited at his 
 ease the return of his officer. 
 
 " Ye mushroom knaves !" the Captain exclaimed, as 
 soon as he could gather breath to vent his anger in speech 
 — " ye growth of yesterday ! to think that ye should dare 
 to utter your calumnies against a head grown grey in a 
 cause in which ye are as yet but lisping babes ! Ye school- 
 boys of the camp, is it for such as you to rise against your 
 masters ? for the foal to kick against the sire ? But when 
 I reach your head quarters, I promise you I will find a way 
 to teach you better manners I" 
 
 " Bring him along !" cried the Cornet, who entered at 
 the same instant. " The other birds have flown. It is 
 something, at all events, to have caught the old one." 
 
 " Oh, I'll catch you, sir ! I will, 1 promise you !" ex- 
 claimed the Captain between his teeth. " I promise yon, 
 young sir, you shall be heard of at the War-office for this. 
 Hands off, thou knave ! I begin to suspect you fur 
 worse than you appear. You may., for aught I know, be a 
 pair of arrant rebels in disguise. Hands off, I say I" 
 
 Having seized on this idea, the old Captain straggled 
 with all his might against his captors, who were eventually 
 obliged to convey him down the stairs perforce between tliein. 
 What added unspeakably to the mortification of the sturdy 
 royalist was, that the appearance of the dragoons around 
 the door had attracted to the place an immense multitude of 
 the townspeople, who could not avoid expressing aloud their 
 surprise and commiseration at beholding so notorious a ca- 
 valier as Captain Kingsly in custody upon the score of trea- 
 son. Half weeping with shame and with vexation he was 
 placed on horseback, and conveyed through the crowd amid 
 general exclama Ions of regret and cousteruution. 
 
r 
 
 THB DUKB OF UONlfOUTS. 315 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 The escort which conducted Arthur Fullarton had nearly 
 arrived in Bridgewater before it was overtaken by tha 
 Cornet and his prisoner. Each absorbed in his own mis- 
 fortune, both captives had reached the quarters of Ruke 
 before either had recognised or was aware of the other's 
 presence. When they did recognise each other their greet- 
 ing was embarrassed and reserved, and almost without ex- 
 change of speech. 
 
 They were conveyed, handcaSfed as they were, into a 
 kind of waiting-room, where they found a number of 
 wretched beings, male and female, and of various conditions 
 Iq hfe, as might be inferred from their variety of attire, 
 awaiting like themselves the fiat of life or djath from the 
 stern and vindictive being before whom they were shortly 
 to appear. Sighs, groans, and stifled sobs of anguish and 
 of fear, bespoke the anxiety which filled the breasts of the 
 unhappy inmates of this dismal chamber. The streets 
 around appeared deserted, save by a few of the poi)rer citi- 
 zens, who, safe in their obscurity, crept about from corner 
 to corner, casting as they passed a shuddering glance upon 
 the numerous gibbets which were erected throughout the 
 town. There was no lack, however, of noise and conver- 
 satiou about the residence of Kirke. His " lambs," as he 
 called them, who were here mustered in strong forct^, seemed 
 to be allowed every license that was consistent with unre- 
 served obedience to the will of their commanding oiEcar. 
 They talked, swore, quarrelled, all but fought, without any 
 interference on the part of their Colonel ; a freedom whicii 
 - was carried to a far more tsfriblo excess at night, when 
 tha l<iading officers had gone to rest, and the drinking-housos 
 in the neighbourhood were crowded with the unirki.ud 
 soidiaiy. 
 
 From time to time, the door of the apartment in which 
 
314 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 tlie prisoners were confined was opened, and a ruffianly-look* 
 ing soldier, holding a paper iu his hand, entered, and called 
 aloud the name of him or her whose fate it was next to ap- 
 pear before the military court — or rather, mockery of a 
 court, whicli was held above. The remaining prisoners 
 listened iii sympathetic terror and suspense for the return of 
 each succeeding victim, and despondency or hope were visi- 
 ble iu the eyes of all according as the brief process of 
 inquiry was followed by the sentence of acquittal or of 
 eoudemaation. 
 
 Captain Kingsly, as it has been already stated, avoided 
 any communication with Arthur Fullarton, partly through 
 embaiTassment at his own awkward position, and partly 
 thiough indignation, on reflecting that the whole of their 
 fliisfortunes originated in the first connexion they had formed 
 with the family of the old Scot. He reproached' himself in 
 secret with the weakness he had shown in tolerating an in- 
 tercourse from which, at the very onset, he had foreseen 
 nothing bat evil, and acknowledged to his own mind, in bitter- 
 ness of teeliug, that he had amply merited his present igno- 
 njioious position, by the faciUty he had shown in yielding 
 to the wishes of his children. Arthur Fullarton, on his 
 side, felt more than once a desire to speak with the old 
 man, but was prevented as well by the place as by the 
 reluctance manifested by the latter to enter into any con- 
 versation. 
 
 While the prisoners still brooded, apart, over their own 
 bitter thoughts, the doors of their dungeon opened, and 
 IjuJ shrieks were heard in the streets, as some prisoners, 
 who had just received their hasty sentence, were led out to 
 execution. A rough-looking fellow, with a written paper 
 hi his hand, now presented himself at the open door. 
 
 " Kingsly ? — Is there a prisoner here of the name of 
 Kingsly ?" 
 
 A deep gi-oan from the old cavalier was heard in answer, 
 the expression rather of shame and confusion at hearing his 
 
THE DUKE O? J(01iK0UTH. 31o 
 
 name ottered ander such disgraceful circanistaaces, than of 
 QKiensiaess arisiug from the appreheusion of dauger to bis 
 perdun. 
 
 " Will no one answer?" cried the man. " Is a prisoner 
 of tlie name of Kingsly here ?" 
 
 '• I'll ausw^er you !" excliimed the cavalier, rising with 
 an angry couuteuance ! " I'll prisoner ye when I come to 
 speak with General Feversham, be sure of it." 
 
 *' Very well, then," said the man, " follow me, and you 
 will have that pleasure before many minutes, — perhaps 
 lijiich sooner than you care to do, for all your talk." 
 
 Disdaining to reply furtherthau by an emphatic " Umph!" 
 Captain Kingsly followed the summoner, and the door was 
 closed behind them. 
 
 ill the mean time, Kirke, Feversham, and other officers 
 ^vpie seated in court-martial in an upper room. Ou a table 
 wLich stood before them was placed a quantity of cake and 
 w iue, the latter circulating freely, and gradually annihilating 
 whatever remnant of restraint or decency was left to these 
 grave administrators of the law. By the roars of laughter 
 wliich proceeded from the room, as Captain Kingsly was 
 conducted up the stairs, it appeared as if the dismal tragedy 
 was interrupted at the moment by some untimely and re- 
 pulsive admixture of the comic. 
 
 " And so you say Feversham, take your wine 
 
 So > on say, sirrah, that this prisoner whom you have brought 
 us in is your brother — is he ?" 
 
 " I have that misfortune, Curnel. A crack'd sthray of 
 a fellow that I never could keep a hoult of. It's well be- 
 come him to put on the Duke of Monmouth's nnicora -" 
 
 '• Uniform you mean, you dunce 1" 
 
 " Uniform or unicorn, whichever your honour will plase 
 to havo it. Sure it's a wondher I ever knew him. If it 
 wasn't, as I toult ye, for the smell o' the dhrop he had in his 
 IKicket, I might pass him fifty times without ever beiu' the 
 wiser o' who it was I had there." 
 
316 TIIE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 " Well, Morty, for your sake- 
 
 " Long life to your honour !" 
 
 " Hark you, sir," contiuued Kirke, addressing Sliamus : 
 " have you any objection, now, to doiF that wolfs hide, and 
 put on my gentle lamb's wool in its place ?" 
 
 Shamus looked as if at a loss to comprehend the meaning 
 of the question. He was speedily aroused by a ringing box 
 on the ear from no less near a hand than that of his bro- 
 ther Morty. 
 
 " Why don't you answer, you impident fellow ?" he said 
 in an indignant tone, " when the Curnel's honour goes for to 
 demane himself to condescind to spake to the likes o' you 
 — an' that if he did right, may be, 'tis to have you swing- 
 ing like a scarecrow abroad in the sthreet he would in five 
 minutes, or any wandheriu' vagaboneo' your kind that there's 
 no sort o' ho with." 
 
 " If I could undherstand — " said Shamus. 
 
 '' Undherstand ! you vagabone, what business has the 
 likes o' you to undherstand ? only to do as you're bid. 
 'Tis your undherstandin an' your gentility an' your caperg 
 that was always comin again you." 
 
 " Hark ye, sirrah," said Kirke. 
 
 " Listen to the Curnel 1" cried Morty, accompanying the 
 suggestion with a severe blow of the elbow in the side. 
 
 " i am list'nin to him," answered Shamus angrily, and 
 returning the blow with interest. 
 
 " Very well, put down your hat then, an' hould up your 
 head, while 'tis left upon your showlders." 
 
 " Will you promise to be faithful to the King, in case he 
 should grant you life, and permission to be enrolled with 
 your brother amongst the lambs of Colonel Kirke ?" 
 
 '' An' plase your honour," said Shamus, " I'll go bail 
 you'll find me faithful to whoasoradever I'll engage with. 
 Only there's one thing that I'd wish for to make miution 
 to your honour." 
 
 '* And what is that ?" 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 317 
 
 " Some foolishness, I'll go bail," said Mortj in a low 
 tone. 
 
 '' Ouly that it would be plasin' to yonr honour to gi' me 
 some sort of a commission, an' not to send me in among the 
 common sogers. I come of a good stock, although bein in. 
 a poor way now. I'm descended " 
 
 Before he could proceed further with his genealogy, his 
 brother Morty had tripped up his heels and laid him prostiate 
 before the court, amid a roar of laughter from the officers. 
 
 " You are descended, indeed," cried Feversham, '• and 
 somewhat suddenly too." 
 
 " Ravin' he is, gentlemen," said Morty, — " touched in 
 tlie head he is, poor boy. There was ever an' always a 
 bee in his cap. The ould father used to say, from the 
 l.ighth o' that, that poor Sharaus had a rat in the garret. 
 Lave him to myself, Curnel, if it's plasin' to your honour 
 lu' the court, an' I'll take care of him. The common 
 iogers, inagh ?" Why, then 'tis you that oughtn't to go 
 among 'em, for you're the uncommon soger, sure enough — 
 au' the uncommon boy moreover. Will nothin' ever sentt 
 )uu sin?e ?" 
 
 " No, but you, I suppose, that has the whole of it," ex- 
 claimed Sliamus, at length aroused to indignation. '• One 
 Mould tliink there was nobody able to do a ha'p'orth but 
 yourself. You remind me of the story they tell o' the two 
 b ys that was once goin lookin for a place, and that I'd like 
 to tell, if the company was agreeable." 
 
 " By all means," said Kirke, " let us hear it." 
 
 " Here goes, then," resumed Shanuis. " There was of 
 a time two boys, just aiqual to myself and Morty here, 
 goin lookin for a place. They called together at a jet- 
 tleirian's house. ' Well, my boy,' says the jettieman, spakin 
 to ' ne o' the two, ' an' what can you do for me?' ' Any- 
 tliing, sir,' says he. * Indeed !' says the jettieman : ' can 
 you tend a horse ?' ' I can, sir.' ' Can you lay a table ?' 
 ' f can, sir.' ' Can you brush clothes r" ' Oh, elegant, sir.* 
 
818 THE DUKE OF MONMOCTH. ' 
 
 * An' clane knives an' f irks ?' ' Yes, sir.' * An' do all tlie 
 inside work ?' ' All, sir.' * An' do all the outside work ?* 
 ' Yes, sir.' ' Very well, I see yon're a very clever bov,' 
 says the jettleman. * An' now,' says he, tnrnin to the se- 
 cond boy, ' what can you do for me ?' ' Nothing, sir,' says 
 he. ' What ! nothing ?' * No, sir, — [here Shamus winked 
 with one eye familiarly on Kirke, and pointed significantly 
 to Morty] — No, sir,' says he, ' the other boy left me no- 
 thing to do.' " 
 
 "Do you tell me, then," said Kirke, after they had 
 Imghed now at Morty's expense, while the latter regarded 
 his brother askance, and with a supercilious air — " Uo you 
 tall me, then, that you could do something to serve \\\% 
 Majesty in case J spare the hangman the trouble of stretch- 
 ing your neck a couple of inches longer ?" 
 
 " I do, to be sure." 
 
 *' And what is it ? Let ns hear your accomplishments." 
 
 " I'll tell you that — an' let it be a clean bargain between 
 n? — I'll meet any man he'll name, fair play an' a clear 
 ground — skene, pike, or battle-axe, an' I'll lave your lio- 
 liOur to judge. If he gets the upper hand o' me let hiin 
 hang me at once — 'tisn't to say for a rebel alone, but for a 
 bosthoon, and that's fifty times worse. But if I get the 
 betther of him, all I ax is what your honoar olFei-ed me 
 already." 
 
 " Fair enough, "cried several voices; "a bargain let it he." 
 
 " Aye," said Kirke, " but I have no man who is accus- 
 tomed to fight on foot. Mv lambs are all mounted." 
 
 " A-horseback or a-foot, 'tis all one to Shamus," said ihe 
 prisoner ; let him draw out into that green behind the huuoe, 
 an' if he was upon forty horses, my hand to you, yourlau.b 
 will be mutton before half an hour." 
 
 " A bargain ! a bargain I" was now the general cry, and 
 Kirke named one of his " lambs," as he called them, for 
 the combat. The officers stooil at the open windows which 
 looked out upon the green, in order to sea the issue. 
 
THE I>nKE or MONMOUTH. S 1 9 
 
 *• TLe soldier selected for the contest was a fiprc°-l(>ok' 
 in?, broad-shonldered fellow, armed with buff-coat &}ui 
 helmet, and all the heavy furniture worn by the c^ivalrv (^f 
 the time. A lance of unusual weight was resting against 
 his knee, and the opposite side was provided with a sword, 
 the very weight of which, in falling, would have bf rn s'.iiS- 
 cient to inflict a wound of no trifling kind. To all this for- 
 midable apparatus the kern opposed his unprotected pprson 
 with no other weapon than a short pike and the small skene 
 he carried in his belt. It seemed to the spectatoi-s as if he 
 stood more in the similitude of a victim about to undergo 
 an unresisting sacrifice, than of a combatant prepared to 
 measure force by force. 
 
 When the signal, however, was given, for the onset, they 
 began to alter their opinion. In the first charge the horse- 
 man lost nis lance, being deprived of it by a sleight of the 
 pike, which seemed a magic weapon in the hand of Shamus. 
 Somewhat irritated by the laughter which this disaster oc- 
 casioned, he drew his sword, and setting spurs to bis horse, 
 rode down at full speed on the devoted kern. The latter, 
 however, was evidently long practised in the kind of combat 
 in which he was engaged. Springing lightly to one side 
 in order to avoid the shock, he fastened the hook of hid 
 pike (an appendage to that weapon wholly new to the be- 
 holders) in the upper portion of the buff-coat of his anta- 
 gonist with so much dexterity, that the dragoon was un- 
 horsed by the impetus of his own steed, and came to tha 
 ground, armour and all, with a crash that resounded through 
 the place. The man was no sooner down, being as yet 
 somewhat stunned by the fall, than Shamus placed his knee 
 u))on his breast, plucked the skene out of his belt, and 
 seemed about proceeding to complete his work by cuitini; 
 off' his prisoner's head. 
 
 " Hold ! hold !" cried Kirke. 
 
 " You, sirrah !" cried the dragoon, recovering himself 
 and struggling, bnt in vain, to free himself from the wivy 
 
320 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 grasp of his conqueror, "are you going to cat off mr 
 head?" 
 
 , " To be sure I am," replied Shamus, " stay quiet, I tell 
 you." 
 
 " No, no !" said Kirke ; "let him rise." 
 
 " Plase your honour," said Shamus, looking up at the 
 window with a half-suppressed smile, while he still made 
 good his hold on the dragoon, " at home we never consider 
 a man as fairly bate until his head is off." 
 
 " No matter," said Kirke ; " there is enough." 
 
 " As your honour will have it," said Shamas, releasing 
 his prisoner and quietly replacing the skene within his belt ; 
 " that's only child's play. Well, soger, gi' me your hand ; 
 we're not the worse friends for anything that's said or done 
 to-day." 
 
 " So, Kiswick," said Kirke, " you have let the Irishman 
 give you a fall ?" 
 
 " Foh — the knave," cried ti^e dragoon, rising and re- 
 ooveiing his weapon, "what canbe done with a fellow who 
 fights with that pot-hook, that seems more fit for dragging 
 a mill-race than for any civilised warfare. Who ever heai-d 
 of Christian soldiers fighting with iron hooks ?" 
 
 " How bad they are !" said Shamus, as he was recon- 
 ducied to t^e presence of the court. " Indeed, to beS sure, 
 it isn't your business to praise 'em this turn." 
 
 The pardon accorded to Shamus was now unanimously 
 contirmed, and he was committed to the care of his brother 
 in order to his receiving the suitable preparatory drilling. 
 
 " Your honour is too good to him," said Morty ; " hang- 
 ing would be betther than he desarves ; but it won't be my 
 fjult if he doesn't show a sinse of his duty." 
 
 Saying this, he removed Shamus from the room, amiJ 
 the laughter of the court. 
 
 •' Gentlemen," said Kirke, " send round the wine. Fever- 
 sham, the bottle is with you. I will give you a toast : 
 llcttis the mute Alchoki, the chief ixanj^mau of Taugierc, 
 
TnE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 321 
 
 «Tid the nimblest fellow at his trade from hence to his owa 
 quarters. Give him a bumper !" 
 
 " Knaves that you are !" the voice of Captain Kingsly Tvaa 
 now heard exclaiming at the chamber-door, " you shall soon 
 learu how to distinguish between the King's servants and 
 bis enemies ! Is General Feversham in the court ?" 
 
 " I am here," replied the latter. " What ! is it possible ? 
 My old friend Captain Kingsly, the very pink of loyalty, the 
 terror and the scourge of all the "Whigs and Roundheads 
 west of Somerton, in handcuffs as a rebel ! Speak, sirrah 1" 
 he said to the dragoon attending him ; " what mistake is 
 this ? — for mistake it surely is." 
 
 " Sir," replied the dragoou in an humbled tone, " it was 
 the Colonel's orders." 
 
 Feversham looked nt Kirke. 
 
 " He says the truth," said the latter. " I know nothing 
 of the prisoner ; but a fellow who came hither this morn- 
 ing deposed against him as aiding and abetting in the 
 escape of a notorious rebel of the name of FuUarton." 
 
 " Who, likewise, is at present, an' it please your honour," 
 *aid the dragoon, " a prisoner in the guard-room." 
 
 " Ha! have you taken him then ?" 
 
 " Your honour can have him up here in an instant," an- 
 swered the soldier. 
 
 " No — I have particular reasons for examining that pri- 
 joner in private." 
 
 ; " Meanwhile, Colonel," said Feversham, " my friend here 
 may be set at liberty. I'll answer for his loyalty, — and 
 sorry I am that so flagrant a mistake should ever have oc- 
 «urred." 
 
 " As yon please, gentlemen," said Kirke : " you will ex- 
 cuse my leaving the lives and destinies of his Majesty of 
 Monraonth's loyal subjects in your hands, while I hold .♦ 
 little conversation with this new-comer in another room." 
 
 Captain Kingsly, whose complacency had' been gradually 
 Kturuiug in the course of the foregoing conversation, now 
 
 z 
 
322 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 soflFered the handcuffs to be removed, and was invited to 
 take a seat at the table close by Feversham. A few ex- 
 aminations more took place, followed by sentence of death 
 or exile, when the court adjourned for the night, and Colo- 
 nel Kirke prepared to receive Arthur FuUartop alone and in 
 another room. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 A DiSSOLura and selfish mind is commonly an unforgiving 
 one. From the moment he heard of the apprehension o; 
 young Fullarton, Kii-ke had resolved npon his death. H 
 • v/p,s far from having forgotten his interview with A qnila, 
 and he remembered with a malign acuteness the involuntary 
 abhorrence of his character which his offended self-love en 
 obled him to detect in her looks and gestures, in her general 
 demeanour, more plainly than in her speech. That, he coulc 
 not deny to his own mind, was ever, until then, courteous 
 and good natured, such as the speech of a daughter shonic 
 Jbe to her father's guest. But her very sense of moral evi' 
 was her crime to him. His feeling was that of a malignan 
 hunchback who sees some prejudiced eye directed toward! 
 liis deformity, and it was proportionably more intense as th( 
 distortion from which Aquila Fullarton recoiled with terro: 
 lay deeper than the frame of flesh and blood. All merci- 
 less as he was to all beside, the remembrance of what hat] 
 [passed between himself and Aquila afforded no reason wh' 
 icr brother should hope for an exemption in his favour. 
 
 Still fettered at the wrist after the manner of felons, Ar 
 thar Fullarton was conducted to the chamber in which Kirk 
 expected him. Both, on meeting each other's eyes, ex 
 changed a fornial sign of recognition. Kirke, seated in 
 chair of carved oak, and staring from beneath his closely 
 drawn i)row6, gazed fixedly, with an expression meant t 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 323 
 
 be intimidatiug, into the cotintenance of the prisoaer. Young 
 Fullarton, however, evinced no mark of awe or anxiety. 
 Collected, steady, and tranquil, without any appearance 
 either of apprehension or defiance, he stood waiting to be 
 questioned, and manifesting no uneasiness with respect to 
 the event. 
 
 " We are met again, youag gentleman," Kirke said at 
 length, '* under diflferent circnmstances from those in which 
 we became first acquainted." 
 
 " Different indeed !" said Arthur, betrayed into a mo- 
 mentary expression of sadness. 
 
 " I remember then," said Kirke, " you were somewhat 
 eangnine, sir. You talked much of war and arms, and were 
 brimful of questions concerning the ccmp and barrack. If 
 rumour say the truth, you have since become qualified to 
 (iiscass the subject witi the advantage of experience as well 
 as zeal." 
 
 " Rumour, no doubt," replied the prisoner, " can be busy 
 with the humble as well as with the great. Of late she has 
 taken many liberties with higher and worthier names than 
 mine." 
 
 " You think I am seeking to entrap you," said the Colonel, 
 *' but you may spare your caution. It is not my way. 
 The sack and storm were ever more congenial to my spirit 
 than the mine or ambuscade. I have the power, and never 
 yet was wont to be dainty about the pretext. 
 
 " So indeed men say of you." Arthur was about to re- 
 
 1 ''• ; but he restrained his speech, and sufi^red the sentiment 
 
 xpend itself in a melancholy smile, which was fully uu- 
 
 stood by Kirke. 
 
 '•They say you fought at Sedgmoor?" exclaimed the 
 latter suddenly. 
 
 " If they do," replied Arthur, *' it is a charge which I 
 have not the inclination, even if I had the power, to dis- 
 prove." 
 
 " I see," said Kirke with a contemptuous lur, " yoa are 
 
 t 
 
324 THE DUKE OF MONMODTH. 
 
 of the lofty class of rebels — one of the sublime lawbreaker? 
 whose ambition is the fame of martyrdom in the cause they 
 have embraced. In tfuth, I grieve to tell you, it is but a 
 grovelling aspiration to bring with you to our doors. Onrs 
 is but a sorry barn lor the heroic strut. A haller, some- 
 what the worse for wear, and a limb of an old ash or oak, 
 or in lieu thereof a lamp or finger-post, are the most glorious 
 accommodation we can funiish on the highway to historic 
 eminence. A somewhat obscure, uncomfortable exit for the 
 spirit of a political martyr. How say you ? With your 
 high and ardent throbbiugs in the cause of Monmouth, could 
 you be content, now, with the finger-post at the next cross, 
 a foot or two of tether to swing freely in the wind, and the 
 index pointing — the shohtest cut to Sedgmoor ?" 
 
 To this taunting speech Aithur Fullarton made no reply, 
 and Kirke, after a malicious pause, resumed : 
 
 " Rather a sorry and a hasty ending to so magnificent a 
 scheme as that devised by Monmouth. Yon see, sir, the 
 gound of the trumpet, and the glitter of the sword and spear, 
 and the waving of painted feathers in the wind, and the 
 tramp of horse, and all the visible glory of the field, are but 
 a small portion of what belongs to the profession of arms, 
 War has its harvest of woe, as you have seen, no less than 
 of success." 
 
 " I have seen enough," said ^rthur, " of its horrors, to 
 know it for the necessary evil I have always heard it called 
 
 '* I warrant ye. Necessary, say you ? Aye — I wanaut 
 ye for logic enough to justify the bloody dream that has bfr 
 trayed yon all. But I have not leisure to chop syllogisms. 
 With most of you, defeat and failure are more power! ul 
 awakeners of the reason, — those, and the arguments oi 
 oemp and wood that line the highways and the streets 'tween 
 here and Langport. Blind things of sense ! that only cau 
 instruct you which affects your eyes and ears — not that 
 which warns your reason. You see more clearly now."' 
 
 " I see nothing," answered Arthur, " at which I mux 
 
THE DUKE OF UONMOCTH. 82S 
 
 mur, or for which I was unprepared. It has been so 
 disposed, and the eyes that saw and suffered it are farther- 
 sighted than any that are weeping over the event." 
 
 " Well, comfort yourself with that," said Kirke impa» 
 tieutly ; " but see how easily all this might have been spared. 
 A word — one word of the easiest utterance to a woman, 
 V, onld have made Kirke the friend of Aquila Fuliarton and 
 of her friends for ever." 
 
