St. George and St. Michael

by George MacDonald

  CHAPTER VIII.

  AN ADVENTURE.

  When he reached the spot at which he usually turned off by a gap in thehedge to NEEDLE his way through the unpathed wood, he yielded to theimpulses of memory and habit, and sought the yew-circle, where for somemoments he stood by the dumb, disfeatured stone, which seemed to slumberin the moonlight, a monument slowly vanishing from above a vanishedgrave. Indeed it might well have been the grave of buried Time, for whatfitter monument could he have than a mutilated sun-dial, what betterenclosure than such a hedge of yews, and more suitable light than thatof the dying moon? Or was it but that the heart of the youth, receivingthese things as into a concave mirror, reprojected them into space, allshadowy with its own ghostliness and gloom? Close by the dial, like thedark way into regions where time is not, yawned the mouth of thepleached alley. Beyond that was her window, on which the moon must nowbe shining. He entered the alley, and walked softly towards the house.Suddenly, down the dark tunnel came rushing upon him Dorothy's mastiff,with a noise as of twenty soft feet, and a growl as if his throat hadbeen full of teeth--changing to a boisterous welcome when he discoveredwho the stranger was. Fearful of disturbing the household, Richard soonquieted the dog, which was in the habit of obeying him almost as readilyas his mistress, and, fearful of disturbing sleepers or watchers,approached the house like a thief. To gain a sight of Dorothy's windowhe had to pass that of the parlour, and then the porch, which he did onthe grass, that his steps might be noiseless. But here the dog startedfrom his heel, and bounded into the porch, leading after him the eyes ofRichard, who thereupon saw what would have else remainedundiscovered--two figures, namely, standing in its deep shadow. Judgingit his part, as a friend of the family, to see who, at so late an hour,and so near the house, seemed thus to avoid discovery, Richard drewnearer, and the next moment saw that the door was open behind them, andthat they were Dorothy and a young man.

  'The gates will be shut,' said Dorothy.

  'It is no matter; old Eccles will open to me at any hour,' was theanswer.

  'Still it were well you went without delay,' said Dorothy; and her voicetrembled a little, for she had caught sight of Richard.

  Now not only are anger and stupidity near of kin, but when a man whosemental movements are naturally deliberate, is suddenly spurred, he is ingreat danger of acting like a fool, and Richard did act like a fool. Hestrode up to the entrance of the porch, and said,

  'Do you not hear the lady, sir? She tells you to go.'

  A voice as cool and self-possessed as the other was hasty and perturbed,replied,

  'I am much in the wrong, sir, if the lady do not turn the command uponyourself. Until you have obeyed it, she may perhaps see reason forwithdrawing it in respect of me.'

  Richard stepped into the porch, but Dorothy glided between them, andgently pushed him out.

  'Richard Heywood!' she said.

  'Whew!' interjected the stranger, softly.

  'You can claim no right,' she went on, 'to be here at this hour. Praygo; you will disturb my mother.'

  'Who is this man, then, whose right seems acknowledged?' asked Richard,in ill-suppressed fury.

  'When you address me like a gentleman, such as I used to believe you--'

  'May I presume to ask when you ceased to regard me as a gentleman,mistress Dorothy?'

  'As soon as I found that you had learned to despise law and religion,'answered the girl. 'Such a one will hardly succeed in acting the part ofa gentleman, even had he the blood of the Somersets in his veins.'

  'I thank you, mistress Dorothy,' said the stranger, 'and will profit bythe plain hint. Once more tell me to go, and I will obey.'

  'He must go first,' returned Dorothy.

  Richard had been standing as if stunned, but now with an