 " Better" — Arthur exclaimed hastily, and then re- 
 strained himself; and after a pause he added calmly and 
 fixedly, " Better she should be friendless, even as she is." 
 
 " You are in my power," cried Kirke, " and you dare to 
 address me thus? You will have cause to repent that 
 speech before we part." 
 
 " I never will repent it," answered Arthur : " it i* 
 said — and it is truth." 
 
 " Depend upon it," said Kirke, " I will fill up the sketch 
 you draw for me. Since so you judge of Kirke, you shall 
 not be disappointed." 
 
 "You can do nothing to surprise me, be assured," said 
 Arthur. "It is not wonderful that the man who could 
 stoop to menace a feeble girl with vengeance should be 
 capable of tyranny." 
 
 " Said I not true then, sirrah ?" Kirke exclaimed, with 
 a sudden burst of passion and malevolence. " Was the 
 menace vain ? Was I a hasty prophet ? Kirke is not 
 wont to be a break-promise." 
 
 " Colonel Kirke," said Arthur after a pause, "you will 
 force me to speak though it be against my intention and 
 "n»y desire. Nothing can be more purely wanton than your 
 rage against my family, nothing more unprovoked thai 
 your hatred. In all our intercourse, no member of out 
 household ever used either a word or gesture that ought to 
 have given you offence. We received you with open and 
 unsuspecting hearts; nor even after you had repaid our 
 courtesy with an insult of the deepest kind that you could 
 
326 THE DUKE OF MONMOt'TIT. 
 
 offer, did we give you reason to complain of our doing mora 
 than we were in self-defence compelled to do." 
 
 " I warrant you for an orator, sir," said Kirke ; " bat 
 yon must not carry it all away with you. My words were 
 fully explained ; not so those which were used in answer 
 to my jocular and unmeaning speech to your young high- 
 flown mistress. If I had said in mirth what might offend, 
 I said afterwards, in sober earnest, to you what should have 
 taken away offence." 
 
 " You said so at the time," replied Arthur, '* and for 
 the sake of peace we were content to take them in that 
 sense : but they did not cease to be insulting and unwar- 
 rantable, nor could your explanation make them otherwise. 
 As to your own complaint you cannot but feel that it is 
 groundless. My sister is warm-tempered as she is generous, 
 and she had cause of provocation. I could wish for her own 
 sake, not for yours, that she had been more reserved in the 
 expression of her anger, — not that less was merited, but 
 that less would better have become her. But enough of 
 that. I only refer to it for the purpose of confirming what 
 I say, that nothing can be more causeless than your maU";- 
 nity agaiust us. Strike then, since the power and the will 
 are with you. I know you have resolved on my death, and 
 I have no desire to avoid the blow. But, Kirke, think not 
 that you in your turn shall escape the edge of justice. 
 There is an Eye that sees your cruelty, and which you wili 
 have to meet one day, without the plea of royal warrant or 
 commission to do evil. I know the shift of your miserah 
 philosophy, which teaches you, like the stupid bird of ti: 
 desert, to hide your head in unbelief and fancy that you iv 
 tiot seen; but I warn you, in the name of your victim-. 
 that you shall not escape the hand of their Avenger. You 
 are exceeding your commission — the parliament has passed 
 no martial law against as — and for every life which yo;i 
 thus take unjustly, you shall answer for a murder before 
 heaven and earth," 
 
T7IE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 9^7 
 
 " I wish yoa joy of your clients, sir," said Kirke, " aad 
 them j)f their counsel. Do not make yourself unhappy 
 about ray commission. No doubt you set much store by 
 State authority — you showed as much at Sedgmoor. But 
 neither must you find a salve for your wounded conscience 
 in that other subterfuge, as if my passion, not your treason, 
 wert! the occasion of your ruin. It is the arm of the law, 
 Bot mine, that strikes you. Flatter not your soul that this 
 is private pique. The shameful death you merit is wholly 
 your own work, and before Feversham or Kirke your doom 
 bad been the same." 
 
 " Sir," exclaimed Arthur, weary of the idle altercation, 
 *'you will excuse my answering. I know full well ray life 
 must pay the forfeit of my deeds, and I desire not to waste 
 my last remaining moments in angry conference. I beseech 
 you therefore let me hear my doom, that I may prepare to 
 meet it." 
 
 " Sirrah," said Kirke, "you shall not be hanged un- 
 known to you, depend upon it. What, Stephens !" 
 
 Tire subaltern instantly appeared at the door. 
 
 " See this young gentleman taken to a cell and left 
 there — alone — do you hear? until further orders. Let 
 one or two of the lambs keep guard at the door, and look- 
 in now and then to see that all is right." 
 
 Glad'.y Arthur Fullarton received the order to retire with 
 the guard, and was conducted to the common prison, wher^ 
 ' he was committed to a small apartment scantily furnishedJ 
 From the close and heavy iron bars with which the single) 
 window was secured, it was easy to judge that the apart-! 
 ment was not now for the first time appropriated to its pre- 
 sent use. Fettered at the hands and feet, and •with every 
 point of egress thus secured, the thought of escape, evea 
 if.it had entered into his mind, could not haye boon ration- 
 ally entertained for an instant. 
 
328 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 " That which I feared has fallen upon me !" was the thrill- 
 ing thought which, fi-om the moment of returning conscious- 
 ness, beset Aquila's mind and filled it with dismay. Such 
 too were the very words which she repeated to herself in 
 hurried whispers, as she paced from room to room of the 
 now desolate house, clasping and wringing her hands, and 
 flying from thought to thought, and from conjecture to con- 
 jectui-e, in search of some mode of deliverance from the mesh 
 of terror and of agony in which she was enatngled. 
 
 " A prisoner!" she exclaimed,-^" Kirke's prisoner too ! 
 What ! Arthur — my brother, with whom I was conversing 
 bat this morning — a prisoner now, and doomed perhaps — 
 What's to be done ? If these dreadful thoughts — these 
 fears and sinkings of the heart — would only suffer me to 
 
 think " She pressed her hands for some moments on 
 
 her brow. There was unfortunately now no friend to whose 
 counsel she could look for aid : the Kingslys were already 
 on their way to Minehead, with the exception of the old 
 Captain, to whom it would be idle to have recourse. 
 
 An appeal to Ku-ke himself? There was something in 
 the thought, all bold and hazardous as it was, that bad a 
 charm for a mind like Aquila's, at the same time sensitive 
 and impatient. She would strive to check the evil at its 
 source. He was a tyrant hard at heart and merciless, but 
 ahe had tears and prayers to soften him. She would fling 
 herself at his feet, she would conjure hitn with such ardent 
 words to spare her brother's life ; she felt that she must 
 conquer, that the iron soul would melt. It was impossible 
 that she should not prevail. Alone and unprotected as she 
 was, she would seek the tyrant in his very lair. Not the dis- 
 tance, nor the dread of interruption from the armed ruffians who 
 "beset the road, nor the incl^jment change which already 
 Qis^iin to deform the summer twilig'at, should come betiffeea 
 
w« oriE OF aoxMooTE. 329 
 
 fer and the hope of safety for a brother dear to her aa 
 
 Arthur was. 
 
 The scheme was no sooner formed than it was pnt into 
 execution. Taking the servant's cloak and bonnet, under 
 which she hoped to be less exposed to observation, she set 
 ont with a rapid pace upon the road to Bridgewater. Not- 
 withstanding all the speed that she could use, the second 
 hour had passed before she reached the outskirts of the 
 town. 
 
 And now, for the first time, she hesitated, not in doubt 
 of her own purpose, but in perplexity with respect to the 
 surest means of carrying it into execution. She heard, 
 from time to time, on all the roads around, the tramp of the 
 savage cavalry, who since the issue of the fatal fight of 
 Sedgmoor had, like ferocious beasts let loose, filled all the 
 West with havoc and dismay. Late as it was, there still 
 was twilight in the heavens — the lingering twilight of a 
 summer-eve, not wholly obscured even by the drizzUng rain 
 that for the last few miles of her journey had begun to fall. 
 It was singular too, and added not a little to the melan- 
 choly aspect of the scene around her, to observe, as she 
 performed her journey, that the ordinary course of rural 
 industry, though chilled and saddened, was not wholly in- 
 teiTupted by the terrible events that had occurred, and of 
 which the consequences still were far from being at an end. 
 Still, though rarely, she met a solitaiy peasant — ^sometimes 
 a group of three or more, returning homeward with their 
 implements of husbandry, not as before, mirthful and talka. 
 tive, but silent, or conversing in low and distrustful tones, 
 which indicated too plainly the subject of their dialogue. 
 Sometimea, also, the lonely voice of the cowherd arost 
 from the adjaceut plains ; and mingled with such peaceful 
 sounds, as she approached the town, were heai-d the shriek 
 of the victim who writhed beneath the lash of the execu- 
 tioner, or the still morejaercing cry of the wretched wife or 
 mother who watched the dying agonies of a beloved son or 
 
330 THE DUKE OP MO^•MOUTff, 
 
 husband. Terrified at the heart, and yet but the mora 
 confirmed in her resolution, she turned aside for a few 
 moments into a narrow farmhouse lane, and kneeling with 
 clasped hands beneath an overhanging oak, gave utterance 
 to an indistinct ^nd hurried prayer that her mission m'ght 
 be prosperous. 
 
 While she was thus occupied, the sound of several voices 
 somuig up the lane arrested her attention, and suggested 
 the prudence of secreting herself more closely amongst the- 
 shrubs that .clothed the hedges on either side. The dim 
 light made the task of concealment easy, and she could heap 
 from her hiding-place the conversation of the strangers. 
 
 " Theaze be what comes, Jimmy," said one of the 
 speakers, the first Avho was audible to Aquila, " of getting 
 auver-ground. I warned ye all against it, did I not ? I 
 tawld ye well enough, an' oten enough, that I niver knew 
 much good come o' creepen long about upon the zurvace o' 
 the wordle, — and I've zeen years enough under-ground 
 to knaw what I speak of. It's more naturaller, I'll main- 
 tain it ; it's the nat'ral end of man ; all are miners in the 
 long-run, however long tha may ztrive to put off the prac- 
 tice o' tha profession." 
 
 '* Aye, Ned, ye did warn us, showr enough ; an* t 
 would vor one I had taken your advice, an' niver put myt 
 head an inch above the shaft to run a wild-goose chas© 
 ater Monmouth an' his nonsense. Ah, the merry hills o*' 
 Mendip ! we were snug enough in our warren till themmy 
 rebel ferrets got us out o' 'em to get our neck in the in»id« 
 o' a halter. I warrant we ha' zeen our last o' 'em." 
 
 " Aye, Jimmy, I doubt we shall niver handle a pick ia 
 the Mendip vein again." 
 
 " The more the pity, Ned, zay I. The more I zee o't,- 
 the more showr I be that there's no life auvcr-groand; 
 It's all a wilderness ; there's too moch light an' room— - 
 my eyes will be dazzled out o' my head wi' tha zunchino' 
 avore I get into the bowels o' the yarth again. And thwO, 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 331 
 
 why as ror makiu' ont the way ye want above groand, it's 
 clear uopossible ; I have lost mine fifty times a day zance 
 I came upon the zurvace ; zo many roads, an' paths, an' 
 cross-turnings, as would dudder longer heads than mine. 
 Now, under-ground, ye zee, a' the way is straight avore ye 
 — a child ood'n miss o't. But all's auver now ; I doubt we 
 shall iver enter into the bowels o' the yarth again, until 
 we're carried in, a-raa-be, in a deal qut, vor good an' all, 
 nif Curnel Kirke leave us even thic lack azell, an' not 
 rather hitch us up for a sign on zum o' themmy vinger- 
 posts about Bedj water." 
 
 " Hoo, man !" cried the former speaker, in a more cheer- 
 ing tone, "don't ye goo on croakin at thic rate. Ther« 
 be coal-pits out o' Zummerzet, an' as deep as any in the 
 Mendip range. Stay here a bit, till it gets dorker. The 
 dragoons are not abed yet." 
 
 They drew aside near the entrance of the lane. Pre- 
 sently a low whisper was heard at a short distance in tho 
 direction by which they had approached. 
 
 " That's Pitman," said one. 
 
 " Aye, he went to the yalhouse a-near thtt wood to hire 
 news o' Kirke. We shall have zum tidings now." 
 
 They answered the signal by a similar sound, and pre- 
 sently Aquila heard another pair of feet approaching hastily 
 up the lane. 
 
 " Well, Pitman, what's the news ?" 
 
 " What ! are ye zafe there, lads ? The news are ba({ 
 enough — worse than before." 
 
 *' Worse ?" 
 
 " Aye — they zay Cumel Kirke is to give up the com- 
 mand in theazamy parts avore long." 
 
 " Call you that bad news ?" 
 
 "No — but they zay there's a worserer coming in iz 
 place." 
 
 " That cannot be," said the first speaker, " unless they 
 zaugbt after tbue t'other in a place that I won't name," 
 
332 TH2 DUKE OF MOKMOUTH. 
 
 " Bat it is true though, only with one small difference. 
 They zay this new-comer is a great law jnuge, saprising 
 fierce, and desperd fond o' money. He will do nothing 
 vor love, put anything vor money. Now the whole coun- 
 try knows Kirke ood do nothing either for love or money. 
 Zo there's zum small differ to rejoice at for the rich, but 
 worse than nothing for the pooi*." 
 
 " Bad news you bring us, showr enough," said the first 
 speaker. " Well, comrades, let us move — strange doings 
 in this upper wordle ! — the more fools we not to keep our 
 noses in our holes when we might." 
 
 They passed on, and Aquila, leaving her hiding-place, 
 resumed her journey to the town, which now lay close at 
 hand. Before she entered the place, however, she was 
 again interrupted by the approach of footsteps, and once 
 more turned aside to avoid the risk of falling into ruffian 
 hands. 
 
 " Well, Shamus, here's your post," exclaimed one of the 
 soldiers (for such she could perceive they were), who now 
 approached her ; " an' let me see now how you'll behave, 
 an' what an account I'll have to give o' you to the Curnel 
 in the mornin." 
 
 *' Well, an' what am I to do here, now that I'm come ?" 
 
 "Nothin in the world, only to keep watch, and not to 
 let one pass but what's able for to give you the counthersign. 
 It's asy work. Let me see now what a hand you'll make 
 o' the beg'nin ; an' there's no knowin what the Curnel 
 might do for you yet." 
 
 " It's well in my way," said Shamus, " to be shoulderin 
 a musket here on the high road aiqual to a conunon sogerj 
 it's well become my pai'entage to do the likes!" 
 
 " A', d'ye hear," Morty exclaimed, in a tone of snrpris« 
 and indignation — '* is it talkin that way you are still, now, 
 ftttlier havin as narrow an escape o' the gallows this 
 iiiomin, as ought to satisfy any one ? How would it be- 
 come your parentage, do you think, to have you gbin up 
 
THE DUKE OF BIONMOOTH. 333 
 
 taddher-Iane this morning in the sight o' the whole place ? 
 Would it be well in your way to be hung, do you think ?" 
 
 "There's no disgrace in that, these times," said Shamns; 
 " there's a dale o' genteel people takin to it of late. If it 
 goes on as it did this time back, I wouldn't wondher if 
 everybody got ashamed to die afther any other manner," 
 
 '* That's all as people fancies it," replied Morty ; " al!'« 
 in likin. One man is for one death, one for another. Soma 
 lilies hangin, more likes drowndin, more wonld be bettber 
 plased you'd shoot 'em, an' so on. But where's the one at 
 all would be so cracked an' to say he wouldn't rather be 
 left alive than any one o' the whole ?" 
 
 '*'Well, maybe you're right," said Shamns, in a yielding 
 tone. " I never was a patch upon you for argufyin, so I 
 won't thry it now with you." 
 
 " Very well ; I must go back, now, and keep gnard at 
 the Curnel's own door. There isn't one only myself, that 
 he'd thrust for to keep guard upon him when he's asleep ; 
 which is the greatest o' compliments, to say that next to 
 himself 'tis me he'd thrust to watch hira." 
 
 ** ilore luck to you, Morty, an' good night." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 The instant Aquila heard the Irishman say that he was 
 about returning to the quarters of Kirke, she determined 
 on placing herself ander bis protection, rather than trust to 
 the perilous interruptions she might anticipate in attempt- 
 ing to arrive at the presence of the Colonel without a guide. 
 Accordingly she advanced hastily from her place of con- 
 vcalmeut and approached the speakers. 
 
 " fcJtop !" cried Morty, as he heard the footsteps drawing 
 near — "There's an opportunity tor you now, Sharaiis, m* 
 show if you know joui" joty. Let me se? now how ^ uu '* 
 
534 TBE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 do yonr business. Mind, you're, to let no man pass that 
 isn't able to give you the counthersign. Well, why don't 
 you cry ' Halt ! who comes there ?' — Why, man, they'd be 
 a-top o' you while you'd be thinkin of it, if that's the way 
 you go on." ^ 
 
 "Halt! who comes there ?" eric' C-hamus, in a loud voice. 
 
 ** A friend," Aquila answered timidly. 
 
 " Well, what'll you say now ?" said Morty to his pupil, 
 observing him hesitate. ' 
 
 " There's the puzzle — ^why," answered Shamus, " yen 
 toult me not to let e'er a man pass that couldn't give the 
 counthersign, but you didn't tell mo a word at all o' what 
 I was to do in case it is a woman that come." 
 
 " E' then, d'ye hear ?" exclaimed Morty. " Sure 'tisn't 
 at a wake or a weddin you are, man ? Snre the world 
 knows that, in the coorse o' war, any one at all that would 
 jome out frontin you an' you undher arms goes for a man." 
 
 " Oh, very well, if that's to be the way of it," cried 
 Sliamus — " Advance, frind, an' give the counthersign.'* 
 
 " That's right," said Morty. " Well, stop asy now, till 
 we see what she'll have to say for herself." 
 
 " Good friends," said Aquila, coming near, "can you 
 lead me to the quarters of your Colonel?" 
 
 *' That's not the right counthersign, Morty." 
 
 "'Tis too late now for you to see the Curncl," answered 
 Morty. *' Who are you, or what's your business with him ?" 
 
 " Have you a sister, friend ?" exclaimed Aquila in a be- 
 seeching tone. 
 
 " I have so — a batch of 'em." 
 
 "If there be one amongst them, "said Aquila, "whom you 
 love more dearly than the rest, for her sake, I entreat 3 00, 
 ^ood fellow, to be kind to me.** 
 
 " Well, Shamus, I'm blest but that's tindber. Well, 
 m' what do you want me to do ? or what is it that makes 
 you be goin rovin this hour 0' the night ? Sure you know 
 this 'la no place for anybody tn face to these times." 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. S85 
 
 ** I have business with the Colonel." 
 
 " Well, gi' me your message, an' I'll take it to him." 
 
 •' That would not answer. I want to speak with him 
 myself." 
 
 " Well, you're too late too-night. The Curnel will be 
 in bed by the time I get back to his quarters ; an' I'd like 
 to see the man that daar wake him up when he'd be asleep 
 without his own ordhers." 
 
 Aquila paused for a few moments in the deepest distress 
 of mind. Her uncertainty with respect to Arthur's fate, 
 and yet her fear of learning the worst, made her hesitate 
 before she spoke again. 
 
 " Can you tell me, friend," she asked, at length, " whe- 
 ther there were any prisoners brought into Bridgewater 
 to-night ?" 
 
 " There was — a power." 
 
 « From Taunton ?" 
 
 " Yes — I hear talks o' there bein two from Tauntoa 
 also." 
 
 After another pause, she asked — 
 
 " Do you know what has become of them ?" 
 
 " There was none of 'em thried yet, exceptin one onM 
 man that was taken by mistake. There's a dale o' priso- 
 ners from different parts that's to go before 'em yet.'' 
 
 " Was there one amongst them," said Aquila, '' of the 
 name of FuUarton ?" 
 
 " I don't rightly know — I didn't hear their names," said 
 Morty, hesitating ; and then starting with a look of sudden 
 recollection, he added, " From Taunton ? — FuUarton ? Eh, 
 Siiamus, don't you think you know that name ?" 
 
 " If I don't, I ought," answered his brother, " an' you 
 likewise. Sure 'tis the very name o' the ould jcttlemau 
 that paid our bill at the Three Crowns that time when w« 
 happened to be short taken for small change.'' 
 
 " It's the throth your tellin. An' is your name Full.tr- 
 ton r" he added, turning to Aqdla. 
 
83»> THE DUEE OF MONMOUTJI. 
 
 « It is." 
 
 " An' is it the ould jettleman himself that has the mis- 
 fortune o' bein ia ?" \ 
 
 " No," replied Aqnila, weeping at the sound of kindne?s 
 and of interest, though from a stranger ; " it is his son — 
 my brother," 
 
 " More's the pity ! An' you're comin to Kirke to be^ 
 him off? Why then I'm better plazed than what I won't 
 mention, that you perched upon myself to-night ; an' you 
 have some rason toi, be plazed at it too. I'll engage I'll show 
 30U the way an' welcome ; an' proud I'd be I could do 
 more than that for your father's child. I'm in dhread it's 
 no use for you to think o' seein the Curnel to-night, bat 
 you'll be safe and sound for the night, and you can see him 
 »3 airly as you like in the mornin. Won't that match you?" 
 
 " Are you sure, good friend," asked Aquila, iu an 
 anxious tone, " that this prisoner, ray brother, of whom I' 
 speak, is still in custody and living ?" 
 
 " I'n* sure I know he is. Make your mind asy." 
 
 " Then," said Aquila, with deep feeling, " I accept your 
 offered kindness with the warmest thanks. I am sura 
 i can rely upon you, for you speak like one who is sincere. 
 If you be otherwise, may heaven forgive you !" 
 
 " Don't fear, a-chree ! Amn't I an Irishman ? an' 
 aren't you a faimale ? — not to spa^ke 0' bein' your father's 
 child, that showed himself a j jtweman to us of ould, which 
 we don't forget. I'll engage I'll take the same care 0' yoa 
 as if you war my own sisther ; an' what more can I say ?" , 
 
 " I believe you — I place my sole dependance on yon," 
 said Aqnila. " I am a poor weak woman ; I have now jm 
 other friend but Heaven." 
 
 " Don't cry now, or you'll desthroy me entirely," ex- 
 claimed Morty, entirely melted ; " only thrust to my honourj> 
 as I tell you. Did you or anybody else ever hear of od» 
 o' the name actin the vagabone ? I'll eqgage you didn't. 
 YoR magr depind yom* life ujjoa me, now } and that's moro 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH, 337 
 
 than I coold promise you for some of oar commerades, if 
 Tou had the luck to meet with 'era. So cosie along now, 
 1 tell jou, an' don't be one bit in dhread." 
 
 Without further hesitation, Aquila hastily wiped the 
 tears froai her eyes and accompanied her Irish escort. She 
 soon had reason to congratulate herself on having found so 
 influential a protector. They were repeatedly challenged, 
 as well by the sentinels on guard, as by the intoxicated 
 soldiery, whom they met staggering toward their quarters 
 Irom the neighbouring ale-houses, and whose iusoleiice it 
 required all the address and authority of her companion to 
 restrain within due bounds. On arriving opposite the gaol, 
 to which the prisoners had been removed immediately after 
 tiie court had broken tip, Morty paused and addi-essed his 
 protegee. 
 
 *■ Would you be in dhread o' facia' into the gaol if you 
 were sure o' being safe there for the night ?" 
 
 "■ I am ready to go wherever you advise rae : I place 
 luy entire depeudaoce upon you." 
 
 " Very well ; that's enough. The turnkey is my frind, 
 an* you're sure o' bein let out airly in the mornin, when 
 all the prisonei-s will be brought before the coort. I'll take 
 tare an' see you well provided for the night." 
 
 •' I have nothing bat ray thanks to offer you." 
 
 " An* isn't it enough ? Don't be talkiu that way, I tell 
 you." 
 
 They were interrupted by the challenge of the sentinel, 
 as Morty approached a small door leading to the turnkey's 
 rooms. Morty gave the countersign. 
 
 " Pass on," said the sentinel, turning from theni. " Staj, 
 •who have you got with you ?" 
 
 "A prisoner," answered Morty, repeating the earae 
 wawer which he had made to all who questioned him to 
 lae same puriK>se as they came along. 
 
 He knocked at the door, where he had to meet a similar 
 iftalieuge before he was admitted. The turnkey, on who&e 
 
338 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 temper the gloomy and harassing nature of his occupations 
 seemed to have produced its customary effect, received them 
 with no friendly aspect. 
 
 " Prisoner — prisoner — prisoner," he repeated in a fretful 
 tone ; " is there niver to be an end o't ? Why nif the 
 wordie holds on bo vor a little time longer, the course o' 
 things must alter : all the honest men an' women must come 
 inzide the walls, an' lock out the rogues and rebels, instead 
 o' lockin them in, for there's ne'er a gaol in Bedgwater 
 will hold the half o' 'em. I war'nt there's no vear my locks 
 and keys will get eaten with rust in the wards zo long as 
 Kirke's in the West." 
 
 " Whisht- ! Misther Turnkey," said Morty, " an' whisper 
 hether. 'Tisn't a prisoner at all I have for you — only all 
 a sham. 'Tis a dacent girl, a frind o' my own, that I have 
 brought in here, thinkin ?he'd be safer under the care of a 
 credible, responsible family, like your own, for the night, 
 than, maybe, in more places about the town, these times. 
 An' knew I might our.t upon your frindship." 
 
 "Eh? no prisoner, do you zay?" said the turnkey in 
 better humour; ''sho's the more welcome then, an' just in 
 the right time, vor ray wife an' daughter an myzel were 
 goin ta have a bit o' supper inzide. Zo ztep avore.' 
 
 Aquila could well have spared the hospitality, if it had 
 been in her power to choose. While she hesitated, a door 
 opened at a little distance along tho passage, and a voice, 
 female in its tone, but harsh enough in its expression for 
 the ruder sex, was heard to exclaim : 
 
 " Well, what spoort are ye ater now, Teddy, that ye let 
 the Bupper cool vor ye ?" 
 
 This query put the whole p^rty in motion toward the 
 inner room, to Aquila's great uneasiness, but to the hearty 
 and undisguised satisfaction of Morty Delaney. His presence 
 contributed to render Aquila's presence at the supper-table of 
 the turnkey less embarrassing than sho had anticipated. He 
 talked, langhed, jested, sang, and ate and drank in such a 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. S39 
 
 wiinner as to divert the curiosity of the womea from herself 
 with a dexterity for which she felt obliged to him. 
 
 Before retiriag for the night, he took an opportunity of 
 speaking with her alone. 
 
 " I was axin these what sort o' thratement they could 
 give you," he said. *' They havn't e'er a spare bed, so yon 
 must be continted to take a share o' the daughter's, which 
 I'm sorry for ; but she'fe a very dacent good crathur for all. 
 Is there anything more now you'd have me do for you be- 
 fore I go?" 
 
 " There is one thing," replied Aquila anxiously. 
 
 " An' what is it ?" 
 
 " Could you enable me to see my brother ?" 
 
 « Is it to-night ?" 
 
 " If possible — yes." 
 
 " Oh, then I'm in dhread its quite an' clane impossible. 
 But there's no harm in axin." 
 
 He left the room to look for the turnkey, and in a few 
 minutes returned with a more encouraging look than be- 
 fore. , ji 
 
 " The turnkey offers no objection," he said, "since I'll. 
 be answerable to him ; but there's two lads, cnmmerades 
 o' my own, keepin' guard upon him, that must be spoken 
 to first. I know them both well, of coorse. One of 'em 
 would do anything for me, an' the other would do anything 
 for brandy. So I must go an' thry what's to be done by 
 plfizin' both after their own fancy." 
 
 In something more than a quarter of an hour he returned 
 and beckoned hastily. 
 
 " Come along, all's right. Don't be in dhread of any 
 one." 
 
 He left the room, and Aquila followed on the instant. 
 The summer moon, which had already passed the noon of 
 night, gave them light across the prison-yard. The turnkey ; 
 received them at a small door on the opposite side. As- , 
 cending a staiicase, worn and coated with mud, thej 
 
340 THE DUKE OF MONJIOUTS. 
 
 reached a landing-place, where two soldiers kept guard be- 
 fore a door. Passing between the sentinels, and turniiis^^ 
 the lock, Morty pushed in the door sufficiently to allow the 
 entrance of a single person. Obeying a hun-ied motion of 
 his handj Aquila glided hastily into the apartment, and the 
 door was shut to and locked behind her. There, on a low 
 pallet, fettered and in his clothes, and with the moonlight 
 from the grated window shining full upon his figure, she 
 beheld the darling object of her search, her brother, sleep- 
 ing the sweet sleep of an untroubled conscience. 
 
 CHAPTER XI* 
 
 Fob some time Aquila remained stooping over and gazing 
 fondly on her brother, unwilling to break the repose in which 
 he seemed to be so profoundly sunk. For the present it 
 ■was enough for her that she stood watching beside him, 
 and beheld him free from pain or injury. It seemed as if 
 she had so far succeeded in snatching him from the stroke 
 of death. The rest she left to hope. 
 
 While she stood thus irresolute, the sleeper was awakened 
 by some accidental noise without. He awoke hurriedly, 
 and started up surprised on seeing a female figure standing 
 by his pallet. 
 
 " Who is there ?" he said, confusedly. 
 
 ** Dear Arthur, don't you know me ?" 
 
 Instantly, and as by instinct, the brother and sister were 
 locked in each other's arms. Aquila, akeady exhausted 
 by fatigue and anxiety, and now wholly unable to resist her 
 feelings, wept long and convulsively upon his neck, Arthur, 
 scarce yet entirely recollected, striving to recall the circum- 
 stances in which he stood, unconscious of everything but 
 that he held his sister in his arms, and perplexed to think 
 j^ow it was that he beheld her in such a place, or what 
 
TJIE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 341 
 
 it was that made her weep, stood full of wonder and 
 anxiety. 
 
 " Aqaila! Is it possible ? How's this ? I can scarce — 
 yes, yes, I see it all. I remember now ; it is my prison. 
 I had such dreams — such blissful, exquisite dreams, that I 
 could have slept a year. But how did you come here? 
 Where is onr father ?" 
 
 " He is well, I hope." 
 
 " You have not seen him then ? said her brother. •' And 
 yet, fool as I am, surely I might well judge yoa could not 
 in the time. — But how did you come here ? and why ? It 
 was very hazardons." 
 
 *' Had I not motive enough to come and see you^ 
 Arthur ?" 
 
 " Motive to desire it, but by no means to venture on the 
 pitting it in execution. It was exceedingly rash in you. 
 Why did yon not immediately set out for Min h^ad ?" 
 
 " Aye," said Aquila, " and what answer then should I 
 have made, when our father asked me what had become of 
 Arthur ?" 
 
 '• Better lose one than both," replied her brother; " and 
 infinitely better he should learn my lot from your lips, than 
 hear, perhaps, of the ruin of both from a stranger's. Ob, 
 my dear sister, it was fearful rashness.!" 
 
 " \V' as it ?" said Aquila, with a smile that had something 
 of wildness in it. " Well, only the more like Aquila. 
 When I am prudent, Kirke will be humane — and sooner a 
 great deal, I hope, for your sake, Arthur. I was ever ra^h, 
 you know — none should know better, for none more dearly 
 paid for it. My rashness it was that crossed your prudence 
 once, and left you trusting now to Kirke's humanity. Do 
 not think of me yet, Arthur." 
 
 " But I must," replied her brother anxiously ; " and the 
 more I think, the more I am terrified for you and for our 
 parent. Life ? — why, what's that ? In peace or in war 
 we have hold of that, To 'leatb the sleeping-chamber is 
 
^42 -H2 DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 jast as accessible as the line of battle. I should die orcc^ 
 and by as sure a blow as ever Kirke can strike, even wltii 
 his cruelest will. I could not fly from Nature, though X 
 should never have fallen into the hands of Kirke — of 
 Katuie's deadly enemy. But war, Aquila, has accidents 
 more to be feared than death. They can but take my life, 
 which somewhere I must needs resign ; but for you '* 
 
 " Fear not for me," exclaimed Aquila hastily ; " though 
 I am headlong, Providence can be kind and good. I have 
 found a protector and a friend even here where all seemed 
 foes, and who has already shown that I may depend oa hi< 
 sincerity. — You shake your head, as if you would s&y, 
 ' Trust not to that too surely ;' but is it nothing that he 
 has thus enabled me to see and speak with you ?" 
 
 She then gave Arthur a brief account of her journey, 
 and of her fortunate meeting with the Irishman ; suppress- 
 ing, however, all allusion to the leading object of her un- 
 dertaking. Her brother's uneasiness did not seem in any 
 degree diminished after he had heard her to an end. 
 
 " You have seen nothing whatever," he exclaimed, ** to 
 lessen my regret that you should have thought of such 
 a journey. But it is now too late to speak of that, and 
 you must only provide, as spsedily as may be, for your own 
 safety. If it were possible, I would urge you to leave 
 Bridgewater to-night ; — at all events, I charge you, let the 
 earliest light of morning witness your departure. It is no 
 kindness, Aquila, to remain with me : if I must so sooit ; 
 be severed from this world and its interests, the less from- 
 henceforth they occupy my thoughts the better." ' 
 
 " But what," said Aquila in an eager tone, " if we were 
 not to part so soon ? Is Kirke entirely destitute of mercy ? 
 He must remember, surely, he was once our guest, and 
 greeted with an open welcome to our fireside. He is not 
 all a monster, surely, Arthur." 
 
 " Alas !" answered the prisoner, " there's nothing to be 
 hoped from Kirke. ^ley tell stories of him smce his entry 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 343 
 
 into Bridgewater that would show him capable of any- 
 thing." 
 
 " Do you think," asked Aquila, " that if he were steel 
 or adamant, words could not still be found to soften him ?" 
 
 '' They must be sought, I fear then," replied her brother, 
 " in some language yet unknown to his victims in the West, 
 for they as yet have found entreaty vain." 
 
 '' Perhaps," said Aquila hurriedly, like one who strives 
 to escape an unwelcome conviction, — " perhaps they did 
 not strike the chord- aright. There is no breast, however 
 stubborn to the sound of prayer — no heart, however jarred 
 and shattered by the discord of conflicting passions, that has 
 not still one string in tune if it were only possible to find it." 
 
 "' Aquila," asked the prisoner anxiously, taking her hand, 
 " what is it that you think of?" 
 
 *'• To seek that chord in his," cried Aquila, bursting into 
 tears, — " to fling myself at his feet and plead with him for 
 my brother's life." 
 
 " Mildness on madness !" Arthur exclaimed, in terror — 
 " 'tis the dream of an enthusiast, and full of danger ! What? 
 j'lace yourself open-eyed in the power of our professed and 
 uiireleuting enemy ? This indeed would be to consummate 
 the misfortunes of our house. I conjure you, sister, by our 
 lather's reverend hairs, and by our mother's grave, to-think 
 no more of this." 
 
 *' What, then, do you bid me do ?" said his sister, turn- 
 iog away impatiently, and regai-diug him aside with a iouk 
 iu which a degree of anger was mingled with petulance. 
 " I am to stay here, am I ? or go here or there, with a rein 
 upon my tongue, while they are leading you to the scaffold i 
 Am I, truly ? — I, who have earned that fate for you by my 
 self-will ? Say you so, brother ? Am I to hear from this 
 ■babbler's tongue and that, how Arthur Fullarton received 
 iiis sentence from the lips of Kirke — how it Wita pat in 
 iorce, and how his sister hid her bead in silence — 3tie who 
 had brought Iiia to that fate by her presumptuous speech 
 
344 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 — and how she was silent, and beheld him die, and never 
 cried for ' mercy !' though it might have saved him ? Oh. 
 talk to the walls and stones to hold their peace, and not to 
 a despairing and broken-hearted sister ! — What ! I, with 
 an immortal soul and human heart, should fall below irra- 
 tional things in sympathy ? The very beast that grovels ia 
 the mire will utter its piteous cry of misery when it beholds 
 its fellow die, and shall I do less for a brother ? Merciful 
 Heaven !" she continued, clasping her hands in awe and 
 looking upward through her tears, "thy lightnings sure 
 would overtake me could I so forget the order thou bast 
 made!" 
 
 " Aquila, hear me " 
 
 " What ! Arthur, my own brother, must thou die ? shall 
 he take thee from us, Arthur ?" she continued, resting her 
 hands on his neck, and gazing fondly and through floods of 
 tears into his face ; " and shalt thou who wert loved so 
 much — so very much — not have one friend now who will 
 cry 'spare — spare us our brother !' Wouldst thou have it 
 so, Arthur, indeed ! I beseech thee, then, to turn to other 
 ears than mine ; for thou wert dear to me from inftxncy, and 
 I cannot bear to see thee torn from me now without one 
 shriek for pardon." 
 
 Saying this, she sunk upon his shoulder and gave fall 
 vent to her feelings in a fit of convulsive weeping. 
 
 Perplexed and troubled, Arthur remained for a long time 
 without answering. He knew his sister's vehemence of 
 character — he knew how much of self-will there was mingled 
 with her very integrity of purpose, and he feared to defeat 
 his own end by thwarting her unseasonably. 
 
 " No, Arthur," she said more calmly, after the lons;- 
 gatheriug fit of grief had passed away, '' Kirke cannot be, 
 I am sure, the heart of flint that you would have me fear. 
 I am sure that he will hear me when he sees me kneelio:^ 
 at his feet, and pleading for one whom he has no cause to 
 remember with uukindness. Be not uueasy, therefore, Ar. 
 
THE DUKE OF MOXIIOUTH. 845 
 
 thnr, on my account — for, snrely, had he intended ill to me, 
 he would not have exempted me when you were sought for," 
 
 Without making a direct answer, her brother took her 
 hand and looked on her for a long time with a serious air, 
 as if he desired to impress her deeply beforehand with the 
 importance of what he was about to say. 
 
 " Aquila," said he gravely, " I entreat yon for a few 
 moments to lay aside all question of mere feeling — all 
 thought of our own earthly happiness, and hear me with 
 attention." 
 
 " Well, Arthur, what is It you desire to say ?" 
 
 " Will you promise to consider it ?" 
 
 " I will— I do." 
 
 " Has it never struck you then, my dear sister, amid all 
 these plans of appealing to the clemency of Kirke, (that 
 refuge most forlorn !) that there may be an evil even worse 
 tlian death to fear? — that yonr honour, my sister, may be 
 concerned in the issue ?" 
 
 " A woman's honour, Arthur," replied Aquila, with a 
 calmness which showed the suggestion was not new to her, 
 " is always in her power." 
 
 *' The deep damnation of the will," said Arthur, sternly 
 but calmly, " it may be always in her power to avoid ; but 
 what is to be thought even of the will of her who freely 
 incurs the danger ?" 
 
 " I have a Friend in heaven in whom I trust," replied 
 Aquila. " He sees my motive, and He will defend me for 
 the motive's sake." 
 
 " It is written," said Arthur, raising his hand with a 
 look of solemnity and warning, — " it is written, ' Thou shalt 
 not tempt the Lord thy God.' " 
 
 " I tempt him not, but trust in him," replied Aquila 
 firmly. " It is not from the mission of charity that he with- 
 draws his aid." 
 
 " It is enough, Aquila," said her brother: " I have spoken 
 all. You see these irons — those fetters that confino, ray 
 
S4.6 THE DOIOi 0? aONilO'JTH. 
 
 lifabs — those prison-bars that shut out the thought of 
 liberty. Were I free from these, I would not trust to words. 
 I w ould then be sure that you did not speak with Kirke ; but 
 now you are your own mistress, and I have only words and 
 the authority which they should derive from Nature. I have 
 no further power. I have told you all— I have done a bro- 
 ther's part." 
 
 " As evei-, Arthur," replied his sister, " fully and faith- 
 fully. When, from a child, did you do otherwise ? You 
 Lave indeed dischai'ged the duty of a brother — let me now 
 do a sister's." 
 
 Arthur remained silent for some moments, and then said 
 with an altered voice and with a softened manuer : 
 
 " Since you have so fully deliberated on this point, Aquila, 
 and since you will not be ruled by me, at least attend to my 
 advice. Be prepared, Aquila, to be disappointed. Should 
 . Kiike refuse your prayer, (as I am fully assured he will not 
 do otherwise.) do not yield to idle feelings of dejection, but 
 bow submissively to the evil which Heaven permits. The 
 longer L live, the more I feel the folly, not to say the wicked- 
 Jiesa, of all impatience." 
 
 " It is hard to think," said Aquila, " that Providence 
 Willi the cruelty of Kirke." 
 
 '• But Providence permits it, Aquila, for ends beyond our 
 pov«er 10 penetrate; and that is enough for us. Be patient 
 then, and do not sufier yourself to be hurried, either in the 
 presence of Kirke or out of it, into the expression of feel- 
 ings against him which you might afterwards bitterly repent. 
 You are over wai*m, Aquila, and I fear not your intentions, 
 but your temper. Will you promise me then, that in what- 
 ever manner Kirke may receive your prayer, or howsoever 
 he may act towards those you love, you will beai* the result 
 v\ ith patience ?" 
 
 " I will strive to do so— -I cannot promise more." 
 
 " I am satisfied. If I die, I die contented, be assured 
 of that. We part earlier than we looked for, it is true ; but 
 
T^IE DUKE OF MONMOCTH. 347 
 
 we should have parted some day, and with perhaps less 
 time for a farewell. Besides, not all your duties or affec- 
 tions die with me ; we have yet one friend remaining, 
 whose age — in that event left doubly lone — will demand 
 all a daughter's care." 
 
 " Fear not," said Aquila, " I will remember all." 
 
 CHAPTER XLT. 
 
 The conversation had proceeded thus far, when the door 
 was opened, and the voice of Morty Delaney was heard 
 at the aperture. 
 
 " Well, it's time to be thinkin o* movin. There's raise n 
 in all things." 
 
 " I will follow you immediately," replied Aquila. — 
 " Arthur, good night. I leave you with a mind more foil 
 of hope than I brought with me hither." 
 
 " Aquila," said her brother, as he returned her affection- 
 ate farewell, " there are yet some hours to morning. Em- 
 ploy a portion of the interval, I entreat you, in considering 
 the step you are about to take." 
 
 "• Be assured," replied Aquila, " that I will leave nothing 
 unconsidered. Good night." 
 
 They parted, and Aquila, following her guide, was re- 
 conducted across the prison-yard and into the turnkey's 
 room. Notwithstanding her anxiety and suspense, her 
 sleep, almost as soon as she had taken the place appointed 
 for her by the bide of the gaoler's daughter, was sound and 
 nnbroken. 
 
 One dream she had — one of those singular fancies which 
 sometimes leave an impression on the feelings, so much 
 more vivid than any that is received even in the waking 
 Senses. She thought she was again in conversation with 
 ijher brother. Shs w^ ardently combating, as before, hia 
 
348 THE DUKE OF MONJIOUTH. 
 
 evident repugnance to her making an appeal to Kirke. She 
 spoke with vehemence, and, as she thought, with reason ; i 
 bat he appeared to listen sadly, smiling moarnfuUy now 
 and then, and seeming about to speak, and then stopping 
 short, like one who can scarce restrain his thoughts and 
 yet feels as if their utterance would be in vain. At length, 
 when she entreated him to say if he did not agree with 
 her, he stooped down, and pressing her arm, whispered 
 some words into her ear, the purport of which she could 
 not distinctly gather, but which, heard even partially as 
 they were, filled all her soul, she knew not why, with a 
 piercing and almost intolerable melancholy. She wished 
 to hear them all, and urged him to repeat what he had 
 said ; but he refused to do so, nor could all her entreaties 
 induce him to say again what he had said. She woke 
 while pressing him to speak, but now could call to mind 
 no portion either of the words or meaning of the whisper 
 she had heard him utter. She strove with all the efforts 
 of her memory to call them to her mind, but nothing re- 
 mained except the thrill of wild and unusual melancholy 
 which the sound had first excited. 
 
 Early in the morning, her protector, Mcrty, was falthfid 
 to his promise. The turnkey's daughter, a West-conntiy 
 damsel, too simple of mind and blooming in frame to be 
 the habitual inmate of a county gaol, awoke her up with 
 the news that the Irish soldier was ah'eady in the yard and 
 desired to speak with her. 
 
 " I zed ye'd eat a bit though," she added, " avore ye'd 
 go voath. Nif there be any o' yer vrends among theazainy 
 prisoner vawk, ye'll have time enough vor 't avbre they're 
 taken to the court." 
 
 " I am obliged to yon, my good girl," replied Aquiln, 
 " but I had rather speak with him at once." 
 
 " Well, I'se tell en zo ; an' while you are rightin yer 
 clawze, I'se bid en wait below vor ye." 
 
 By Morty's persuasion, Aquila was indaced to tako 
 
THE DUKE 07 MONMOUTH. 349 
 
 some breakfast while waiting until the prisoners should be 
 summoned again before the court-martial, as the board 
 was denominated at which Kirke presided. 
 
 "Thronble's the word with the Cnruel this morning," 
 said Morty. "They say the command is goia to bo 
 taken of him in these parts ; so the sooner your business is 
 done with him the betther, for I hear there's to be no ho 
 with the jedge that's comin in his place. Jedge Jeflferies, 
 they say ; as nate a lad as you'd meet from this to him- 
 self. Often I seen him myself, when the Curnel used to be 
 diuin an' dhrivin or ridin about with him in London. They 
 were very thick — ' Birds of a feather — ' as they say." 
 
 This intelligence, coupled with the character she had 
 heard given of the sanguinary Chief Justice on her way to 
 Bridgewater, and with her recollection of former popular 
 rumours, made Aquila doubly anxious to hasten her inter- 
 view with Kirke, lest he might be replaced by a still more 
 inexorable being, before he had time to decide upon the 
 fate of Arthur. She counted the moments therefore until 
 the opening of the dismal proceedings of the day, with all 
 the anguish of ^speuse. 
 
 Soon after, the prisoners were conveyed to the house in 
 which the sittings of the court were held ; and Aquila, 
 putting on the cloak and bonnet she had brought with her 
 irom Taunton, accompanied Delaney in the same direction." 
 She could not see Arthur amongst the crowd of destined 
 victims, and learned through her companion that, by the 
 orders of Colonel Kirke, he had been detained in his apart- 
 ment in the common prison. 
 
 lu the mean time, Kirke, fresh risen from sleep, pre- 
 pared to enter on a new day of vengeance and of cruelty. 
 It was his breakfast hour, and the materials for that meal 
 were laid in the apartment where he usually spent his mo- 
 ments when alone. It commuhicated with the sitting- 
 room occupied by the owner of the house, a somewhat 
 ^derly lady^ and her young daughter, under whose tutelaget 
 
S50 . THE DUKE OT" MONMOUTH. 
 
 the Indefatigable Morty had conti-ived for the present to 
 place Aquila, recommending her as " a responsible young 
 lady from the West, who had business with the Camel ; 
 an' that any civility shown her wouldn't be thrown away, 
 she'd find, either on himself or on his masther." 
 
 Finding the old lady disposed to be accommodating, 
 Morty introduced Aquila, who, timidly, and with a low 
 obeisance, took her seat in the small parlour. Here, in the 
 midst of the reigning horrors, she perceived, with a strange 
 alteration of feeling, that the ordinary business, and even 
 the ordinary vanities of life, proceeded in their usual course. 
 The younger female was sitting with her feet in stocks, her 
 shoulders drawn back and closely confined in one of those 
 machines, to which perhaps we are indebted for the starched 
 and rigid figures which stare from the canvass of antique 
 portrait-painters. A book was in her hand, a spinet stood 
 adjacent on which some sheets of music were lying open at 
 the daily lesson. Nor was it long before Aquila was called 
 upon to judge of and pronounce upon the proficiency of the 
 overtasked and somewhat ill-humoured pupil. 
 
 There was one object in the room which more than all 
 beside had rivetted the attention of Aquila almost from 
 the moment of her entrance. It was the door which her 
 Irish friend had taken an opportunity of pointing oat to 
 her' as that which led to the apartment of " the Curnel." 
 It was with difficulty she could withdraw her e)-es from 
 this absorbing centre of interest, so as to pay even an im- 
 perfect and distracted attention to the performance of the 
 young musician, 
 
 " It is very well," said the old lady, addressing her 
 daughter. " You can lay the music aside awhile and read 
 ns that ballad which you left unfinished the other day, of 
 the lady in Irish history, whose wedding-day proved so 
 nnfortunate. Yon will excuse us, young woman," she added, 
 turning to Aquila, " if our reading should seem tedious." 
 
 Aquila begged that her presence might not be regarded, 
 
THE DUKE OF MOKMOUTH. 35 1 
 
 and the pnpil, appearing to be relieved at ber release from 
 the instrument, read alond the following version of a tradi- 
 tion still remembered on the western side of the Channel. 
 
 .THE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE; 
 
 AN lEISH LEGESl). 
 
 The joy-bells are ringing 
 
 In gay Malahide, 
 The fresh wind is singing 
 
 Along the sea-side ; 
 The maids are assembling 
 
 With garlands of flowers, 
 And the harpstrings are trembling 
 
 In all the glad bowers. 
 
 II. 
 
 Swell, swell the gay measure I 
 
 Roll trumpet and drum ! 
 'Mid greetings of pleasure 
 
 In splendour they come ! 
 The chancel is ready, 
 
 The portal stands wide 
 For the lord and the lady. 
 
 The bridegroom and bride. 
 
 m. 
 
 "What years, ere the latter, 
 
 Of earthly delight 
 The future shall scatter 
 
 O'er them in its flight! 
 What blissful caresses 
 
 Shall fortune bestow, 
 Ere those dark-flowing trotfc* 
 
 Fall white as the Kioyi ! 
 
 Before the high altar 
 
 Young >?and stands a'~a-'''*- , 
 With accent! tbnt fahf*- 
 
 Her promiie li mad^— ' 
 
3S^ THE DUKE OF M0NM0UT3; 
 
 From father and mother 
 
 For ever to part, 
 For him and no other 
 
 To treasure her heart 
 
 The TTords are repeated, 
 
 The bridal is done. 
 The rite is completed — 
 
 The two, they are one ; 
 The vow, it is spoken 
 
 All pure from the hearty 
 That must not be broken 
 
 Till life shall dcparU 
 
 Hark ! 'mid the gay clangoar 
 
 That compass'd their car» 
 Loud accents in anger 
 
 Come mingling afar I 
 The foe'a on the border, 
 
 His weapons resoimd 
 Where the lines in disorder 
 
 Unguarded axe found. 
 
 vn. 
 
 As wakes the good shepherd. 
 
 The watchful and bold, 
 When the ounce or the Ieopat4 
 
 Is seen in the fold. 
 So rises already 
 
 The chief in his mail. 
 While the new-married lady 
 
 Looks fainting and palo. , 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Son, husband,*and brother. 
 
 Arise to the strife, 
 For sister and mother. 
 
 For children and wife ! 
 O'er hill and o'er hollow. 
 
 O'er mountain and plah^ 
 Up, trt)« men, and follow t 
 
 Let daaUxtid remain t 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 358 
 
 JX. 
 
 Farrah ! to the battle ! 
 
 They form into line— 
 The shields, how they rattle ! 
 
 The spears, how they shine ', 
 Soon, soon shall the foeman 
 
 His treachery rue — 
 On, burgher and yeoman, > 
 
 To die or to do ! 
 
 The eve is declining 
 
 In lone Malahide, 
 The maidens are twining 
 
 Gay wreaths for the bride ; 
 She marks them unheeding — 
 
 Her heart is afar, 
 WTiere the clansmen are bleeding 
 
 For her in the war. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Hark ! loud from the mountain 
 
 It's Victory's cry ! 
 O'er woodland and fonntaoi 
 
 It rings to the sky ! 
 The foe has retreated ! 
 
 He flies to the shore ; 
 The spoUer's defeated — 
 
 The combat is o'er I 
 
 xn. 
 
 With foreheads unruffled 
 
 The conquerors come — 
 But why have they muffled 
 
 The lance and the drum? 
 What form do they cany 
 
 Aloft on the shield ? 
 And where does he tarry, 
 
 The lord of the field? 
 
 xnt. 
 Te saw him at morning 
 
 How gallant and gay t 
 In bridid adorning, 
 
 The star of the day ; 
 
354 THE DUKE OF MONMOrTK. 
 
 Now -weep for the lover— 
 
 His triumph is sped, 
 His hope it is over ! 
 The chieftain is dead! 
 
 xrv. 
 But for the maiden 
 
 Who mourns for that chie^ 
 With heart overladen 
 
 And rending with grief I 
 She sinks on the meadow 
 
 In one morning-tide, 
 A wife and a widow, 
 
 A maid and a bride ! 
 
 XV. 
 
 Ye maidens attending. 
 
 Forbear to condole ! 
 "Your comfort is rending 
 
 The depths of her soul- 
 True — true, 'twas a story 
 
 For ages of pride ; 
 He died in his glory — 
 
 But, oh, he has died ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The war-cloak she raises 
 
 All mournfully now. 
 And steadfastly gazes 
 
 Upon the cold brow ; 
 That glance may for eva» 
 
 Unalter'd remain. 
 But the bridegroom will never 
 
 Ketum it again. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 The dead-bells are tolling 
 
 In sad Malahide, 
 The death-wail is rolling 
 
 Along the sea- side ; 
 The crowds, heavy hearted, 
 
 Withdraw from the green, 
 For the sun has departed 
 
 That biightun'd the steoet 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH, • 300 
 
 XVIII. 
 Ev'n yet in that valley, 
 
 Though years have roll'd by, 
 Whfn through the wild saUy 
 
 U'he sea-breezes sigh. 
 The peasant, with sorrow, 
 
 Beholds in the shade 
 The tomb where the morrow 
 
 Saw Hussy convey 'd. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 How scant was the warning, 
 
 How brief!}' reveal'd. 
 Before on that morning 
 
 Death's chalice was fiU'd 1 
 The hero who drunk it 
 
 There moulders in gloom, 
 And the form of Maud Plunket 
 
 Weeps over his tomb. 
 
 XX. 
 
 The stranger who wanders 
 
 Along the lone vale, 
 Still sighs while he ponders 
 
 On that heavy tale : 
 " Thus passes each pleasure 
 
 That earth can supply — 
 Thus joy has its measure— 
 
 We live but to die!" 
 
 The melancholy nature of the story which formed the 
 gnbject of the ballad procured for it a degree of attention 
 from Aquila which, in her present condition of mind, she 
 might not have accorded to its merits in any other respect. 
 At the suggestion of the old lady the music was now re- 
 sumed. Fearful that Kirke might proceed to the court 
 before she had an opportunity of speaking with him, she 
 began to consider in what way she could contrive to secure 
 a speedy interview. The ballad and the music awakened 
 in hK a'lind the remembrance of the happy evening whea 
 Eirke W&& &^ Emitted to their (lomestic fireside m Xaoa- 
 
$56 THE DUKE OP MONMOUTH. 
 
 ton Dene. One thought leading to .mother, snggested to 
 her at length a mode of attracting the attention of the latter, 
 which she hoped might be successful in procuring her ad- 
 mission to his presence. Slie called to mind the verses 
 which on that mirthful evening she had sung at her father's 
 desire, and which their military guest had repaid with so 
 many flattering eulogies. While such recollections brought 
 the tears into her eyes, they were accompanied by a sug- 
 gestion on which she did not fail to act. She took an op- 
 portunity of making some observation, which showed thac 
 she understood the instrument, and which was followed, 
 after a little further conversation, by an invitation to furnish 
 a specimen of her skill. It was what she had desired, and 
 accordingly she did not decline it. The old lady in the 
 mean time sat, cautioning her daughter to pay attention, 
 and to profit by what she saw. 
 
 Kirke took his morning meal alone, and almost in silence. 
 The news of JefFeries' arrival in the West had somewhat 
 disconcerted him, and by no means augmented the already 
 slender chance of leniency on which the prisoners in his 
 charge could calculate. Before him lay what might be 
 truly termed a list of the proscribed ; and the tyrant was 
 occupied in marking out those individuals, with a pencil, en 
 ■whom he intended that the visitation of the law, or rather 
 of his own arbitrary will, should most speedily descend. 
 Amongst these the name of Arthur Fuliarton was not for- 
 gotten ; and his sister's, had Kirke been made aware of the 
 existence of strong evidence against her, might possibly 
 have found a place beside it. But in giving information, 
 the double traitors, Andrews and his companions, had 
 omitted all mention of her as a participator in the offence. 
 The tyrant, too, singular as it might seem, preserved, amid 
 all his real cruelty, a species of animal tenderness towards 
 tho person of Aqnila, which would still have made the 
 tiionght of violence towards her in some degree an oatraga 
 on his own feelings, all-selfish as they were. 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 357 
 
 While he was still occupied in looking over the list of 
 names, the music of the spinet ceased in the adjoining cham- 
 ber. It was shortly afterwards resumed, by a more practised 
 hand, as it would appear, and accompanied by a low, sweec 
 voice, which, as well as the words that followed, seemed as 
 if they had been once familiar to the ear of Kirke : 
 
 Fan, fan the gay hearth, and fling back the barr'd door j 
 Strew, strew the fresh rushes around on our floor ; 
 And blithe be the welcome in every breast, 
 For a soldier — a stldier to-night is our guest. 
 
 II. 
 
 If we value the blessings that shine at our hearth — 
 
 The wife's smiling welcome, the infant's sweet mirth—. 
 While they charm us at eve, let us think npon those 
 AVho have bought with their blood our domestic repose. 
 
 It seemed as if the singer were aware that the purpose, 
 which had induced her to attempt the performance, had been 
 already eflFected, for she did not complete the song, and the 
 utterance of those few lines appeared to cost no Uttle effort. 
 The instant the voice had ceased, Colonel Kirke rose softly 
 from his seat, and walked on tiptoe toward the chamber 
 door, — not that which led to the room in which the vo- 
 calist was sitting, but that which opened on the common 
 landing-place, and where the subaltern already spoken of 
 awaited his commands. 
 
 " Stephens," he said in a low voice, " come hither." 
 The subaltern obeyed, and entered the apartment with him.' 
 "Do you know," he said, after he had intimated to him 
 to close the door with as little noise as possible, " what 
 stranger is in the next room with the people of the house?" 
 '' No, sir — but I can ascertain immediately." 
 " Do so ; go boldly in at that door, and ask to whom 
 we are indebted for the song I heard just now. Leave the 
 door open, that 1 may hear the answer." 
 
358 TOE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 The ofBcer obeyed at once. Entering the next room,' 
 after a brief exchange of courtesy with the old lady, he re- 
 peated the question almost in the same words in which he 
 had received it from the Colonel. 
 
 " Oh," replied the good lady, evidently highly gratified, 
 *' it is too good of the Colonel to notice a poor little be- 
 ginner. It was an attempt of Gertrude's. In time, I hope, 
 she will do better. Gertrude, hold up your head." 
 
 " No, no," said Stephens ; " the Colonel has often had 
 the pleasure of hearing that young lady. It was a stran- 
 ger's voice he was so much taken with." 
 
 " Oh," said the lady, in an altered tone, " I see. A 
 young woman from Taunton it is, Captain, that desires to 
 speak with the Colonel. Poor creature, she seems sadly 
 out of spirits !" 
 
 The officer withdrew, and in a few minutes returned, and 
 approached Aquila with a gentle and obliging air. 
 
 " Colonel Kirke," he said, " desires me to say that he is 
 quite at leisure now, if you should wish to see him." 
 
 Without the power of uttering a word in reply, Aqnila 
 rose and followed the messenger, concealing her face and 
 figure as well as she could, in order to prevent her terror 
 from becoming too apparent. For the first time, as the 
 door of Kirke's apartment closed behind her, she felt as it, 
 once more, she had added a wilder act of rashness to all 
 that had gone before. The sight of Kirke's all-dreaded 
 figure, standing, statue-like, in the centre of the floor — the 
 hurry of her spirits — the confusion of a thousand dreadful 
 thoughts, each following the other in rapid succession — his 
 rresence — his power — her brother's, her own danger — the 
 warning of Arthur, all came rushing on her mind with an 
 overwhelming force. All power of self-direction forsook 
 her on the instant, and she moved and acted as if under 
 the direction of an influence over which she had no con- 
 trol. At the moment when the subaltern withdrew froni' 
 tho apartment, she found herself involuntaiiiy tottering to- 
 
THE DUKB OP MOaM(JuTH. 359 
 
 wards the place where Kirke was standing, her hands con- 
 vulsively clenched, and her whole frame shaking with her 
 fears. She strove to say " Have mercy !" but nature 
 yielded in the effort, and without having uttered a sound 
 she fainted at the tyrant's feet. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 The passion, not the pity of the malignant conqueror, was 
 excited, by this picture of distress. Her very virtue had, to 
 his depraved and hardened mind, a charm apart from that 
 which souls not wholly lost to truth can find in the contem- 
 plation of innocence and goodness. Having procured im- 
 mediate assistance for his unhappy suppliant, he remained 
 standing by her chair, until her consciousness and even the 
 composure of her spirits were in a great degree restored. 
 
 During this interval Aquila internally strove to gather 
 all the strength that was necessary to enable her to dis- 
 charge her arduous task. The silence at length was broken 
 by Kirke himself, who spoke, to her surprise and hope, in 
 what seemed an encouraging tone: 
 
 " Pray be composed — be not alarmed, Miss Fnllarton— 
 you have no enemy here." 
 
 " Oh, sir !" cried Aquila, bursting into a fit of weeping, 
 and lifting up her hands towards him, " I thank you for 
 speaking kindly to me. Heaven bless you for those words! 
 for they have given me hope." 
 
 " Be at peace, I pray you," said Kirke, observing her 
 agitation still increase ; " take your own time — I am quite 
 at leisure — I know why you have come to me — ^let me beg 
 of you to be composed. Again I say, do not hurry your- 
 self; I will hear you at your own time and at the fullest 
 leisure. Give free vent to yonr feelings — you will the sooiKW 
 be at ease. Do not regard my presence in the least,'* 
 
360 THE fcuKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 " Ah, sir, we are miserable now !* 
 
 " Well, well — ^be calm — do not speak again until yon 
 are composed." 
 
 Somewhat pacified by his words, Aquila did as he di- 
 rected, and indulged the fit of weeping until her agitation 
 became almost exhausted. Kirke now approached her with 
 a smiling air : 
 
 " Mistress FuUarton," he said, " when you sing of a 
 soldier, and when you visit a soldier, it would be well done 
 in you to bring a little more of the warrior along with you." 
 
 " Sir," replied Aquila in a beseeching tone, " I hope you 
 will forgive me if I faU in good manners. Alas ! sir, I am 
 without a friend now, and it is little wonder that a poor 
 weak woman should want the strength to act aright." 
 
 " Do not say without a friend," said Kirke with some- 
 thing like real kindliness of tone, " until you hear that Kirke 
 is indifierent to your happiness." 
 
 " Oh, could I hope ! — " Aquila cried eagerly, clasping 
 her hands ; and then restraining herself through the fear o? 
 presuming too far and prematurely on his words, she added, 
 " Ah, sir ! our house is mom-nfully changed since you be- 
 held it !" 
 
 " It is not singular in that, Miss FuUarton," replied th« 
 Colonel dryly. " We can scarce complain of an effect of 
 which we freely will the cause." 
 
 " Alasl it is true," said Aquila, " and yet we will com- 
 plain. I beseech you, sir, for the sake of that which yoa 
 ioest love, to hear me with a merciful ear while I discharge 
 the task for which I have come to yon.** 
 
 *' Speak freely," answered Kirke ; *' let me know what il 
 is that you desire." 
 
 " The life of a dear friend," said Aquila with a suppli- 
 cating attitude, — " of my brother Arthur, who is fettered 
 and in prison as an adherent of the wretched Monmouth. 
 1 have no other brother — our father has no other son. 
 Should we loee him, we lose all, — oor sole protector and 
 
 i* 
 
THE I>U££ OF MCmtOUl'H. S01 
 
 scpport in a strange land. Grant as bis life, and 7cm will 
 occupy to a poor old man and feeble girl the place of Provi- 
 dence itself, for you will give us that for which we daily 
 pray. And, sir, I have nought to give yon in return ; but 
 if there be anything in this world which you love more 
 dearly than another, I pray Heaven that it may long be 
 spared to you, and that you may never know what it is to 
 nourish hope in vain !" 
 
 " Judge for yourself, Aquila,** answered Kirke, " if I 
 can comply with your demand. Your brother fought at 
 Sedgmoor. The blood of the dying and the dead who 
 strewed that field is. yet moist and fresh upon the surface 
 of the soil. The wretched low-born dupes of the adven- 
 turer, the Mendip miner and the Dorset yeoman, aud the 
 dsluded clown of Taunton and of Lyme, have suffered and 
 are suffering daily for their blind and ignorant treason. 
 Justice and the offended law have sought their victims by 
 the village hearth, and struck many a heavy blow in the 
 hamlet and the cottage of the poor. Shall it fall on the.u 
 alone, and shall their leaders pass nnharmed ? Shall he 
 suffer who sinned in ignorance, and shall the wilful and in- 
 structed criminal go free ?" 
 
 " When we kneel in prayer," said Aquila, *' is there any 
 one, sir, who asks if his demand be just ? Or, if Heavea 
 were only just, who would presume to kneel ? for who at 
 the hands of rigid justice could look for anything but 
 penalty ? I beseech you, sir, be merciful to as : it is for 
 mercy that I seek, and not for justice." 
 
 " Aquila FuUarton," said Kirke, after a pause and in aa 
 altered voice, " your tone is different now from what it wa» 
 when Kirke was the suppliant." 
 
 " If I offended then," exclaimed Aquila, suddenly kneel- 
 ing at his feet aud wetting them with a flood o{ tears, '^ i 
 entreat you to forgive me. I declare to you in the sight 
 of Heaven, who looks upon ns both, that nothing was ever 
 iariher from my thought than the dcsiire oi' iujui-y or offeuud 
 
362 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 to yon. But if I gave it, in the sight of Heaven and on my 
 knees I ask your pardon." 
 
 For a considerable time Kirke remained silent, and as if 
 deliberating with himself in what manner he should give 
 utterance to what he desired to say in reply. While he 
 turned away and slowly paced the room for some minutes 
 without speaking, Aquila remained still kneeling in the 
 position in which she had flung herself at the feet of Kirke, 
 her tears still falling on the floor. 
 
 '' I beg of you to forgive me," she continued, " I am 
 ready to make any reparation you can desire — to endure 
 any penalty ; I acknowledge my fault — my passion — 
 everything ; only do not strike this dreadful blow against 
 us!" 
 
 Kirke still was silent. 
 
 *' Every one will praise you for it — the King himself 
 ""vill approve it " 
 
 "The King?" repeated Kirke, turning short with a look 
 of derision. " The Duke of York, you mean ' 
 
 " Ah, sir, all that is past, and I can promise yoa in Ar- 
 thur's name that it shall never be revived. The wild- 
 wild dream is over, and we beseech you to forget the evil' 
 that we said and did while it continued. I promise yoa 
 that we are well awakened now." 
 
 " 'Tis easily said," Kirke replied at length ; " and could 
 all that we seek be had for the asking, it were easily pur- 
 chased. Rise, Mistress Fullarton, and listen to me." 
 
 Aquila rose. 
 
 " Your brother's life, you know, is already forfeited." 
 
 " I know it," said Aquila. *^| 
 
 " You love him, do you not ?** *- 
 
 *' Heaven knows that too." 
 
 " Why, look you then. Be still, and hear me speak till 
 I have done." 
 
 " I will," said Aquila, " in the hope that yon will bo»r m« 
 too in mercy." 
 
THt DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 3G3 
 
 " Tis well and fairly said. Nothing for nothing : it is 
 the general law. Well, then, attend, for I have a tale to 
 tell y»a, and a question to propose : whether do you value 
 more the good repute you bear amongst your Iriends, or 
 your brother Arthur's life ?" 
 
 " Surely my brother's life," replied Aquila. " Could I 
 save that, most gladly would I consent to be the most de- 
 spised and slandered of my species. For the tongue of 
 calumny, pierce it never so deep, hurts not our innocence 
 'vhile the heart is clean : and what cared I, in the posses- 
 sion of a conscience pure to Heaven, for the lie of the de- 
 famer ? But the blow that reaches to my brother's life 
 will make a gap in my happiness that never can be filled on 
 earth." 
 
 "See, then," said Kirke, "how even angels diFer! 
 With others, a good name is the more precious half of 
 virtue." 
 
 " I do not understand you," said Aquila, with a look of 
 perplexity. 
 
 "And wherefore should it not," continued Kirke, not 
 heeding her, and as if in communication with his own mind, 
 " since it is that which is far more esteemed in life ? For 
 what is there which may not be done, provided the reputa- 
 tion be preserved unhurt ? Without it, Virtue may go a- 
 begging ; with it. Vice may sit down with emperors. What 
 makes the difference between a highway cut-purse and tho 
 usurer who devours your estate, or the titled gamester who 
 beggars yon with a painted card ? — Reputation. In what 
 does the unjust judge who frames his sentences to please a 
 royal patron ditfer from the footpad who takes life for gold ? 
 In his reputation. What advantage has the tradesman, 
 who adulterates his wares, over him whom they send to the 
 colonies for filching ? — His reputation. So thought the 
 lawgiver of Sparta when he punished, not for the crime, but 
 the detection — and the world thinks with him still, for all 
 its wordy hypocrisy. Travel it all around, from the palace 
 
364 THE DUKE OF MOiOIOUTH. 
 
 to the hovel, and you will find throughout the reputatioa 
 everything — the virtue nothing." 
 
 " Still," said Aquila, " I cannot guess what yoip would 
 have me understand. If the multitude so judge, Heaven 
 guard us from the eri-or of the multitude !" 
 
 " You say that you really desire the boon you seek ?" 
 
 " Heaven knows how I desire it !" 
 
 " You would make a sacrifice to obtain it ?" 
 
 "A thousand!" 
 
 "If I said gold " 
 
 *' Oh, had I mines to ofl'er ! — but I am poor and fortune- 
 less. Yet say what might content you, aud our utmost 
 means shall be taxed to pay his ransom." 
 
 " Or if I asked wiiether you would incur death to save 
 your brother ?" 
 
 " Eeadily ; his life is far more precious than mine could be." 
 
 " Or something less — say exile ?" 
 
 " Willingly 1" 
 
 " Yet what I ask is less than even these." 
 
 " What is it ?-^narae it," said Aquila, anxiously. 
 
 *' Your memory — " Kirke said, after a long pause— 
 " your memory might answer you." 
 
 It seemed from the instant that he uttered these words 
 as if Aquila on the sudden lost all hope. A total change 
 at once took place in her demeanour. A revulsion at first 
 of deep and natural offence brought the blood into her 
 brow and the fire into her eyes ; but the recoliocciou of hei 
 position, her utter friendlessness, the power of the tyrant 
 and the danger of her brother, changed the emotion of 
 anger to one of deep aud silent terror, and a paleness like 
 that of death succeeded to the ^5W of indignation. 
 
 " His life or death are in your hands," said Kirke ; 
 *' one word from you can either destroy or save him." 
 
 " If no word can bring him safety," replied Aquila, in a 
 calm voice, " but that which briur;s tiishouour to his sioter 
 — -iven let him die." 
 
kwR DtJKE OF MONMOUTH. 365 
 
 " KnoT7 von not," said Kirke, " that I have the power 
 to make you repent these words ?" 
 
 " You have no power over my immortal soul," Aqnila 
 answered in the same calm tone, " and you never shall 
 acquire it. My innocence to Heaven is at least beyond 
 your reach. With all your terrible power, then, Kirke, I 
 fear you not, while I preserve a conscience pure from the 
 thought of evil." 
 
 " Do you not fear," resumed Kirke, " that sn«h taunting 
 words as these may force me to find a means of humbling 
 
 you?" 
 
 " I do not fear it, Kirke," said she, still calmly, but with 
 lips pale even in their quietude. '' I read your mind too 
 clearly, and I know you dare not act the ruffian part yon 
 speak of. There is a Power that awes your spirit «ven 
 while you aflfect to brave it, and will protect me from your 
 designs, though they be dark as hell can make them. See 
 now, Kirke, the difference between the wrong cause and 
 the right. Here am I, a poor defenceless girl, to all ap- 
 pearance wholly in your power, yet calm in speech and 
 mind ; while you, with all your guards and warrants of 
 authority, stand there confused before me, your eyes averted 
 as if you dared not look in mine. Look there ! I said it— 
 you fear to look in mine I Oh, conscience ! conscience I 
 conscience !" 
 
 While she spoke, the demeanour of Kirke, embarrassed 
 in his own despite, and becoming still more so as she pro- 
 ceeded, appeared to justify her triumph. After hesitat- 
 ing for some minutes with a vexed aad disconcerted air, ha 
 said with an altered manner : 
 
 *• Aqnila, you are right, and let me for a time lay 
 a">ide the thought of menace. Let us talk more calmly 
 and at leisure. And now will you answer me one qaes- 
 tiou ?" 
 
 '• Let Bie hear it." 
 
 " Yon hare read, no I'-^bt, that part of ancient history 
 
366 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH.- 
 
 which relates the manner in which Rome first became lid 
 of her kings ?" 
 
 "I have." 
 
 " You rememher the story of Lucretia ?" 
 
 *'Ido." 
 
 " Is not her name vaunted throughout the world as 
 another word for all that is heroic and excellent in woman?* 
 
 " The world speaks highly of many a tinsel virtue ; I 
 have not been taught to think in all things as the world 
 may think." 
 
 "Well, well, the world esteems her so, however. It i 
 enough. Then hear what I would say. In the dead o 
 the night, when Tarquin sought the dwelling of Collatimis, 
 the virtue of his wife, so vaunted above all the Roman 
 ladies for her exceeding truth and honesty of mind, was 
 still in her own power, fiecly to keep, freely to lay aside. 
 How acted that paragon of womanhood iu the fire of trial? 
 To preserve that fair I'epute which you esteem so far be- 
 i>eath a brother's life, she accepted the alternative he gave, 
 and yet how wide is her renown 1 and is not the very name 
 Lucretia another M'ord for honour and for heroic womaa^ 
 hood ?" 
 
 " I am no way moved," replied Aquila, " by the exam- 
 ple you have brought ; she knelt to other gods. I had 
 rather be the thing that Heaven would have me, than ap- 
 pear so in the eyes of men." 
 
 " You gather, then," said Kirke, " the pui-port and di« 
 rection of my words ?" 
 
 " If their pui-port be as I fear," replied Aquila, " may 
 Heaven forgive you for the thought !" 
 
 " It is then plainly as you deem," said Kirke ; " the 
 alternative is balanced thus : — on the one side, life and 
 freedom to your brother ; on the other, the surrender of 
 that fanciful, unreal good which you call honour, and which 
 exists but in the prejudice that gave it birth. Methinks, 
 if there be truth in what jou have said, and that a bro- 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 367 
 
 ther's life is precious ia your eyes, yon should not hold It 
 cheaper than so many in the world who do as much a^id 
 more for gold, for pleasure, or for passion." 
 
 " I pray you, say no more," said Aquiia. " Ky bro- 
 ther knows how to die, but I know not how to oave him 
 on such terms." 
 
 " Soft you, madam," cried Kirke ; " the go^ag hence is 
 not so easy as the ibmiug here. We are not now in 
 Taunton. I am master here, and absolute master too, as 
 you shall know before we part ! What, Stephens 1 — 
 I'here are certain well-wishers of yours in the house, to 
 whom it is right you should be introduced. They are, 
 however, very pressing and hospitable, and I doubt when 
 ouce you get into their company, if you will find it so easy 
 to be rid of them. — What, Stephens !" 
 
 The oflBcer appeared at the door. 
 
 " Hai'k ye, sir I" said Kirke ; "here's a young lady has 
 an especial desire to spend a night iu the baiTack-rooms. 
 Send hither one or two of my best-looking and sleekest 
 lambs, that I may resign her to their tender keeping." 
 
 The ofl&cer withdrew at once. Stunned by what she 
 heard, Aquiia remained for some moments incapable of 
 action or of utterance. The dignity of virtue which had 
 sustainer' her in the interview with Kirke, and given her an 
 ascendat/ti over him which he could not resist, even while 
 it stung his insolent temper, might, as she knew, have 
 little influence on minds of a still coarser mould. Be- 
 fore she had recovered sufficiently to deliberate with free- 
 dom, the chamber door re-opened, and the officer entered, 
 followed by two ruffians, whose chai'acters were si&uiped 
 upon their countenances and demeanour. 
 
 " Here are my lambs," said Kirke, with a malignant 
 smile, ''of whom I spoke to yon — the gentlest and ^K.j 
 tea^erest souls in Bridgewater. This young lady," h« 
 added, to the soldiers, " is desirous to spend a merry cvtii- 
 iug with you in your q^uarters." 
 
V>8 THE DCKE OF MOTfVOTJTH. 
 
 " Aye, come, my pretty madam," cfled one of tliem, 
 approaching her ; '* we'll see to your comfort, never fear." 
 
 " Monster !" Aquila cried, involuntarily — " Thon couldst 
 rot, Kirke, be so inhuman !" 
 
 " What ! " he replied, with a burst of malicious laughter—-^ 
 *' what ! taken by surprise, most heroic mistress ?" 
 
 *' Oh, Kirke, in the name of Heaven, have mercy on me!'* 
 
 *' Have mercy on yourself," replift the tyrant, coldly. 
 
 " Remember my father's hearth I remember his gr?y 
 hairs ! — I conjure you," she added, with increasing so- 
 lemnity of manner, " by your mother's fame, and by yoar 
 father's honour, to have pity on me " 
 
 " Take her away!" cried Kirke, using. an impatient mo- 
 tion of the hand. 
 
 " One moment," Aquila exclaimed, as the soldiers ap- 
 jTG«ched to seize her ; " let nie consider — give me at least 
 some moments to reflect " 
 
 •' Nay, there's reason in that," said Kirke, " and spokea 
 just in the right time, for the trumpet sounds without that 
 summons me to my place npon the bench of justice. Take 
 ber to a chamber, Stephens, aad take care that no one ven- 
 ture to intrude upon her meditations. One hour," he added, 
 addressing Aquila as the subaltern conducted her from the 
 room, — "one hour is left you to decide." 
 
 The wretched prisoner made no reply. Kirke added ia 
 a whisper some directions to the officer, and then motioQud 
 the whole party to withdraw. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIH. 
 
 The resolution of Aquila bad been taken from the instant 
 aba had obtained the respite. Only one way now appeared 
 by which she could preserve her honour. She had read ia 
 lae early history of her native island an instance of womanly 
 
THE DUKE OF M01?M0UTH. 86> 
 
 herofsm on which she had often dwelt with admiration, and 
 vhich now recuiTcd to her mind more vividly than ever. 
 Daring those dreadful times when the country far and wide 
 was devastated by the " blue-eyed wan-iors" of the North, 
 it happened that a large body of those barbarians surrounded 
 one of those religious communities of women then so nu- 
 merous in the land, and of which the ivy-mantled ruins still 
 throw a reverential grace over many a lovely scene. The 
 abbess and her nuns could not hope long to prevent the in- 
 vaders from entering then: gates, and polluting with blood 
 and violence retreats held sacred to religion and to virtue. 
 They were placed in the situation from which Aquila now 
 looked vainly for deliverance. To fly to death for refuge 
 was an expedient denied to Christian virgins ; but they 
 thought of one more lawful, and not less eflfectual. The 
 abbess setting the example to her community, disfigured her 
 face with a sharp instrument in so hideous and ghastly a 
 way as to render her an object of abhorrence and disgust to 
 the invaders, and her example was followed by each of the 
 sisterhood. They succeeded in preserving the sacred trea- 
 sure of their honour, but their lives were made the forfeit 
 of the disappointment thus occasioned to the brutal con- 
 querors. 
 
 Such was the expedient which recurred to the mind of 
 Aquila at the time vrhen she begged a respite at the hands 
 of Sirke. A small knife which she carried about her per- 
 son afforded the means of executing her design. She de- 
 termined, however, first to allow the interval accorded to 
 her by Kirke to draw towards its termination before she put 
 60 desperate a resource in act. 
 
 In the mean time the designs of Kirke had taken a new 
 direction. For a long time after Aquila had left the room, 
 he remained wrapped in thought and awaiting the return oi 
 his confidant. 
 
 At length the latter re-entered, and remained awaiting 
 the further orders of bis patron. 
 
570 tHE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 *' Well, have you disposed of your prisoner as I bade?" 
 
 Stephens answered in the affirmative. 
 
 " What think you of our chance of victory ?" 
 
 *' But very doubtingly, I must confess. There was that 
 in her look and manner, as we had locked her in, that, cou- 
 pled with former recollections, left little ground to thiuk 
 that she would change her mind." 
 
 " I do not hope it." 
 
 " What, then, do yon propose ? To comprise her in the 
 accusation with her brother ?" 
 
 " No, no ; I have no such design." 
 
 " To give her liberty, then ?" . 
 i"No, no ; that would be to give her the trinmpb. Is 
 ^.our mvention so soon at fault ?" 
 
 " I acknowledge that I am at my wit's end." 
 
 " Thy wit is shorter than it should be, then, if it afford 
 Buch scanty travelling space. This heroine cheiishes her 
 repute at high account." 
 
 " So it would seem." 
 
 " Can you think, now, of no means by which her chari- 
 ness in this regard might be indulged, and yet without pi e- 
 judice to the condition I laid down ?" 
 
 " Even if I could, I see not what advantage it would give 
 ns ; for she is one of those scrupulous beings who will not 
 be content with the mere outside of a whole conscience." 
 
 " And can you devise no means by which that objection, 
 too, might be removed ?" 
 
 " I am wholly at a loss." 
 
 " I have always found you faithful and zealous, wbcrcvei 
 I required fidelity and zeal." 
 
 *' And always shall find me so, be certain,* 
 
 "I believe it." 
 
 ^* Is there anything now which you would have rce do to 
 eerve you ?" 
 
 " There is." 
 
 "Name it then, and you will find me ready." 
 
 I 
 
THE DUKE OF MONilOUTn. 371 
 
 " I have been thinking of a mode of quietiug her delicate 
 alarms, and I believe I have found it." 
 
 " If my assistance be necessary " 
 
 " Do you remember, Stephens, that small house on the 
 road-side betwixt this and Wells, where we halted to baft 
 upon our route some weeks since ?" 
 
 " Where the soldiers were so much diverted by the hu- 
 mours of the lunatic preacher ?" 
 
 " The same place, and the same person," 
 
 " I remember both," replied Stephens, "perfectly well, 
 and the singular stories which the people told of him. 
 Some of the folks shuddered when he spoke, and looked as 
 if they thought his mental malady had something superna- 
 tural in its origin." 
 
 " Well, he it is of whom I speak. Take instantly a 
 sufficient force to the place, and bring him hither a prisoner 
 and without injury. Thus things the most seeming useless 
 at some time serve our turn. When I listened to, the wild 
 and incoherent jargon of that unhappy maniac, I remember 
 to have thought, that of all beings on the earth, he sure 
 was the most worthless to his race ; and yet now no other 
 being in this world could stand me so much in stead." 
 
 "Is it possible. Colonel," said Stephens astonished, " that 
 you wish me to make a prisoner of that lunatic ?" 
 
 " It is even so," said Kirke. " I have my reasons." 
 
 " I fear," replied Stephens, smiling, " it will be said of 
 us that we look out for danger to the State in heads that 
 hardly hold it." 
 
 " Do thou thy part," said Kirke, " and leave the rest to 
 me. Thou shalt know in time with what view it is that I 
 command it." 
 
 The conversation ended, and Kirke went to take his place 
 amongst the vindicators of the law. 
 
 The crazy subject of their dialogue happened about that 
 very time to be in the act of affording a fund of entertain- 
 ment to some, and of terror and dismay to other individuals 
 
372 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 of a crowd assembled at the small inn alluded to by Kiike. 
 Being one of those periods at which the ailment of the 
 sufferer amounted to the violence of frenzy, he was fastened 
 down with cords upon a bedstead, where he remained, now 
 lying still and muttering to himself, now using all the efforts 
 of his strength to break his ties, and mingling the fury of 
 action with a corresponding vehemence of language and in- 
 coherent force of imagination. The fancy that seemed to 
 predominate in his ravings was that of hunting, an amuse- 
 ment to which in his days of sanctity he was said to devote 
 much more of his time than was wholly consistent with the 
 duties of his station. This latter circumstance his former 
 neighbours and acquaintances did not fail to call to mind 
 and to comment upon. 
 
 " Well, neighbour, an' how's Mister Fear tha day ?" 
 
 " As ye hear, neighbour, an' wi' iz northering talk, tha 
 zame as iver." 
 
 " Forty cocks," muttered the patient, as if counting on 
 his fingers — " four into forty — that's ten — ten cocks for the 
 tithe — more cocks for the tithe than souls saved for the 
 paying — that's plain enough. Ho ! ho ! hillo ! there, there 
 they go ! Hillo ! Tallyho ! — Hirrups ! there, there we go 
 — tantivy-th-th-th — High over! — now for a leap ! — To 
 it, Jessy, to it ! Three mile high, three mile high ! There 
 we clear it ! Ten score of evil spirits huuting one poor 
 soul — tantivy ! Hup ! Hilloo !" 
 
 Here he tossed his arms about and shouted, and acted as 
 if he fancied himself on horseback and following the hounds. 
 
 " Poor seely gennelman !" ejaculated a mealy-looking 
 individual who sat consuming a pint of West-country ale 
 by the chimney-side. 
 
 " Vor as seely as a be," said the landlord, " I'll war'nd 
 ye a knows which way tha wine bla-.rs. Canst thee tell. 
 Mister Fear, whidh be millers or inkeepers tha honester 
 vawk to deal wi ?" 
 
 " Both rogues alike— all rogues alike," said the lunatic. 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 373 
 
 ** there be as many precious souls of millers in the lakg of 
 woe to-day as ever grains of wheat went down a hopper. 
 Hups ! ho ! I know it, for I saw it. Ah, ha ! Who's 
 the fool now, Mr. Miller ? The neighbour's sacks went in 
 the door all flour, and they came out half bran. Whom then 
 did you cheat ? says Beelzebub." 
 
 " Nay, there you're out, friend," said the ale-drinker, 
 " for I'm a baker's man." 
 
 " So much the worse," said the maniac. " I heard ten 
 thousand bakers crying in the land of darkness, for all the 
 good money that went into the shop, and all the bad bread 
 that came out of it. Ha ! ha ! The poor reaped whole- 
 some grain, and you poisoned them with filthy mixtures. 
 Who's the fool now ? — Ho ! there they go ! Hillo I" 
 
 " Well," said another of the company present, " that's 
 more at all events than can be said for the shoemakers." 
 
 "Aye, aye," resumed the lunatic, if they had not sold 
 their precious souls for the love of a neat's skin tanned. 
 Ho! ho! Ye think nobody sees ye cutting from the 
 damaged hide, and soaking in the ale-house on the shoe- 
 maker's holiday, upon the forbidden gain. But Mammon 
 was behind th© door and saw through the keyhole. I know 
 where a guild of shoemakers have no softer footing than an 
 acre of pointed awls to skip upon. Heigh, Jessy, Jessy ! 
 heigh ! They call it shoemaker's holiday there too." 
 
 " Why, Mister Fear, zim ta I, there be zum a' moast 
 trades where ye mention," said the landlord. 
 
 " All — all — all — all," said the luuatic ; " and gentlefolk 
 too, and ladies. Hirrups ! There's tailors for cabbage, 
 and grocers for false measures and lying weights, masters 
 for pride and servants for insolence, lawyers for lying, and 
 judges for selling poor men's lives for gold. All trades are 
 there. Hups, ho ! There's old women for sins of the 
 tongue, and young for sins of the heart. There's mothers 
 and fathers, and sons and daughters there, together — some 
 lost for love and some for hate. Hillo ! There's husbands 
 
374 THE DUKE OF MONilOUTH. 
 
 for no other fault than having loved their wives too welf, 
 and there's wives there for no other fault than having loved 
 their husbands too well — all shrieking together, well away ! 
 for times gone by, and no one to comfort them, poor souls I 
 Whaps ! Jessy ! Ho ! There they go ! Ho, ho !" 
 
 While he continued still running on after this wild man- 
 ner, occasionally turning to rail at those who had fastened 
 him down in the place where he was lying, the guard of 
 cavalry commanded by Stephens arrived at the inn-door. 
 The consternation at first excited by the sight of Kirke's 
 well-known purveyors was changed into a feeling of astonish- 
 ment and suppressed indignation when they discovered that 
 the present object of their search was no other than the 
 poor lunatic. The latter, however, was not one of those 
 who showed disconceut at the mission of the escort : on the 
 contrary, he manifested the most extravagant delight at 
 the prospect of being released from his present confinement, 
 and was profuse in his expressions of gratitude toward his 
 deliverers, and of triumph against his former guardians. 
 In the midst of these ecstasies he was placed on horseback 
 and borne away by the dragoons, the people in the inn con- 
 tinning to watch his gesticulations as long as he remained in 
 sight, and marvelled much what Colonel Kirke eould want 
 with " tha mazed pason." 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 The hour accorded to Aquila was drawing toward ita close, 
 and na prospect appeared of deUverance from the fate which 
 menaced her less fearful than that which had already oc- 
 curred to her mind. Accordingly, she summoned up her 
 courage to put it in execution. In the small chamber in 
 •which she was confined hung a mirror, before which she 
 stood for a few minutes wrapped in thoughts so intense that 
 
TnE DUKE OF MONMOCTE. 375 
 
 they at length almost iavolautarily began to flow forth in 
 words. 
 
 " Thou subtle and disastrous dower to many," she said 
 with an air of fixed earnestness — " of which I oft was rain, 
 «nd which has been my snare ! I resign thee without sor- 
 row now. But for thee, Kirke never had sought to sow 
 misery in our peaceful home — and now to fill it with dis- 
 grace and shame. So is it, here, with all that we admire 
 and love ! Nothing to which we cling with fondness that 
 does not hide its share of danger and its share of pain. 
 Well for us, if the sad experience answer the end for which 
 it is divinely sent, and make us cease to prize the phantoms 
 of a brief existence ! Flesh that must perish, I wound thee 
 without remorse! Beauty that is to wither, I cut thee from thy 
 stem without regret ! — Life is Thy gift !" she added, bowbg 
 her head with a reverential look as she laid bare the weapon 
 which she was about to use— " Thy dread deposit, which none 
 must fling away till Thou demand the reckoning of our 
 stewardship ; but all other temporal gifts Thou leavest ns 
 free to lay aside or to retain at will " 
 
 Here, while she raised the knife, a faint cry broke from 
 her lips, as accidentally glancing in the mirror, she beheld 
 the malignant countenance of Kirke close at her shoulder, 
 and felt at the same instant her hand seized and the weak" 
 pon wrested firom her grasp. 
 
 *' Thou couldst not be so cruel," he said with a smile, 
 in which irony was mingled with upbraiding. " What ! 
 wound those delicate features in which the bloom of youth 
 is yet scarce fully unfolded, and for which many a year to 
 :ome, I trust, has smiles in store ? Lay aside these des- 
 perate thoughts, Aquila Fullarton, and hear me for a mo- 
 ment. You have considered the proposal which I made ?'• 
 
 " I have given it all the consideration it would bear." 
 
 " Take care how you provoke your fate, I warn yon. 
 Have > oa determined to accgDt it ?** 
 
 " No." 
 
B76 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 " Yea still remain of the same miud ?" 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " Then what remains but that I execute the alternative 
 I gave, and deliver you over to the mercies of those soft 
 Arcadians to whom you were introduced an hour ago ?" 
 
 Aquila was silent. 
 
 " Do you refuse to answer me ?" said Kirke. " On whai 
 do you prosumo when you provoke me thus ?" 
 
 " I do not think," said Aquila with tears, *' that you 
 could ever act so black a part ; but even supposing you 
 capable of it, my resolution still remains unchanged. — Listen 
 to me, Kirke. You bid me damn my soul, that I may save 
 my brother. I will not do it. — I will not become a devil, 
 to save Arthur's life. Are you answered now ? I hope to 
 see him yet in heaven, where I could never come if I should 
 do this deed. Are you answered ? That soul was given 
 me pme from every stain but that which all who are born 
 of Eve inherit. Since I first could lisp, I never yet lay down 
 to rest without commending it in prayer into the hands of 
 Him who gave it — and how should I dare so act to-morrow 
 even, if I could darken it to'day by guilt like this ? No ; 
 it is my part to be faithful, and to trust to Heaveu for th^ 
 event." 
 
 " You are determined, then," said Kirke, " to dare the 
 ■worst ?" 
 
 "lam." 
 
 " Why, hear me, then, Aquila," he exclaimed with a 
 sudden alteration of manner, and an assumption of opeuuess 
 and ease. " You judged aright that I have no intention of 
 fulfilling that menace, which was only meant to try your 
 resolution." 
 
 Aquila looked at him with sttrprise mingled with som« 
 distrust. 
 
 *' It is time at length," said Kirke, " that yon should 
 know me better. All this, Aquila, was meant but for your 
 trlaL X havA always been, I confess it, sceptical with re- 
 
THE DUKK OP MONMOUTa. S77 
 
 gard to the virtue of yoar sex : I did not believe that so 
 disinterested a love of honour and of goodness reigned m 
 the breast of any woman as I find to-day in yours. My 
 doubts at first were shaken in our interview at Taunton ; 
 I have often longed foi' an opportunity of trying yet farther 
 an integrity of mind which then appeared so new to me, 
 and your firmness now amid so much that might both tempt 
 and terrify has shown me fully that I was in error, and ha3 
 set the seal upon my admiration. I am i>ow convinced that 
 I have found a paragon I thought almost as rare as charity 
 itself — a woman led by a disinterested love of goodness, 
 and who truly prefers honour to even life or fame." 
 
 Aquila remained silent, wholly at a loss in what manner 
 to account for this sudden change of manner, and fearing 
 some new snare. 
 
 " You look as if you still distrusted me," said Kirke, 
 *' but I will prove to you that it is without a cause. There 
 is still a mode by which you may obtain your wish, and 
 without prejudice to that honour which you so justly prize. 
 You still look doubtful. Oould you, in such an event, for- 
 give the terror which my desire to try to the quick your 
 sincerity und fortitude may have occasioned you ?" 
 
 *• I could forgivo anything," replied Aquila ; " let Arthur 
 live, and on no guilty terms, and I will have no feeling kfk 
 I at g-atitn.de." 
 
 *' £ut if I asked yet more ? You know me, who I am, 
 and that I might aspire to an alliance with the noblest iu 
 the land if I desired it ? I stand high enough in rank and 
 reputation, and higher yet in the favour of ray King." 
 
 *' I know," said Aquila, " that many a lofty house might 
 deem itself honoured in the alliance." 
 
 " And yet, supposing I preferred to all such gaudy pros- 
 pects the treasure of a solid, sterling worth, such as I hav« 
 this day found in you ? Do you shrink already ? Must I 
 believe, then, after all, that what I took for vii'ttie was 
 merely an abUoiTence of my own person 'i" 
 
378 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 Somewhat stunned by this unexpected tarn, Aquil* 
 stood for some time confused and incapable of answering. 
 
 " Yoa hesitate," said Kirke. " I see, then, how it was. 
 Not the crime alone, but the tempter al§o.was the object of 
 your aversion." 
 
 " Do not so think," said Aquila confusedly. " I cannot 
 at once — I beseech you bear with me — " 
 
 '' Use your leisure, Miss Fullarton," said Kirke, in a 
 frigid tone. " Consider and say, whether, in such a case, 
 you could unite your fate, for life, with his who can con- 
 firm or take away your terror, and so escape the evils which 
 yon fear ?" 
 
 " And obtain beside my brother's life and liberty ?" 
 " Obtain all that you have asked. Have I not said 
 enough ?" 
 
 " In such a case" — Aquila said slowly : " bat, ah ! why 
 should you offer a condition to which you are all the loser?" 
 " Let me be judge of that." 
 
 "And then — there are difficulties which I had forgot " 
 
 " Difficulties !" Kirke exclaimed aloud and in an impa- 
 tient tone ; " now who has the better need of patience ? 
 Difficulties still ? Let them prevail, then, if you will, and 
 let the rebel die. Is there not yet enough ? Then have 
 your wish, for I will say no more, and the worst I bade you 
 fear shall be fulfilled. Difficulties, say you ? — What I 
 
 Stephens ! 1 thought there was something in it more 
 
 than the zeal for honesty — What .'' who waits there ? Ste- 
 phens 1" 
 
 " Have patience with me!" said Aquila as he hastened 
 towards the door — *' 1 entreat you give me a moment's 
 pause." 
 
 " Think of it well," he answered : " I am come hither 
 frankly to offer you a mode of reconciling what seemed 
 lately so much at variance— your views and mine. There 
 is a way by which you can yet save your brother's life, and 
 without injury (Miier real or imagined. I am come to offer 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 379 
 
 Tou my hand in marriage. I speak it bluntly, but truly. 
 If yo uptake it, all may yet be well ; if you yet refuse, my 
 lambs are still at band." 
 
 " Kirke," said Aquila with tears, " is there then no way 
 but this? My faith and word are plighted to another." 
 
 " Choose as thou wilt," said Kirke with impatience : 
 " keep faith with him if thou wilt, and let me go." 
 
 " Hast thou no pity for a wretched woman ?" 
 
 " None — nor for man neither — I know not what it means. 
 I tell thee, at once, thy speech, and tears, and gestures, 
 all are vain. Try if thou canst, and soften with thine elo- 
 quence those walls that close us round : they may have 
 ears, but I have none for the accents of entreaty. I have 
 seen and heard enough of human wailing to have grown, 
 custom-callous to the sound. I tell thee, then, thou wilt 
 but waste thy precious time in seeking to move compassion 
 in a mind that, if it ever felt, has now forgot its influence." 
 
 Aquila paused, and reflected for a short time in silence. 
 
 " And thou wilt surely, then," she said at length, " re- 
 store my brother to his home unharmed ?" 
 
 " Have I not said it ?" 
 
 *' There's one will grieve for it : but better one than all. 
 —And Arthur, then," she added anxiously, " may freely 
 come and go throughout all Somerset, without question or 
 hindrance ?" 
 
 " I warrant ye," said Kirke with a smile from which 
 Aquila could not help recoiling, " wherever he may desire 
 to go, there will be none to thwart him." 
 
 In this proposal, if happiness was excluded from it, so 
 was crime. In the terrible dilemma in which she stood, 
 there seemed no other resource, and it would secure at least 
 the great object which had brought her from her home— 
 the life and freedom of her -brother. She consented there- 
 fore to the condition proposed, but was surprised when 
 Kirke informed her that the marriage should be performed 
 upon the instant. He had many reasons — the speedy re- 
 
380 ^THE DUKE or MONMOUTH, 
 
 Bignation of Ms command, and consequent removal from ' 
 Bridgewater — and, last and most eflfectual of all, his plea- 
 sure : Aquila could not order it otherwise, and in less thau 
 in hour after, the ceremony was performed by the lunatic 
 tiergyman, whom Kirke had brought to Bridgewater for 
 the purpose. 
 
 " There is but one thing now that I desire," said Aquila, 
 when the hurried rite was at an end, — " that I may see my 
 brother and inform him myself of his deliverance." 
 
 " And of the condition," asked Kirke, "on whkh it was 
 effected ?" 
 
 " No," replied Aquila ; " let him find out that by what- 
 ever means he may. I only wish to have the happiness <*f 
 telling him with my own lips that he is free." 
 
 " Be it as you will," said Kirke : " Stephens will accom- 
 pany you when you desire to go ; but your visit must be 
 brief." 
 
 Arthur, in the mean time, awaited in strong anxiety the 
 issue of his sister's interview with Kirke. The sun already 
 declining towards the west, and flinging a somewhat mel- 
 lowed light between the bars of his grating, awoke within 
 his mind that feeling of regret and tenderness which almost 
 all at some time have experienced on beholding the approach 
 of summer twilight, and which has been since so exqui- 
 Bitely sung by a great poet of our own time : 
 
 O Hesperus ! — thou bringest all good things,— 
 
 Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer — 
 To the young bird the parent's brooding wings— 
 
 The welcome stall to the o'erlabour'd steer ; 
 Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, 
 
 Whate'er our household gods protect of dear; 
 Ai'e gather 'd round us by thy look of rest — 
 
 Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast. 
 
 After the departure of Aquila on the previous eveninjr, 
 )ui thoughts had, in spite of himself, begun to point toward 
 
THB DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 381 
 
 th's world's hope with more steadiness than he before saw 
 cause to justify. He began to think there was more reason 
 and more probability in Aquila's design than he would at 
 first allow, and he calculated the chances in her favour until 
 the sun produced an aggregate suflBcient to occupy his 
 thoughts for a considerable portion of the ensuing day. Ha 
 was still engaged with such refl^^ctions, when the door was 
 opened, and Aquila, hurrying in with an appearance Ot 
 wild and tumultuous delight, ran towards him with ex- 
 tended arms. 
 
 " Good news, Arthur ! good news 1" 
 
 " Have you seen him then ?" 
 
 " I told you that I should succeed. You are free now, 
 Arthur, or will be so before a seconfl sun goes down." 
 
 " Is it possible ?" said her brother, his ~ wonder now 
 awakening with as much force as if hope had never found 
 an instant's entrance into his mind, — " Is it possible that 
 Kirke has felt remorse ? Then there is no dream so wild 
 in the very wildest delirium of hope that the future may not 
 justify. Do you tell me, sister, that Kirke has heard your 
 prayer, and consented to spare my life ?" 
 
 *' I tell you," answered Aquila, laying her hand on his 
 shoulder and gazing in his face, with a smile which still was 
 mingled with something of internal misery, — " I tell you, 
 that to-morrow's suu shall see you free to direct your steps 
 wherever you desire. Is that not something to rejoice at ? 
 Is it not something to think whatever destiny may yet be 
 mine, that at least one dreadful stroke has been avoided — 
 that I have not been to you, my brother, the murderess I 
 feared ?" 
 
 "I am amazed past utterance," said Arthur, " at the 
 news yoa tell me." 
 
 • " You will trust me again," said his sister hurriedly. 
 " No wonder that necessity should be cunning at invention. 
 It was terrible to me to know that I had been the cause of 
 tijis calamity to vouv ant*- \ hardly think my reason could 
 
^82 TI3 S DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 have withstood the fearful thoughts which must haunt my 
 hreast for ever in the shocking conviction that 1 had been 
 the author of your ruin. It is therefore that my joy is now 
 so great." And she laughed with a wretched and convul- 
 sive action. 
 
 " You are ill, Aquila," said Arthur, taking her hand ; 
 " your anxiety has affected your health." 
 
 " Thou wert always very dear to me, Arthur," his sister 
 continued, " and I am quite content that thou art saved. 
 I maybe wretched yet. Men know not in this world what 
 the morrow brings. But yesterday it promised death to 
 you, and see now how faUely ! This evening we have ob- 
 tained what one of'tis at least most wished on earth, and 
 yet who knows of what kind are the gifts which the rising 
 sun may offer us ? But this at least I have to rest upon : 
 — in any event, I can turn to our beloved home and say — 
 ' Arthur at least is safe — our father does not want the prop 
 of his old age : I have not been the means of cutting shoi 
 my brother's days, and bringing down a father's hoary hea 
 with sorrow to the grave.' Why then, with such a thonghi 
 to bear me up, what agony of mind or body is there that 
 I cannot bear ?" 
 
 " Aquila," said Arthur, taking her hand, and looking long 
 and with an inquiring earnestness in her countenance, 
 " there is something in this sudden mercy of Kirke beyond 
 what you have let me know. Is it true indeed, as you say, 
 that he has freely granted your request ?" 
 
 " I tell thee it is true : be satisfied, and ask no more." 
 
 Arthur paused for a time as if perplexed, and then said 
 with increasing seriousness of tone : 
 
 " Aquila, you must forgive me if I am still unsatisfied. 
 The question which I am about to put to you might seem 
 unnecessary ; but I am your brother, and though in chains, 
 your natural protector, and I have a right to ask it. An- 
 swer me therefore candidly and plainly, for I cannot feel as 
 if I had discharged my duty wixhout formally making the 
 
THE DUKE or MOKMOUTH. 383 
 
 fcjquiry— Did Kbke propose any condition when he granted 
 jou my life ?" 
 
 " If you will be answered," said Aqnila, " he did — one 
 — and it is granted." 
 
 "Granted!" exclaimed her brother with surprise. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 *' And without consulting me ?" 
 
 *' He would not sufiFer it." 
 
 " That looks not well," said Arthur. " And you com- 
 plied ?" 
 
 " I did," replied Aqnila calmly. 
 
 *' What was the condition ?" 
 
 " You shall know all that hereafter." 
 
 " Why not now ?" 
 
 " Why speak of it at all, Arthur ? 'Tis past and gone." 
 
 " Aquila, I must know it." 
 
 " So you shall — hereafter. I cannot tell it now." 
 
 " And wherefore, my sister ? Why not tell it me ?" 
 
 " Simply," said Aquila, " because when I solicited this 
 interview, I promised Kirke that I would not reveal it." 
 
 " Listen to me, Aquila," said her brother. " Do you pee 
 these chains — those walls ? Do yon think I fear them ? 
 Do you think I fear the death that Eirke reserves for 
 me?" 
 
 " I know that all love life," replied Aquila, " excepting 
 the presumptuous or the perfect." 
 
 " Yet, without being either," resumed Arthur, " I tell 
 you, Aquila, that were you to offer me a million of happy 
 years, instead of the few miserable days that Kirke can 
 ipare to me, and were to accompany the gift with any base- 
 ness, I would spurn it from me with contempt, and go to 
 my gibbet as to a kingdom." 
 
 " I would not have you receive it otherwif?e," replied 
 Aquila ; " nor would I offer you a gift upon such terms." 
 
 " Still," said her brother, " there is one question wlii h 
 I have to ask, and on which I must be answered. Is tiiere 
 
S84 THE DUKE or MOiniODTH. 
 
 anything in this condition to compromise yoar honour or 
 your reputation ?" 
 
 " Nothing !" said Aquila, expanding her hands and 
 smiling with a look of candour mingled with dignity. "Are 
 you satisfied now, Arthur i" 
 
 " Or your happiness ?" 
 
 " My happiness ?" repeated his sister, somewhat hur- 
 riedly; — "surely that must regard my' • happiness whicU 
 regards your life." 
 
 " You evade my question." 
 
 " What answer do you seek ? Do yon speak to one in- 
 different or to a stranger ! How should that bring aught 
 but happiness to me which gives you life and freedom — 
 which restores you to your house and to your friends from 
 the very edge of ruin ! Talk not of my happiness ; I tell 
 you I am not merely content — I am overjoyed at my suc- 
 cess ; I am better satisfied with my conditions than if I 
 had gained a throne." 
 
 Her brother remained for a long time silent, and still 
 perplexed in mind. 
 
 "Be satisfied, I entreat you, Arthur," said Aquila; 
 " yon shall soon know all, and be the judge yourself if I 
 have not cause for gratitude and joy." 
 
 " It is quite a mystery," said Arthur ; " but that he 
 has some view beyond the satisfaction which better minds 
 can feel in mingling the exercise of power with mercy, be 
 fully certain. You have found some way to bribe him 
 which you hide from me. What it is, I cannot guess ; 
 &at I know that it is nothing which yon are not free to 
 use." 
 
 "So ranch at least you know," replied his sister, 
 
 " Well, then, perhaps I know enough ; for the gift, I 
 blush not to acknowledge, is a welcome one, and worth, on 
 many accounts, any lawful offering within our power." 
 
 *' Why, so I thought," replied Aquila, quickly, " aod 
 It W48 ou that I acted." 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTIT. 385 
 
 *• I shall dance at your wedding, Aquila, after all," said 
 Arthur, smiling. 
 
 " Are you sure of that ?" replied his sister, with a broken 
 laugh. " I can tell yon, yon will have need to make haste 
 then." 
 
 "•Why ? Do yon start so soon ?" 
 
 " No, no — but — Oh, I did but jest — ^you are so quick 
 at questioning I" 
 
 " I would we were both at Minehead.'* 
 
 *' "Would we were !" 
 
 " Poor Harry !" 
 
 " Well, good night !" 
 
 " Does the mention of Henry's name drive yon away ?" 
 
 "No, no — but — ^you know it is late, and my time is 
 measured. I hear the sentry at the door already." 
 
 " Good night, then, and good speed I" 
 
 " I; thank you, Arthur." 
 
 " When shall we meet again ?* 
 
 " As early as I can contrive it. To-morrow you shall 
 be at liberty. I have, as yon judge, found a way of brib- 
 ing Kirke, and you shall know it soon. Till then, good 
 night, and sleep in peace ! for to you the trouble caused by 
 Monmouth is, I trust, for ever at an end. I obtained 
 leave to be the bearer myself of these delightful tidings, 
 and the time allotted me is, I fear, already passed. Good 
 night, my brother ! good night, and sleep in peace !" 
 
 She 'departed, and Arthur, his chains relieved of.more 
 than half their weight, remained to watch, with joy re- 
 stored, and hopes revived, the gradual close of the declin- 
 ing day. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 While, with a full heart, Aquila returned accompanied by 
 Stephens to the lodging of Kurke, the calm summer twi« 
 
 2b 
 
866 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 light was gradually withdrawing its last glimmer from the 
 town of Bridgewater. The streets were less crowded and 
 less noisy, although from time to time the sounds of grief, 
 of sufieringj or cf debauch, broke in with a startling eftect 
 upon the solemn stillness of the nightfall. Occasionally, 
 too, the noise of music or of revel voices was heard rfom 
 Bome neighboming tavern. A part of the regiment was to 
 leave town at daybreak on the following moraing, and 
 many leave-taking groups were assembled at the coraers 
 of the streets as they passed along. Aquila hurried on aa 
 If desirous to afford no leisure to reflection, and entered the 
 iouse, while Stephens remained without in order to give 
 the sentinels some directions for the night. He was thus 
 occupied, when the front door re-opened and Kirke made 
 Jiis appearance. 
 
 There seemed at the first aspect something of more than 
 ordinary malignity and gloom in his appearance. He 
 walked slowly forward, closing the door behind him and 
 seeming wrapped in thought. At length he beckoned Ste- 
 phens to approach. 
 
 " Well, sir," said the latter, after having awaited a long 
 time in vain the orders of bis patron, " you have suc- 
 ceeded." 
 
 "Did I not tell thee ? Did I not plan it well ? And 
 did not our lunatic parson perform his part with admirable 
 gravity ?" 
 
 ** Oace or twice," said Stephens, laughing and still 
 epeaking in a low tone of voice, " I thought our fair young 
 mistress suspected something. I saw her dart on him 
 askance one of those searching glances such as seldom fail 
 to find the truth they seek." 
 
 " Didst thou 80 ?" said Kirke, joining in the laugh. 
 •• Between ourselves, I feared she would find us out; ba* 
 I trusted to her wit for not being too inquisitive. The 
 ceremony, under all circumstances, was of that kind that 
 it would be prudence in ner not to be too scrupulous abous 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 1^87 
 
 the capacity of the minister. Better any day be married 
 by a crazy parson than throttled by a rational hangman." 
 
 " A sound maxim," said Stephens, " and I warrant her 
 for measuring the force of it.'' 
 
 " Didst thou mark," continued Kirke, still laughing, 
 " when the huge blue-bottle flew across the book and then 
 went buzzing round the room, how hard it was to keep 
 his eyes from wandering. I wished more than once that 
 he might fall foul of some royal spider and have an end 
 put to his music by martial law. Even when our parson 
 put the question to Aquila, I could scarce avoid laughing 
 to see his eye still furtively following the blue-bottle." 
 
 " Aye," replied Stephens, " and when the troop wer.t 
 galloping by the windows, I gave up all for lost. I was 
 sure he would close the lesson with a ' Tally-ho !' I saw it 
 coming to his lips, when his eye met mine." 
 
 " For this prisoner — he must die." 
 
 " What prisoner, su" ?" asked Stephens. 
 
 " This Fullarton, man. I commit that charge to thee 
 aud see that it be speedily fulfilled." 
 
 The officer appeared to be struck dumb with wonder. 
 
 " Let him die to-morrow morning before sunrise," said 
 Kirke. " He is an arch rebel, and a fellow who might be 
 troublesome to me on other accounts. — Have you given 
 those the orders of which I spoke to you ?" 
 
 '' All shall be ready, sir, the adjutant has taken charge 
 of them." 
 
 " It is very well. See to it that the prisoner is disposed 
 of as I have said." 
 
 " Well, go thy ways," said Stephens in his ovm mind, 
 as his superior tamed away and ascended the narrow stair- 
 case, " for the most finished specimen of barefaced tyranny 
 that has appeared on earth since Heliogabalus danced be- 
 fore his idot ! There is no disputing his orders ; but if 
 this be not the crowning of as evil a course of blood aud 
 profligacy as ever entitled mortal man to the first hooours 
 
883 Tnii: duke of monmouth. 
 
 in a college of incarnate fiends, then Monmouth is at this 
 moment reigning in Whitehall. Come hither, fellow," he 
 added, as a low-sized individual, high-shouldered' and shuf- 
 fling in his gait, and as it seemed even now half brain- 
 sodden with the fumes of liquor, passed by him, creeping 
 along the shadow of the houses. " Art thon weary yet of 
 loading the gibbets of Bridgewater with unruly subjects ?* 
 
 " Not," replied the fellow, trying to keep his balance, 
 and labouring still harder to lift the eyelids from the drowsy 
 looking pupil — " Not if the King's glory and the good o' 
 Uie State require it." 
 
 " The Colonel has another job for you." 
 
 " What is it then ? Let me hear the cause and judge. 
 Let it be none o' your common moral offenders. I leave 
 such journeywork to my under 'prentice, who is a supple 
 hand enough in the disposal of all sinners in the line of 
 vulgar ethics — your burglars, highwaymen, or filchers in a 
 dwelling-house. I'm none of yonr every-day Ketches to 
 soil my fingers tying up such knaves ; ray walk is in leze 
 majestd and misprision of treason." 
 
 " Some such affair it is at present," said Stephens, " that 
 demands your interference." 
 
 " If it be a matter of State," said the finisher of the law, 
 " I'm ready for you ; but let me not be put off with any- 
 thing below ray station. I have had to do with some of 
 your Ryehouse folk ere now in my vocation," 
 
 " Be satisfied," said the officer, " that I demand nothing 
 •which can derogate from the respectability of your cailing. 
 Be ready at the first glimpse of dawn to-morrow morning, 
 when I will send to summon you." 
 
 While these scenes were passing, Arthur Fallarton en- 
 deavoured, but for a long time vaiily, to compose himself 
 to rest in his prison. The joy of his recovered life and 
 freedom took away the desire of slumber, and even occu- 
 sioned a restlessness which the fear of death had not caused 
 on the preceding ni^ht. He thought of Taunton, of his 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 889 
 
 home and friends, and of Minehead, where they were now 
 awaiting them. With such reflections, it was long before 
 he could sleep ; and when he did, his waking hopes gave 
 place to dreams of happiness and peace. 
 
 The dusky skimmer of the midsummer dawn had scarce 
 begun to find its way into his dungeon, when he was 
 awakened by the entrance of Stephens and the gaoler. Ha 
 arose hastily and advanced to meet them, supposing at first 
 that they were come to give him freedom. Their silence, 
 however, and their sombre countenances made him hesitate 
 for some moments as in doubt. 
 
 " Mr. Fullarton," said Stephens, " I trust you have been 
 expecting us ?" 
 
 '' I have been expecting, sir," said Arthur ; " but to 
 what end do you come ?" 
 
 " Have you made your peace with Heaven ?" 
 
 " What means that question, sir ?" asked Arthur with 
 surprise. " 1 stood, I know, under sentence, but it has 
 been revoked." 
 
 " Who had the inhumanity to tell you so ?" 
 
 " One who would not deceive me, and who had it from 
 the very lips of Colonel Kirke." 
 
 " You were deceived, liowever." 
 
 " Impossible !" cried Arthur. 
 
 " At what hour did j ou receive this intelh'gence ?** 
 
 '* At sunset." 
 
 " You were deceived, then, for it was near midnight 
 when Kirke gave orders for your death." 
 
 Arthur Fullarton looked as if stunned at these words, 
 but showed no sign of weakness or want of fortitude. 
 
 " I pray you, sir," he said at length to the officer with 
 firmness, " are you sure of what you tell me ?" 
 
 " I had the orders myself," replied Stephens, " from his 
 own lips. They were almost his last words to me ere he 
 went to rest." 
 
 " Arthur paused, and in spite of himself the colour left 
 
390 THE DtJKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 his lips, and the anxious dew appeared upon hh fore- 
 head. 
 
 " Poor girl !" he said at length in his own mind. "Poor, 
 ardent, fond, believing fool ! the tyrant then deceived thee ! 
 I thought there was something in it more than it could be 
 rational to hope. As well expect — But stay — what have 
 I now to do with phrases of resentment ? His own deeds 
 each shall dearly answer for. Let me rather think on mine 
 —What now is Kirke to me — what should he be more than 
 the senseless tree that is to be for me the gateway to 
 another life ?" 
 
 These latter sentences half passed in the mind of Arthnrg 
 half broke forth in words, as he stood endeavouring to com- 
 pose his thoughts so as to meet the stroke of death with 
 becoming recollection. After a pause of some minutes, he 
 turned to the ofi&cer and said i 
 
 " Sir, you are a soldier ?" 
 
 " I am." 
 
 " You have served your king and country ere now in 
 moments of difficulty and danger ?" 
 
 " Some fifteen years, with more blows than benefits." 
 
 " I cannot say so much," said Fullarton ; " but I hate 
 seen service enough to know that a soldier should be no 
 stranger to the feelings of honour and humanity." 
 
 " Why, for that," replied Stephens, '* yon will find 
 variety to be sure. I may be somewhat scant myself, per- 
 haps ; but I have seen worse and better in my time. But 
 why do you ask ?" 
 
 " To know if I might make you a request with the hope 
 of obtaining it." 
 
 '' If in my power, and in reason." 
 
 "Judge for yourself. I only entreat of you that 1 
 may see a clergyman, and have some little time in private 
 to prepare for death." 
 
 " The time is short till sunrise," answered Stephens, "but 
 it shall be at yonr disposal." 
 
THB DUKE OF MONMOUTH. ~ S9l 
 
 He withdrew with the gaoler, and the clergytnan who 
 usually attended on the prison was sent into the cell of 
 Arthur. When Stephens returned before sunrise, he found 
 the prisoner wholly restored to his customary tranquil man- 
 ner, collected, calm, and easy in his address and speech. 
 
 " I am ready, sir," he said the instant he saw Stephens 
 at the door. " I have but one question first to ask of yon. 
 Once more, is it true indeed that those orders came from 
 Colonel Kirke himself?" 
 
 The officer again replied in the affirmative. 
 
 " Then I am ready," exclaimed Arthnr,^ summoning up 
 bis fortitude to the task before him ; " and I wish, sincerely 
 wish, that your Colonel may never meet his earthly end 
 with deeper cause of fear. I have no malice against him 
 nor any man. If he asks you how I died, say that I for- 
 gave, as I do forgive him from my heart, and as I hope to 
 be forgiven. For whatever there was of evil at any time 
 in my feelings or my speech towards him, I am now sin- 
 cerely penitent. What more should I say ? — If my friends 
 should ask of my last words, tell them I died without re- 
 nouncing my fidelity to the cause I had embraced, and yet 
 without repining at its failure ; for though that might be 
 J)e work of man, it is the will of Providence to suffer it. 
 If I have erred in casting my lot with Monmouth, may He* 
 forgive us all ! I bow to Him — to Him I leave my cause, 
 in death and life. — And now, sir," he added, suddenly 
 raising his head, which had been for a moment reverently 
 'nclined, and smiling while he pointed forward with a look 
 of gaiety and even triumph in his aspect, " lead on and do 
 your duty !" 
 
 He was conducted from ^he prison without further ex- 
 change of speech, just as the morning twilight began to 
 give place to the broader light of day, A redder beam 
 already fell on the house- tiles, and the breeze of the sum- 
 mer dawn began to curl the surface of the Parret. When 
 tbey had reached the place of execution, Arthur FuUartoa'^ 
 
332 THE DUKE OF MONMOOTK. 
 
 thonghta rererted in spite of himself to the iuhatnan cheat 
 which had been practised on Aquila. 
 
 " My poor, fond sister !" he said iu his own mind. " But 
 it is over ! — let me think of that which lies before me* I 
 ha^e one last request to make," he added aloud, addressing 
 Stephens. " I have a sister, the same who was admitted 
 to my cell last evening. Give her my last farewell, and 
 tell her that with my dying breath I wish her to forgive 
 all men as I do from my heart. We have evil enough of 
 our own to answer for, without turning the crimes of others 
 to our ruin. Bid her to remember me and be careful of 
 oar parent." 
 
 The drum beat at an early hour the reveille to that por- 
 tion of the troops of Kirke who were on this morning set 
 out fi'om Bridgewater. The inhabitants viewed their de- 
 parture with the same silent satisfaction as if a devasta- 
 Jiug pestilence had passed from their streets after spreading 
 amongst them dismay and death for many a day. 
 
 The sun was above the horizon when Stephens presented 
 himself, as he had been ordered to do, at the residence of 
 Kirke. The tyrant had already risen, and was waiting the 
 return of his confidant in a small room adjoining that in 
 which he had received Aquila on the preceding day. He 
 walked softly to and fro, and seemed to number the mo- 
 ments with impatience until the officer should arrive. 
 
 " Well, Stephens, is it done ?" he asked in a rapid 
 whisper, as the latter at length presented himself at the 
 chamber door. 
 
 " It is. He hath followed Monmouth farther than be 
 cared for." 
 
 " Is he dead ?" 
 
 " He knows more now than all the doctors in Cam- 
 bridge or Oxford to boot ; and I warrant him for modesty. 
 He will never speak of it — at least until the great examina* 
 tion day. His trooping is at an end. You shall hear no 
 tCiOi'e of him until the la3t reveille that is to sound for the 
 
mz DUSE oy monmouth. S^ 
 
 rerieiv where all shall muster. I have seen many die in 
 my time., but never one met his last moment with so gallant 
 and complete an aii*. He went to his fate, as a man might 
 unlock the gate of some delicious garden. Dead or alive, 
 I warrant him as fine a fellow as ever handled hilt." 
 
 *' And what have you done with the body ?" 
 
 *' It is still in the place where the soul left it." 
 
 " Get three or four trusty fellows instantly, Stephens, and 
 let it be brought hither — privately, do you hear ? — with as 
 little delay and as little noise as may be. — I will await your 
 return in this room." 
 
 The officer departed, and in little more than a quarter 
 of an hour returned, accompanied by some men in the bar- 
 rack undress, who bore the body between them. There 
 was something horrible in the dry and barren indifference 
 in whjch Kirke, after the men had left the room, removed 
 the doak which they had flung over the deceased, and 
 looked upon the dead marbly features, as if merely to be 
 satisfied that there was no eiTor. Covering the body again, 
 he motioned Stephens to retire, and passed softly into the 
 adjoining room. 
 
 There was more than usual fierceness and hardness in 
 his manner while he waited the entrance of Aquila, as if 
 he found an eft'ort necessary to discharge the dreadful part 
 which he had yet to play. He had sat down to a desk, 
 aud was in the act of writing some letters relating to the 
 routine Dusiness of the regiment, when Aquila entered the 
 room. 
 
 " You are early stirring. Mistress Fullarton," he said, 
 continuing to write, after glancing for an instant towards 
 Abulia. 
 
 The latter, whoso thoughts were now concentrated on oiie 
 sole object — the seeing Arthur free and on the way to join 
 their relatives, did not notice the style of Kirke's address, 
 though the name was pronounced with suf&cieat emphasis 
 tc awaken her attention. 
 
394 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 " I have r, r »quest to make," she said, " if yon are aC 
 leisure." 
 
 " Speak on," said Kirke, continuing to write, " I can 
 attend to you." 
 
 "On what day," asked Aquila timidly, "do you leave. 
 Bridgewater ?" 
 
 " Fourteen and seven — twenty one — twenty and three 
 " muttered Kirke, as if half absorbed in the calcula- 
 tion of some estimates that lay before him. — " What day,, 
 did you say? — On Mondayat thefarthest. Whydoyonask?"^ 
 
 " Because," replied Aquila, "it regards in some degree 
 the favour which I seek." 
 
 " And what is that ?" 
 
 " Forgive me if it seem unreasonable. It is, that you 
 would allow me to spend the interval with my family : T 
 ^ug to see my brother restored to his home again." 
 
 " Pooh, pooh — is that all ? You may go as soon as yoi 
 will ; why should I hinder you ?" 
 
 " And remain till Monday ?" 
 
 " Remain till doomsday, if it please you," Kirke answered 
 with a short laugh ; " what is't to me how long ?" 
 
 Aquila paused in surprise, but supposing that Kirke did 
 but give utterance to such jesting words as were familiar 
 to his cruel mind, she made no observation on them. He 
 intended the speech, however, as anything rather than a jest 
 
 " I will be ready then," she said, '* to go where you shall 
 order — and to my life's end, fully, faithfully, and truly to 
 discharge to yon the duty and obedience I have vowed." 
 
 " In good truth, madam," cried Kirke, " I can readily 
 spare you the pains. Such devotedness would be utterly 
 wasted upon me. There is no one in the world has less 
 fjucy to play a part in the story of ' Griselda, or The Nut- 
 brown Maid.' You are free to bestow your heroism where 
 you will, for any jealousy that 'I shall ever feel at the loss 
 .of it." 
 
 Aqnlla looked on for a time in silence, at a loss to com- 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 395 
 
 prehend his meaning. Unable, however, to form a con* 
 je^ture on the subject, she forebore to speak in answei; 
 Soon after, seeing him about to resume his occupations, sha 
 said gently : 
 
 " I have your permission, then, to accompany my bro- 
 ther to-day ?" 
 
 " You have my leave to go." 
 
 " And Arthur ?" 
 
 " Pooh — what can I do with him ? He must Settle that 
 with the court-martial." 
 
 Aquila paused again. 
 
 " With the court-martial ?" she repeated in a wonder- 
 ing tone ; " I thought you promised me that he should be 
 free to-day ?" 
 
 " Why, what could I do else ? You would have it so." 
 
 " Is not the power with you ?" 
 
 " There are other judges. To tell yon the truth, I doubt 
 it will go hard with him after all." 
 
 Again Aquila looked on him for a long time in silencf*. 
 
 *' You jest with me," she said at length. 
 
 " I confess I did so yesterday, but to-day the merry 
 humour is gone by. I tell yon the plain truth : it is a b i'i 
 case, and I do not think he will ever come clear with the 
 court-martial." 
 
 Aqnila looked stunned for a moment, and then lifted up 
 her folded hands and eyes in utter astonishment at what 
 she heard. 
 
 " What is it yon mean ?" she said, still endeavouring to 
 preserve calmness. " Is it thus, then, Kirke, that yoa 
 keep faith ? Do you really mean to intimate that Arthur 
 after all must go through the form of trial ?" 
 
 "I owe you very little ceremony," said Kirke with a 
 careless air : " if you put your memory to task for a few 
 uioments, you will acknowledge as much." 
 
 " Ah, Kirke !" exclaimed Aquila, " I thought you had 
 forgotten that*'* 
 
336 XUE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 " See how yon erred, then." 
 
 " You pledged your word to me that Arthur should be 
 fiee to-day — this very day, — and if he would, upon the road 
 to Taunton." 
 
 '' Good madam," said Kirke, rising abruptly from the 
 table, " I desire to be so far kinder to you than my word, 
 that you may even take yourself the way you speak of, and 
 as speedily as you will." 
 
 There was so much of roughness and rehemence in the 
 manner in which this was said, that Aquila, though a mo- 
 ment before the permission accorded had given her the 
 utmost joy, now listened in alarm and doubt, as if fearful of 
 some new and hideous ill to follow. While she hesitated, 
 Kirke seemed, by the rude impatience with which he trod 
 the chamber to and fro, as if stirring up his nature to the 
 pitch of brutality which was necessary to bear him through 
 the task he had to discharge. 
 
 " And so now," he said, — " ha ! so now, I warrant, 
 you will be for reputing yourself a Colonel's wife amongst 
 the worthy folk of Somerset ? How say you ? Eh?" 
 
 " Alas !" replied Aquila, "I have no desire to boast of it." 
 
 " As who should say, but if I would I might. Is not 
 that it, madam ? How easily you thought poor Kirke 
 could be caught in that noose ! But I thank you, an old 
 soldier is not so simply snared." 
 
 *' Indeed," said Aquila, "I know not what you mean." 
 
 " Oh, but I know it though, and I have a sly glimpse at 
 the inside of your meaning too, fair madam, I promise you j 
 but I have seen too much of the round world to be taken 
 napping. — A Colonel, truly ? No less would serve your 
 Vum. A pretty moderate premium on rebellion." 
 
 " I declare to you," said Aquila, " that you speak to 
 me in riddles. Of what design do you suspect me, or of 
 what snare do you speak ?" 
 
 " No need to tell you that," replied Kirke ; " but this 
 may suffice instead: you are no wife of mme." 
 
THE DUKE OP MONIIOITTH. 397 
 
 *• Thon liest, monster, in the sight of the bright day !** 
 Aquila cried alond with an irrepressible energy that made 
 even the tjTant start, " In the sight of Heaven, thou 
 speakest a falsehood black as night — black as thy wishes 
 were which I resisted in the fear of Heaven. I am thy 
 wedded wife, and thou shalt find it ! What ! shalt thou 
 
 say abroad that Oh, thou art caught in thine own snare, 
 
 and thou shalt find it if there be a King in England, and 
 if he remember justice." 
 
 " So, so," said K irke, regaining his frigid mfiiamsm f 
 " I thought we would hear something of the kind." 
 
 " Thou shalt hear more of it," exclaimed Aquila. '' I 
 tell thee, Kirke, though I abhor the hideous mind which 
 thou revealest — though I would give worlds that we had 
 never met, yet I will faithfully, faithfully (dost thou hsar?) 
 preserve the vow which I have taken to be to thee a trna 
 and constant wife. Think it not — hope it not — nothing 
 but death, that sunders every tie, shall sever that whiah 
 was bound in the sight of Heaven." 
 
 " Pish, pish ! what signifies thy word ?" said Kirke. 
 
 " It is good in Heaven at least," replied Aquila. 
 
 " You are welcome to your credit there," said the har- 
 dened savage ; " but here you are somewhat the worse for 
 lack of witnesses." 
 
 " Thou canst not bribe the minister of Heaven," said 
 Aquih. *' He will not dare to belie his sacred function." 
 
 Kirke burst into a fit of laughter. 
 
 ** VVhy," said he, "by the fear of the whip which Ste- 
 phens shook in his sight, and wondrons promises, we cou- 
 trived to call up in him a sufficient show of sanity for the 
 occasion ; but I doubt if his evidence would be worth 
 njuch in the judgment of those who are now diverting 
 themselves with his lunatic fancies near the market-cross. 
 And as to the other witnesses yon are welcome to their tes- 
 timony if you can coax them to afford it." 
 •This speech accounted to Aquila for a suspicion which 
 
393 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 had more than one crossed her mind during the perform- 
 aace of the ceremony on the previous evening, but on 
 which she could not venture to act. She now saw the 
 whole train of the perfidious plot which had been devised 
 by Kirke. It was vain, however, now to speak of it. She 
 had only preserved her own integrity of heart, and her 
 right at least to defend her honest fame. After a long 
 pause, therefore, she approached the spot where Kirke was 
 standing, and clasping her hands she knelt before him in 
 silence for so long a time that he was compelled to ask 
 her what she sought. 
 
 " The fulfilment of your pledge," replied Aquila — " my 
 brother's freedom." 
 
 *' Oh, he is free already," answered Kurke. 
 
 *' Is he out of prison, then ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, ere day-dawn." 
 
 " I entreat you then," said Aquila, " to tell me where 
 he is, that we may depart for Taunton together." 
 
 " Oh, he will not leave Bridgewater to-day," replied 
 Kirke, " nor to-morrow neither. He is, now, I promise 
 you, where he will never plot against King James again." 
 
 Aquila looked at him with an inquiring air. 
 
 " I entreat you," she said, " to tell me where he is." 
 
 " 'Tis vain to ask," said Kirke, " for he is not to go the 
 road to Taunton any more." 
 
 '' Will you break the word you plighted so solemnly ?* 
 asked Aquila. " You said you would pardon him and set 
 him free." '" 
 
 " And I have kept my word 3 I have pardoned him and 
 »et him free." 
 
 " And yet he must not go the road to Taunton?" 
 
 " Didst thou truly think," &gid Kirke, " that I coald 
 keep a treasonous pledge ?" 
 
 " What treasonous pledge ?" 
 
 " To saeen a rebel — nay, an arch-rebel, detected in tliG 
 very act of crime, from the avenging sentence of the law ?" 
 
THE DOKE OF MONMOUTH. 399 
 
 "*' There is some horrid meaning, Kirke," said Aqnila, 
 ■*'iu thy words, at which I dare not guess. Dost thou 
 truly mean to keep our covenant ?" 
 
 " What is to be done, is done," replied Kirke, evading 
 her look. 
 
 Aquila paused for some moments, in the effort to divine 
 his meaning. 
 
 " Thou hast played me fair I am certain," she said, while 
 her limbs began to tremble with fear. " I beseech you, 
 where is Arthur ?" 
 
 " He is where all should be who followed Monmouth." 
 
 " But you said he should be pardoned ?" 
 
 "In Heaven I meant, for here there was no hope for him-" 
 
 " Tell me, Kirke," said the wretched girl, with a smile 
 of the most pitiable entreaty, " is Arthur my brother, then, 
 after all, to die ?" 
 
 " No ; he is dead already, if the hangman has done M« 
 duty." 
 
 "Thoutriest me?" 
 
 " If you think so, step into the next room, where you 
 can question himself if my orders have been obeyed. I 
 doubt much if he will answer you." 
 
 Aquila rushed from the room. In a few minutes a 
 shriek was heard of such harrowing anguish, that for a 
 moment even the sallow cheek of the tyraut put on a paler 
 hue, and Stephens, the lady of the house and her daughter, 
 with several other individuals who chanced to be within 
 hearing, came rushing in at different entrances to the room 
 in which Kirke was standing. 
 
 " Colonel ! what cry was that ?" 
 
 " Was any one hurt ?" 
 
 While question followed question, the miserable Aqnila 
 reappeared at the still open door, her frame convulsed as 
 if by the stroke of madness, her features wild with the fury 
 of a thousand passions, the internal agony of which she 
 strove to counteract for some time in silence, by tearing up 
 
4Ct5 THE BtTKfi OF MONWOUTW. 
 
 from its roots the long hair which now hnng loose arotrad 
 her figure, and scattering it on the floor. She seemed 
 unable, however, to suppress a lew and stifling sound of 
 exquisite anguish like that of one who is almost crashed 
 to death beneath some overwhelming weight. 
 
 *' Poor soul," said the hostess, " she has lost her wits !** 
 
 " It is the young woman from Taunton, mother," said th« 
 girl. 
 
 While they whispered thus, Aquila raised her eyes, and 
 casting on Kirke from between her scattered locks a sharp 
 and piercing glance, she said in a half exhausted whisper, 
 with a bitter smile, accompanied by a short hystwic laugh : 
 
 " There's a God in heav^i — there is," 
 
 Again she clasped her hands, bent down and shivered 
 through all her frame in the intensest anguish ; and again 
 a shriek came from her, so heart-splitting and heart-brokea, 
 that there was not a countenance present but was altered by 
 the sound. Another followed, and another — and then th», 
 poor sufferer remained moaning quietly, bent down half-way 
 to the earth, ha: arms crossea: on her bosom, and her w^ 
 frame shaking as if with extreme cold or palsy. 
 
 *' Take her away !" cried Ku-ke impatiently. 
 
 " Oh, murderer ! no 1" the wretched girl exclaimed in » 
 tone so mournful that none even of his creatures obeyed tha 
 •order of Kirke — " not till you have heard me first. Oh, 
 Kirke ! inhuman that you are, how could you slay him ? 
 What ! mocked ? What ? Arthur, my brothei- ! and have 
 we lost thee aft^ all ? Oh, thou false tyrant, thorn shalt 
 one day mourn for this !" 
 
 Again Kirke made a, sign to have her removed, and agaia 
 be was unheeded, , 
 
 " Then thinkest that thou art safe," she said, still smil- 
 ing bitterly on him, " because thou art suiTounded by thy 
 guards and arms, and I am poOT and feeble — defenceless— 
 <jiiite defenceless now ; — but there's One who heard thy 
 falsehood, and who is stronger than thy guards. Ob, tboft 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 401 
 
 art brave now, and thou fearest nothing ; bat there's a time 
 to come when thou shalt fear and feel." 
 
 " Remove her as I order you, sirrah," cried K'lrke to his 
 officer. 
 
 " I tell you, there shall be a time," Aquila continued, 
 straggling in the grasp of the ofl&cer, — " I pray it not — I 
 
 wish it not — but it shall surely be 1 tell thee," slie said, 
 
 her countenance darkening, her figure becoming rigid, and 
 her whole demeanour assuming an expression that had some- 
 thing terrible — " the time will come when thou wonldst give 
 a million of worlds that thou hadst never planned this horrid 
 mockery! That brittle health in which thou trustest now 
 shall fail thee, and thou shalt lie upon thy death-bed with 
 the demons who have been thy masters for thy comforters, 
 and with hell for thy best hope I I wish it not — but it 
 shiill surely be. Thou destroyer, thou hast made me trretched; 
 and yet I would not be the thing that thou shalt be, nor 
 feel the pangs that thou shalt feel, to be released from ago- 
 nies a thousand times more terrible than those that gnaw 
 my wretched bosom now." 
 
 "Stephens," said Kirke, "take her quietlyfrom the room." 
 
 " Quietly, sayest thou ? Ah, slayer of the guiltless ! — 
 ah, false traitor to the dearest voice of nature ! thou hast 
 laid my quiet in the grave with Arthur. Well, it is over 
 r.ow, and thou hast done thy worst and deadliest ; and where 
 is thy triumph ? For is not my brother happier in his death 
 than thou in thy accursed and devoted life ? I bless Heaven 
 that I never had a brother who could so act by thee as thoa ' 
 hast done by him." 
 
 " Come, come, there is enough," said Stephens, endea- 
 vouring to force her from the room. 
 
 " One moment, sir," she said, " and I will spare you the 
 pains. No, no — I have not lost my wits yet, Kirke ! I 
 liave sense enough to feel all my misery, and to foresee 
 a day of punishment for thee. Oh, it will have an end ! 
 Day follows day, year creens by moments after year — but 
 
 2 c 
 
402 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 be it long or short, the end will surely come. Thou blood- 
 Btained actor, thou revellest in the hideous part thou playest 
 —but it will then be over, and thy borrowed power and 
 tinsel pomp, and thy permitted hour of license shall be endccl. 
 Thou hast mocked at my agony — the angels shall mock at 
 thine ! Thou hast heard with a hard heart my cry of misery 
 — thou sbalt roar thyself for pity one day and thou shalt be 
 unheeded ! I tell thee — thou shalt find — thou shalt— that 
 —that " 
 
 She muttered some broken sentences, with her eyes still 
 fixed on Kirke and her hand extended, as if the intensity of 
 feeling had begun already to break in upon and discompose 
 the chain of thought. Her eyes began to glisten with a 
 wavering and uncertain expression, and the vivid meaning, 
 with which they were animated only the preceding moment, 
 fled and returned, and fled and returned again, like the flame 
 of an expiring lamp. . It seemed evident to the beholders 
 that her reason was about to suffer. The fingers and sinewa 
 of the extended hand worked with a rigid and convulsive 
 action, and a white streak of foam appearing on the purple 
 lips, gave a new horror to the intensely-wrought and livid 
 countenance. Fearful of what might happen, Kirke now 
 silently intimated to the officer to desist from the efforts he 
 was making to remove her from the room, and to prevent 
 ber in case she should attempt herself to leave it. 
 
 In the mean time, thoughts of a different kind seemed to 
 mingle in the mind of the sufferer with those of indignation 
 against the author of her misery. They could be clearly 
 traced in her looks and gestures, and sometimes in her words ; 
 and she remained muttering to herself incoherent sentences, 
 and striving by the vehemence of exterior action to escape 
 from the concentration of her internal agony. 
 
 "My father — " she said, "and Harry — mj poor father! 
 — how shall I face them ? how shall I tell him of it ? He 
 loved him so — alas ! who would not love him ? So good, 
 so kirnl a brother — so brave, so noble-hearted I — so gene- 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 403 
 
 I 
 
 rous — and so grateful for our love ! Bat it is over now ! 
 —we shall never see him more in this world. I would have 
 gladly given my life to save him — gladly — but now it is all 
 in vain. He can never come back to us now — you say true 
 — he can never go the road to Taunton any more ; you say 
 true indeed, — he is at liberty — he is. Poor — poor — poor 
 Arthur ! We'll be lonely now for ever in this world. Well, 
 there's another — that's a comfort. Don't cry, father ! 
 There — there — I tell you Arthur will soon be home ; don't 
 weep so, or you'll break my heart. What is it that keeja 
 him ? The night is piercing cold — is it not, father ?" 
 
 It seemed, as if to complete her wretchedness, the sense 
 of approaching delirium was perceptible even to the unhappy 
 girl herself ; for occasionally, when she found herself wan- 
 dering, she started, sobbed, and trembled, with an expres- 
 sion of terror and distress that was aflfecting to witness. 
 And then again she would bm'St forth into menace and anger 
 against Kirke, each time with a greater mixture of petulance 
 and imbecility than before, and again her fancy would wan- 
 der, until, like a person dozing into slumber, the very vio- 
 lence of the aberration would startle her into a momentary 
 return of consciousness. 
 
 " Heaven save me ! what am I saying ?" she said on re- 
 covering from one of her wandering fits. " I fear all is not 
 as it should be here," laying her hand on her forehead ; "but 
 I'm well enough yet — quite well. Well, who would have 
 thought but Kirke would keep his word ? God help us ! 
 one knows not what bad •hearts there are in this world. 
 Heaven save us from judging the neighbour ! let us keet 
 our eyes on our own consciences, good people, and no 
 play the hypocrite — 'tis a bad trade. Ah, Kirke, how 
 cottldst thou kill him ! How frightful he looks ! I never' 
 saw Arthur look so terrible — quite dead and pale — and the 
 hand so stiff and cold. — And my father and Tamsen — none 
 of them know a word of it — and they wonder, I suppose, 
 what has become of me. — I know what 111 do," she said, 
 
404 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 elevating her finger with a maniac smile and whisper : " I'll 
 tell Arthur to go before and tell them all about it ; and I'll 
 eome after, myself, to put as good a face upon it as I can. 
 He's in the next room — Kirke told me so — I'll go and 
 whisper him. Ah, mercy ! See !" she shrieked aloud in 
 terror 1 " 'tis Kirke that stands in the doorway ! See there! . 
 Look at him ! See his troop of fiends ! how they grin and 
 jabber and talk of the barrack-room, and point to his dead 
 corpse in mockery ! Oh, ministers of hell ! have ye done 
 it, then ? — Save — save me, Arthur ! — They are rushing on 
 me ! — My brother ! save me ! — Stay ! — my brother ! — 
 stay!" 
 
 And, in the fit of frenzy, she rushed out at the door, 
 where Stephens stood, her hands outstretched as in pursuit 
 of some departing phantom, and her hair dishevelled like . 
 that of a bacchanal in her orgies. The officer attempted to . 
 obstruct her passage, but madness had given her forcje 
 beyond her own ; she flung him aside with an ease which 
 astonished the beholders, and gaining the crowded street, 
 was soon beyond the outskirts of the town. 
 
 A deep and troubled silence fell upon the group she had 
 left behind her. It seemed, to judge from the demeanour 
 of Kirke himself, his pale and embarrassed look, and the 
 unusual expression of disturbance which appeared in his 
 eyes, as if he had not expected all he saw, and was discon- 
 certed by the very completeness of his horrible success, 
 Stephens, his confidant, often afterward declared in private 
 amongst his companions, that if ever he formed the idea oC 
 a. demon in human shape, it was when he looked on his 
 patron as he stood on the floor while Aquila with delirious 
 eloquence denounced upon him the vengeance of a future 
 life. 
 
 His soul was not so fenced in iron but it was penetrated 
 by her words, and for a tune a degree of anxiety and self- 
 <£strust was visible in his countenance and demeanour. 
 Bat what grace is there which will strike root in a sear and 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 405 
 
 callons conscience? There is an age, too, we are told, 
 beyond which Heaven ceases to accompany the obdurate 
 heart with its awakening lights, and when its softening 
 dews begin to fall more rarely on the obstinate soil. That 
 period was long passed for Kirke. The business of the day 
 returned, and stifled the faint feelings of remorse which 
 were excited by the transactions of the morning. If they 
 afterwards recurred amid the tumult and bustle of a military 
 life, they were regarded as the emotions of natural preju- 
 dice, and despised accordingly. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 Let us follow the miserable victim. She had left the town 
 far distant, and was already surrounded by the open coun- 
 try, before she abated anything of the terrified speed with 
 which she fled the scene of death. She hurried along, 
 mattering words of apprehension, occasionally striking her 
 breast with her clenched hand, and looking back with a 
 fearful shudder, as if she hesfrd the sounds of pursuit be- 
 hind. At length the absolute failure of strength compelled 
 her to give over, and she sat at the foot of a tree which 
 overshaded the road-side, leaning her forehead on her 
 hand, and gasping rather than sighing for air and breath. 
 The approach of passengers again made her start from her 
 resting-place, and turn aside into a green meadow, where 
 she was sheltered from observation by the close hedge that 
 ran between it and the road. Here she cast herself at full 
 length upon the grass, and after a long period found some 
 relief in a mingled burst of prayer and tears. The fit of 
 weeping having passed away, she arose more calm, and 
 with something like a consciousness, though still obscure 
 and troubled, of her situation. She adjusted her hair and 
 dress with some composure, and resumed her journej 
 
406 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 homeward, avoiding as much as possible the public roads, 
 and occasionallj mattering in a hurried whisper — 
 
 "All my fault — all my fault, that forced him to follow 
 Monmouth !" 
 
 It was noon when she reached the entrance of the small 
 avenue leading to her father's cottage, and the flowers and 
 shrubs by which the lawn was ornamented were shining ia 
 all the gaudy splendour of a July sun. On opening to her 
 knock, the female servant (the only one who had been left 
 to take care of the house) was overwhelmed with surprise 
 and grief at the miserable appearance of her young mis- 
 tress. Auguring from it, however, nothing more than that 
 her mission to Bridgewater had failed, and that the arm of 
 the law had already done its work on Arthur FuUarton, 
 she forebore to question the unhappy lady, but conducted 
 her with tears and half-stifled sounds of sympathy to the 
 small parlour. 
 
 " How far is it to Minehead, Sally ?" was one of the fir^t 
 questions which Aquila asked on entering the room. 
 
 '' To Minehead, miss ? Ye dwon't theuk o' gooin zo vur 
 awa to-night ? I'se oten hired it'll be zeven-an'-twenty 
 mile, or awver." 
 
 Aquila said nothing in reply, and the servant left tho 
 room in order to procure some refreshment. It would ap- 
 pear, however, as if the loneliness of the place, and the 
 sight of so many objects associated with the memory of 
 happy days gone by, made it intolerable to the poor sufi'erer, 
 for towards night-fall, when the servant entered in order 
 to prevail on her to take some necessary rest, she was no- 
 where to be seen. All search was vain around the premises, 
 and the lateness of the hour made it useless to extend it 
 further. 
 
 In the mean time, Henry Kingsly, his sister, and old 
 FuUarton were awaiting with increasing anxiety the arrival 
 of Arthur and Aquila in a small house of entertainment in 
 tke neighbourhood of Minehead. From the moment when 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH, 407 
 
 they had lost sight of Tannton, Kingsly delivered himself 
 up to unrestrained and overflowing joy. He even con- 
 gratulated himself now, that the marriage had not taken 
 place a month before, as the delay would procure them the 
 additional satisfaction of having Arthur added to the num- 
 ber of individuals present. He talked, laughed, jested, and 
 wearied himself and his hearers with plans and prospects 
 for the future. His speculations were only interrupted by 
 his occasionally looking to the comfort of his sister and 
 old Gaspar FuUarton, whom he overwhelmed with his 
 attentions. 
 
 On arriving at Minehead^ after leaving his companions 
 at the small inn already mentioned, which looked out upon 
 the waters of the bay, he hastened to effect all the prepa- 
 rations necessary for the fulfilment of their design. His 
 royal uniform enabled him to make arrangements with 
 greater facility, at the same time thaf the general partiality 
 of the country people to the cause of Monmouth, even where 
 they had not openly declared in his favour, made them will- 
 ing, however they suspected that all was not as it seemed, 
 to forward his project of escape. A neighbouring clergyman, 
 an old acquaintance of his father, to whom he introduced 
 himself soon after his arrival at Minehead, consented to 
 perform the ceremony at whatever time he should be sum- 
 moned for the purpose. All the legal preliminaries had 
 been completed before the last occasion, when the rite was 
 broken off by the sudden announcement of Monmouth's 
 landing, and nothing now remained to interfere with its 
 completion. Miss Kingsly made all the necessary arrange- 
 ments which the time and circumstances allowed, in order 
 that the ceremony might proceed with suitable decorum ; 
 and the remainder of the day was spent in walking along 
 the shores of the bay, observing the numerous shipping that 
 floated on the Bristol Channel, or conversing with the fisht^- 
 men who prepared their nets upon the beach. 
 
 It did not occasion much uneasm'^ss that the first ni^b*. 
 
408 THE DUStE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 fell without bringing news of Aquila and her brother. Bat 
 when the second evening began to close, their longing gave 
 place to alarm, and it was with the deepest anxiety that 
 young Kingsly saw the sun go down without beholding their 
 approach. The following morning came and brought no 
 tidings. Still Tamsen urged that prudential reasons might 
 have prevented them from leaving Taunton, or even obliged 
 Arthur to resume his close concealment. The roads might 
 be more strictly watched, many circumstances might have 
 occurred, in the interval, to make them defer setting out, 
 without the necessity of supposing any ruinous calamity. 
 The alarm of Kingsly, however, could no longer be appeased. 
 It was true the bridal had been fixed only for the second 
 day after he had left home ; but it had likewise been ar- 
 ranged that the brother and sister who were left behind, 
 should set out for Minehead so as to arriA^e early on the 
 following day, and the third night was now about to fall 
 without sign of either. Kingsly could not feel otherwise 
 than fearful ; but he was persuaded to let the night pass and 
 suffer all the preparation which had been made for the in- 
 tended ceremony to remain undisturbed, before he should 
 yield to his anxieties and retrace his steps to Taunton. It 
 was not wonderful that something should have occurred to 
 prevent their setting out the first night after they parted ; 
 and whenever a night was lost, they must needs have suf- 
 fered the ensuing day to pass, as it was only after sunset 
 that it would be safe for Arthur to venture out upon the 
 public road. 
 
 Accordingly all was made ready. The smallfishing lugger 
 which was to convey them from the English coast, imme- 
 diately after the performance of the ceremony, was lying 
 off-shore, and ready at a moment's warning to hoist sail and 
 ran for the coast of Ireland or Spain, as should bo deemed 
 most advisable. The voyage in such a vessel was hazardous, 
 no doubt, but the necessity which prompted it was still more 
 desperate. In t!ie little inn in which the scanty bridal 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMODTH. 409 
 
 party at present tan-ied, all things awaited the coming of 
 the bride. The landlord, a timid West-countryman, once, 
 like nearly all of his rank iu those counties, at heart a par- 
 tisan of Monmouth, was, like too many amongst the fol- 
 lowers of the party, considerably altered in his sentiments 
 by the failure of the invader's arras. Though holding no 
 more than a suspicion of the real character of his present 
 guests, and the real object of their visit to Minehead, be 
 murmured so much about the danger of entertaining rebels 
 and traitors to the state, that it was necessary to keep him in 
 good humour by a more than necessary degree of expendi- 
 ture, and some plain intimations that he should be nothing 
 the worse in pocket for any extra assistance or accommoda- 
 tion which he might choose to afford. As their stay became 
 protracted, however, his alarm augmented his impatience, 
 and his fears became too potent to be suppressed even by 
 the hope of gain. 
 
 " Look yzee," he said, as Kingsly prayed him pailence, 
 ** nif thee bee'st a King's man, as thee zay'st, it may be all 
 very well for thee, and very easy to get thy head out o' the 
 nooze that's oten tied enough for poorer vawk ; bit 'ch'ave 
 nothin bit my carreter to trust to, zo it behooves un to look 
 to hizzel. A-ma-be there's reasons vor thezamy vawk not 
 comin to their mote that ye'll niver learn till ye 2eek vor'n 
 iu the gaol o' Bedgwater." 
 
 This was a suspicion tliat had more than once crossed 
 the mind of Kingsly himself, and he was not gratified to 
 find that he had not been singular in entertaining it. While 
 he deliberated on what should be done to end their uncer- 
 tainty, a figure was seen running hastily towards the shor« 
 along a by-road at a considerable distance. There was 
 something in the manner or the appearance of the stranger 
 that instantly arrested the attention of Kingsly. He darted 
 from the house and hastened across the fields to meet the 
 fugitive. He was not mistaken in the instinctive surmise ; 
 U was indeed the unhappy and now quite demented bride. 
 
41^ THE DUKE OF MONMODTH. 
 
 Most piteous was the appesrance she presented as Kingsly 
 hastened towards hei ; her features pale, her figure soiled 
 and wasted from fatigue, united to the want of food and 
 sleep, her attire and her abundant hair completely covered 
 by the dust of the summer roads. The first feeling which 
 occurred to Kingsly as he looked upon this mournful and 
 appalling spectacle was a stroke of agonising self-reproach 
 at his having ever consented to leave Aquila after him. 
 
 The unfortunate bride was still hurrying along the road, 
 muttering broken sentences of terror and of lamentation, and 
 occasionally casting behind her a bewildered and affrighted 
 glance, as if some deadly enemy were close upon the track 
 behind. When Kingsly sprang from the hedge and ran to 
 meet her, she stopped short for a moment, and remained 
 putting back the hair from her eyes, and gazing on him \^ ith 
 an inquisitive look. 
 
 " Aquila ! — Oh, Aquila, is it you ? — is it possible ? 
 Wliat is the cause of this ? Where's Arthur ?" 
 
 " What ! Harry Kingsly ? Ah, I thought I knew 
 yon," she said with an unmeaning laugh : "I am glad I have 
 met you, for I was grown quite weary. All the long night 
 I ran from that teriible monster on horseback that pursued 
 me — one of Kirke's lambs, I believe — but thou wilt save 
 me from him, Harry, wilt thou not ? I am very tired — 
 take me somewhere that I may sit down, and I'll tell all 
 about it. But that's true," she added, putting him from 
 her for an instant ; " thou art on t'other side. Thou wear'st 
 King James's coat ; — I remember long ago I used to call 
 him the Duke of York while Monmouth lived ; but that's 
 \11 over now; misfortune changes people's minds, thou know- 
 est ; — I thought much of those things once, but it was 
 folly — 'tis all one in the grave. Well surely, Kirke is as 
 great a villain as ever But I leave all that to Heaven." 
 
 Struck to the heart at what he saw, and yet ignorant 
 how to draw from the poor maniac the detail of the misfor- 
 tune to which she darkly alluded, the miaerabla bridegroom 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOTrTH. 41 1 
 
 for a time could only listen with an anguished heart and 
 anxious ear, and endeavour from her broken sentences to 
 collect the information he desired. 
 
 " Come with me, Aquila," he said, gently drawing her 
 along, " and we will fiud a place to rest in." 
 
 " Let us go to Minehead," said she with a restless and 
 uneasy air, " for that is the way I want. I want to see 
 my father, and Tamsen, and poor Harry, and to tell them 
 
 all Begone, fiend, go — I'll not curse Kirke for thee 
 
 Well, Heaven forgive us all I — Where's Arthur, did you 
 say ? Oh, we never will see Arthur any more in this world : 
 Arthur is in a better, I trust in heaven. Let us all be 
 ready, for we know not the day nor the hour." 
 
 " Did not Arthur come with yon, Aquila ?" said Kingsly 
 tenderly. 
 
 " Oh no — I tell you he couldn't. I once had a brother 
 of that name, but he was hanged long ago at Bridgewater 
 for taking arms in the cause of Monmouth. I have some- 
 thing more to say about that, but it must be some other 
 time.— Where's my father ! I want to see my father !" 
 
 " We shall see him soon," said Kingsly, endeavouring in 
 consideration of the unhappy patient, to repress the expres- 
 sion of his agony at the afflicting tidings which he could 
 too plainly gather from her words. 
 
 " That's true I" she said hastily, " the wedding waits for 
 me — but it cannot be now, for you know the law is against 
 it. Didn't you hear that I was married since ?" 
 
 " Married, Aquila ?" Henry exclaimed involuntarily. 
 
 "Yes — yes, and in form too," she added hurriedly, 
 ** whatever they may say of it. Don't ask me who is my 
 husband, though, for I could hardly name him without sayipg 
 something wicked, and I promised Arthur the night before 
 he died that I would do all I could to forgive ray enemies. 
 He was right enough ; you know we say it every morning 
 and evening in our prayers, and 'twould be shocking, you 
 know, to saj it and not to do it. So I promised Arthur 
 
412 THE DUKK OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 faithfully that I'd do all I conld, and you see I'm doing it 
 too." 
 
 Here Kingslj could hear her several times repeating to 
 herself in a rapid whisper that portion to which she alladed 
 of the universal prayer of Christendom. 
 
 " I'm Kirke's wife now," said Aquila suddenly ; " don't 
 believe any one that tells you otherwise — they are liars, 
 every one. He said the man was mad that man-led us ; 
 but what matter for that? the marriage was just as good 
 in the sight of Heaven, and man too. A man may be 
 mad and have an honest heart at bottom — or a woman 
 either ; Kirke is not mad, and what is he the better for it ? 
 For my part, I tell you the honest truth : I am beginning 
 to think mad people are not so bad as folks would have 
 you believe. Although you may say," she added with a 
 smile that brought tears into Kingsly's eyes, " that I'm a 
 party concerned there ; for indeed, to be plain with you, 
 since this wretched business I feel as if all here — ^you 
 know — " tapping her forehead with the same mournful smile 
 
 " were not — you know — you know as long ago, when 
 
 we lived in Taunton Dene." 
 
 Torn by a thousand conflicting emotions at what he saw 
 and heard, Kingsly could only continue to assist Aquila 
 toward the house, and master his feelings as he might. 
 
 " Poor Harry," Aquila continued, observing his tears, 
 " thou wert always kinder to me than I merited. Well, 
 I preferred my own counsel to yours, and see the end of 
 it ! — But don't let them persuade you, for all that, that I 
 did anything that should make my friends ashamed of me. 
 I was only a fool to think that Kirke would keep his word, 
 — but an honest fool for all that, if it were any good for 
 me, from first to last. I thought I might be honest and 
 happy too : but that would be too much to expect in this 
 world. We must all expect afilictiou, rich and poor. 
 *Ti3 a bad world, Harry — ^the best thing in it is patience. 
 If we keep the conscience clean, that's all. — Ha ! thea. 
 
THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 413 
 
 agaia ! See there now ! there's a fiend that sajs, ' Curse 
 Kirkel' but I say, ' Forgive him, Heaven !' I don't want 
 to curse any one — I only want a place to die in." 
 
 With such piteous conversation they reached the house, 
 where the sight of Aquila in her present condition soon 
 changed the uncertainty of hope into the gloom of lasting 
 sorrow. During the course of the ensuing night, Aquila, 
 whose recollection was in some degree restored by the sight 
 of her father, and by the floods of tears which she had 
 wept upon his neck, regained a sufficient mastery over her 
 own mind to make them acquainted with all tho sorrowful 
 detail of the calamity that had taken place. She had re- 
 covered also a sufficient degree of rationality to combat 
 the aljQOst frantic mixture of grief and indignation that 
 had seized upon the heart of Kingsly, and to beseech him 
 if be wished to restore any portion of her peace of mind, 
 instead of indulging in fruitless anger against a man whose 
 power seemed to place him almost beyond the reach of 
 punishment, to hasten to London and endeavour by every 
 means in his power to get the King to put a period to the 
 tyranny that was enacted in his name. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVn. 
 
 As soon as was consistent with the immediate duty of pro- 
 viding for their safety, Kingsly complied with her desire. 
 Historians inform us that the appeal was not made in 
 vain, and that a royal order put a period to the cruelties 
 wmplained of as soon as they were made known at court. 
 Tiie FuUartons were then enabled to resume their former 
 dwelling in the Dene, and old Gaspar returned, though 
 with an altered heart, to the accustomed occupations of hia 
 farm. But the blow which Aquila had received was too 
 severe to be remediable. Her vigorous health enabled her 
 
414 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 to survive the shock, and to receive for a long time after 
 the tender and affectionate attentions of her friends and 
 relatives, but all efforts were vain to restore the " sweet 
 bells" of reason to their foitner harmony. She remained a 
 gentle but a confirmed maniac, often speaking to herself of 
 Monmouth, of her brother — rarely of Kirke, and generally 
 concluding her soliloquies by some sentiment of resignation 
 or of patience, or gi«ng advice at other times to those 
 who heard her to avoid rashness and the putting trust in 
 human promises. 
 
 The lapse of a few years confirmed the wisdom of the 
 counsel given by Fletcher at the meeting of the exiles in 
 Rotterdam, that the Duke of Monmouth should suspend his 
 invasion until the reigning monarch had prepared the way 
 to its success by some act of weakness or self-will which 
 could endanger his present popularity. An historian tells 
 us that the cruelties exercised on this occasion in the West 
 of England, were a principal cause of the downfall of the 
 monarch by whose accredited servants they were perpe- 
 trated. Without pretending to exculpate the unfortunate 
 James from all the evil that has been spoken of him, it is 
 but candour to acknowledge that other writers give a diffe- 
 rent view of his motives and conduct from that which is 
 found in many of the popular histories. The blame of his 
 precipitation and imprudence is attributed to the craft of 
 Sunderland, who sought to ingratiate himself into the 
 favour of James by affecting to become a Catholic, by im- 
 pressing him with exaggerated ideas of his power, and who 
 afterwards, it is said, boasted that he had ruined his bene- 
 factor by his imprudent counsels. Let it never be forgot- 
 ten, too, in these days of universal toleration, that the 
 struggle of James was to obtain freedom for all denomina- 
 tions of Christians amongst his subjects, while his oppo- 
 nents sought to secure the ascendancy of one. There exists 
 no kind of proof that he ever aimed at more, and long alter 
 his fall he continued to aver that he had no design of subvert- 
 
TOE DDKE OF MONMOUTH. 415 
 
 I'ng the Established Church. It seems difficult to palliate 
 his imprudence, or to acquit him of a constitutional temerity 
 and want of judgment, so similar to those evinced by hi? 
 unhappy parent in dealing with his sectarian subjects that 
 they would seem hereditary ; but when one hears him ac- 
 cused of tyranny who was only arbitrary towards the into- 
 lerant and the monopolizing — him charged with cowardice 
 in whom the great De Ruyter found his most determined 
 foe, it is impossible to avoid revoking from the common 
 cry, and refusing to join the crowd who heap unmerited 
 obloquy upon the memory of a fallen monarch. Historical 
 monuments exist to show that James was not cognizant of 
 the atrocities which followed the defeat of Monmouth, and 
 that he took care to put an end to them as soon as they 
 became known to him. Nor let it be forgotten by those 
 who, going still farther, either from prejudice or interest, 
 would visit the errors of the monarch upon his religion, that 
 neither his ministers, his judges, nor his generals, by whom 
 those deeds were done, were sharers in his faith. 
 
 Time passed away, and William, a craftier expectant 
 than Monmouth, struck at a more judicious time a more 
 successful blow. The history of the civil war in Ireland 
 which followed his invasion offers to our view a glimpse of 
 the detestable Eirke in arms against and a traitor to that 
 very sovereigti in whose name he had played the tyrant in 
 the "West of England. 
 
 The streets of Taunton on the accession of William pre- 
 sented a spectacle widely different from that which filled 
 them on the defeat of Monmouth. 
 
 The portrait of King James once more vanished from 
 the sign-board of the Three Crowns, and the knot of rustic 
 politicians were more noisy than ever at their conclave in 
 the little sanded parlour. Godfrey Bunn was as loud in 
 defence of the house and its privileges as ever he had been 
 in insisting on the doctrine of passive obedience and the 
 act of '74 ; Master Grimes was acknowledged, on all hands, 
 
416 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 to " ha'zeen zummat at the bottom of the whole business ;*' 
 while Master Smallwood the grazier, still wisely bearing ia 
 mind the uncertainty of all human affairs, persisted ia 
 maintaining his character of strict neutrality, " as having 
 to commune iu the way of his vocation with persons of 
 ivery ■" an apology, however, which those who knew^ 
 him never allowed him to bring to a conclusion. 
 
 Within a few weeks after the occurrence detailed in the 
 last chapter, an incident took place in the city of Brnges, 
 m Flanders, which the reader may possibly deem to have 
 some connexion with our narrative. About noon, an Ora- 
 torian triar, whose tall and wasted figure and coarse attire 
 bore all the appearance of the poverty and austerity pro- 
 fessed by his order, approached the gate of a IV'nedic'ine 
 nunnery, (still, we believe, in its practice esteemed amongst 
 the severest of the institute,) and desired to see the abbess. 
 The aged religietuse who filled that office soon made her 
 appearance in the reception-room, which was ornamented 
 with some portraits of the saints, a small crucifix, a 
 Madonna and Child, with a ^Qvf other paintings in plain 
 ungilded frames. The friar made known the object of his 
 visit, which was to solicit the reception of a postulante. 
 
 On the following afternoon, a close carriage drove to the 
 gate of the convent, in which was seated the same friar who 
 had visited there the day before, together with a lady in 
 deep mourning, and a gentleman whose dress and appear- 
 ance bespoke the Englishman of i^nk, and v/ho seemed 
 minute but respectful in his attentions to the lady. The 
 countenance of the latter was pale and thin, but the fore- 
 head and features had already something of the smoothness 
 and serenity of religious resignation — something of that an- 
 gelic light which genuine piety alone ditfuses in the coun- 
 tenance, and compared with which the tranquillity of 
 philosophic selfishness, and even the short-Hved gleams of 
 natural good feeling, are but as meteors of the swamp and 
 mar^h. 
 
THE DUKE OP MONMOUTH. 417 
 
 "Yet once more," the gentleman exclaimed, in a re- 
 inonstiatory tone, as the carriage drew up before the gate 
 of the building, — "let me entreat of you once more to 
 consider the nature of the step you are about to take. 
 Once taken, it is past remedy, and you may repent it 
 when it is too late." 
 
 "You speak to one," replied the lady, "who knows 
 too well the value of what she leaves, to incur any risk 
 of ever looking back to it with regret. Experience, the 
 surest teacher, has convinced me but too thoroughly of 
 its utter worthlessness. I have weighed it all, and I 
 know that nothing save what I seek within these walls 
 is worth a moment's care." 
 
 "Still," said her friend, "is there not even a kind of 
 selfishness in this] If not for your own sake, yet for 
 that of others ought you not to pause before you do that 
 which must for ever exclude you from the opportunity 
 of practical usefulness in the concerns of life?" 
 
 "Remember," replied the lady, "that you speak to a 
 conscience burdened with offence. For those by whom 
 the perilous sea of life is yet untried, or who have suc- 
 cessfully steered their course amid its storms and quick- 
 sands, your argument might have some weight. But 
 for the careless and unskilful pilot whose wretched bark 
 has been already shattered on a thousand rocks, there is 
 lO safety left except in running for the harbour. And, 
 ' elieve me, the mind that is bent upon the study of itself 
 and its eternal destinies will find occupation in solitude, 
 compared with which the weightiest concerns of a mo- 
 mentary existence are but as the silly cares of childhood. 
 All — all are phantoms! — all but this are sure to leave 
 the hands empty at the close. — Gold, pleasure, honour, 
 friendship, fame, love — all beside are hollow — mero 
 painted, vain illusions, — and, oh, worse than vain in tha 
 corruption which they often leave behind them. Talk 
 not then, my friend, of the possibility that I may ever 
 
 2 D 
 
il8 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 regret what I resign ; I do it with a mind too thoroughly 
 awake — with too clear a sense, too sure a knowledge of 
 its vanity, to fear that danger, I will bring neither of 
 you farther," she added, when they had alighted from 
 the carriage and the convent-door stood open to receive 
 * them. "Good friend, farewell! you have been a gene- 
 rous and forgiving friend to me ; I hope you will be re- 
 warded for it. To you, father, I owe a still more precious 
 gift — some little beginning of self-knowledge. Farewell 
 to both ! I remember the time when I would have 
 shuddered at the seeming gloom of this retreat and the 
 silence that reigns within; but now all seems most pre- 
 cious in my eyes that can most effectually withdraw my 
 thoughts from this life and fix them on another. Fare- 
 ^ well, false world, in whose service I have learned at least 
 one useful lesson, — the knowledge of my own frailty. 
 Pleasures that were my bane, affections that betrayed 
 me, here at this threshold I leave you all behind. A 
 weary and consuming burden have you been to me, and 
 with a willing heart I lay you aside for ever." 
 
 She entered the gate, and turning as it was about to 
 dose behind her, renewed her farewell with a slight 
 motion of the hand, and a smile which reminded her 
 companion of that which she had worn in her days of 
 early innocence. 
 
 It was on an Easter eve, closely following the date of 
 that memorable siege which obtained for Limerick an 
 immortal place in history, that two men, dressed in the 
 civil attire of the period, but manifesting in their gait 
 and accent the habits of a military life, were seen pacing 
 leisurely along one of the hilly roads which led westward 
 from the city above named to the remotest borders of 
 the county of which it was the capital. Monuments of 
 the civil contest which now for many years had devasta- 
 ted the country were visible at every step as they pro- 
 ceeded; nor, to judge by their discourse, were they in- 
 
THE DUKE OF MOKMOUTH. 419 
 
 different to the wreck which they beheld. The morning 
 sun cast its light on many a dismantled fortress and 
 many a shattered tower winch the travellers had left be- 
 hind them standing erect in the pride of their embattled 
 strength, but now encumbering the plain in broken 
 masses. Groan after groan, and one exclamation of 
 grief following another, broke alternately from the lips 
 of either traveller as they recognised upon their onward 
 route the disastrous changes time had wrought in scenes 
 which they remembered so well in youth. At length 
 one of the two seemed unable any longer to restrain the 
 expression of his feelings. 
 
 "Well, Shamus, look at that!" he exclaimed, with a 
 mingled burst of sorrow and indignation : "Carigoguniel 
 gone like the rest !" 
 
 "You don't say so?" 
 
 "Can't you look there, an' see if it's a lie I'm tellin 1" 
 
 He pointed to a pictiiresque and lofty fortress, seated 
 on the brow of a rocky beetling height, from which, like 
 another Ehrenbreitstein, it had a few months before the 
 termination of the siege overlooked the "spacious Shan- 
 non," within some mUes of the " city of the broken treaty." 
 Its ruins now disfigure the summit of the eminence which 
 it had so long defended. 
 
 "'Tis an admiration," continued the traveller, "that 
 they left the hiU itself there. There's no use in talkin, 
 Shamus, but these English is makin a hand of us intirely. 
 There's Castle-ConneU batthered to bits, an' Castle-Throy 
 knocked to tatthers ; an' not a spot that we remember 
 far or near, that was ever good for anything, but what'ff 
 in smitliereens. I don't know, from Adam, what'll be 
 the end of it." 
 
 "Ah, man," said his companion, "if you were to be 
 frettin yourseK that way about everything conthrairy 
 that happens in the world, you never would have a 
 day's pace or qui'tnesa. Sure, how can we help it if 
 
420 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 they're battliered itself? Sure 'tisn't we could keep 
 em up ?" 
 
 " Thrue for you. Well, 'tis aisier to knock 'em dowu 
 than it was to build 'em, that's one thing. During dura- 
 tion, people will be fightin ; 'an them that has the upper- 
 hand, they'll use it, let people say what they will ; so 
 there's no use in talkin nonsense. Well, when they're 
 tired, there's hopes they'll stop. At any rate, I'm not 
 one bit sorry to be quit o' the ould Curnel, an' his regi- 
 ment also." 
 
 "Nor I neither — you may mark that down likewise. 
 'Twas a clane riddance." 
 
 "I never relished his company since that business at 
 Bridgewater. He had no sort o' conscience at alL 
 'Twas badly done o' you an' me, Shamus, that we didn't 
 find some mains or another o' preventin that business. 
 But we can all see the harm afther it is too late to mend 
 it." 
 
 "Did you ever hear the Curnel spake of it at alii" 
 
 "Never, although I watched him close. Oych, the 
 ould thief — not he ! You might as well expect feelin 
 from a dog that 'ud be afther tearin you. Still an' all, 
 I used to think sometimes, when I'd see him alone at 
 night, an' when he'd think nobody would be lookin at 
 him, he'd have that appearance as if he knew what he 
 done. But an hour afther, the misforthinate wretch 
 would be just as if nothin' ever happened out o' the 
 common coorse. What a surprise it 'ill be to him, what- 
 ever time he'll die !" 
 
 "Oych, I believe it's little tliat throubles him." 
 
 "So much the worse. If it did, he have a betthet 
 chance. Well, Shamus, I'd rather be scourin a musket 
 any day, than ridin o' horseback at the head of a regi- 
 ment, an' to have such an account as that to settle in the 
 long-run." 
 
 With such conversation they beguiled the time imtil 
 
THE DUKE OP MONMOUTH. 421 
 
 tliey reached the district from which both had long bsen 
 exiled. They beheld it now by the light of a 'vernal 
 eunset, and the mellow beauty of the evening hour was 
 aided in its effect by the very wildness of the remote 
 and solitary region on which the day was shedding its 
 departing smile. Everything around them seemed to 
 harmonise with the lonely twilight scene. The waters 
 of the broad Shannon murmured with a dying sound 
 amid the winding creeks and inlets by which the stores 
 were indented far and near. From space to space the 
 wide and shining surface of the water was graced by a 
 green islet, looking fertUe with early tillage, or rich witli 
 the dark foliage of the evergreen fir and yew. Wide 
 plains diversified only by the barren crag or lowly filnol- 
 ing of the kern, hills crowned by the dismantled fortress, 
 and glens in which the sheltered castle of the chieftain 
 still invited the weary traveller to refreshment and re 
 pose; such were the leading features of the scene whicl 
 lay before them, and on which they gazed with all th 
 delight of old acquaintance. 
 
 "There it is all for you, Shamus — Foynes Island, an' 
 ould Shanid, an' the whole of 'em. Well, I can die aisy 
 now since I seen the ould spot once more. There's 
 Robertstown batthered too, an' Corgrig — there's no use 
 in talkin, but the whole place is one ruin from 'em. 
 I wondher did they leave BaUyhahiU itself without a 
 touch. I suppose they'll be lookin out for us by thia 
 time — eh, Shamus?" 
 
 *' Indeed, I suppose they are. But there's one thiu^ 
 Morty, that I had to mention to you." 
 
 "What's that]" 
 
 "Why, you know, comin near our own place, 'tis fit 
 we should make some appearance. I don't like to hear 
 you callin me Shamus, Shamus, that way, at eveij^ 
 hand's turn, just as if it was only yestherday ;:jq started.*' 
 
 "An' what else am I to caU rou 1" 
 
422 THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 " Captain Delaney. Although being a private in the 
 Cumel's corps, still I had a commission from the Duke ; 
 an' 'twasnt my fault that he didnt gain the day. When 
 once you make a man a captain, the world couldn't make 
 him less afther. 'Tis like the growth o' the body, or 
 ould age, or like a cloak that you'd got dyed — when you 
 TfAke a man a captain, he's a captain through an' through, 
 an' he couldn't be otherwise even if he was to wish it 
 himself ever so much. So don't call me out o' my title, 
 especially now when we're nearin home." 
 
 '' Wisha, I never doubted you ! — I'm sure I might 
 aisy tell what it was you were goin to say : I believe 
 you never '11 get a morsel o' sense, the longest day you 
 live. Captain Delaney, inagh !" 
 
 " Well, don't why ! — Sure there's no one forcin you. 
 If you don't like to do it, isn't it aisy let it alone 1" 
 
 In the mean time it happened that a merry Easter 
 party was assembled around the hearth in a small cottage 
 in the ancient village of Ballyhahill, in the west of the 
 county above named. It was composed of the surviving 
 members of a once numerous family, who had separated 
 in youth to seek a livelihood, and the remnant of which 
 was now re-united, the greater portion having had more 
 or less of average success in accomplishing their object. 
 The attire of the company, and the appearance of the 
 cottage in which they sat, bore testimony to the comfort 
 of the inmates. A cheerful fire was blazing on the 
 hearth, and all the materials necessary for an abundant 
 though rustic banquet were hoarded in various quarters 
 of the dwelling in preparation of the ensuing day. Two 
 individuals yet were wanting to complete the number ; 
 and these two, while their absence was still the subject 
 of speculation and surmise, made their appearance at 
 the open door in the persons of our travellers, and were 
 received with all the tumultuous delight which might 
 \)e expected on such an occasion. After refreshments 
 
TBB DU2E OF MONMOUTH. 423 
 
 had been provided and partaken of, the whole company 
 seated themselves around the blazing hearth, and all 
 tongues were set at liberty, one after another. Story 
 irfter story was related by the adventurers of the manner 
 in which each had fared in the interval, until one of the 
 most loquacious of the group exclaimed : 
 
 " Now, Morty we're waitin' for you an' Shamus. Since 
 ye wint together, ye can make the one story of it." 
 
 Morty complied, and, occasionally prompted by 
 Shamus, related to the company the only portion of his 
 tale which he considered worth narrating at any length. 
 It was that which comprised the history of The Duke 
 OP Monmouth. 
 
 lUB EST). 
 
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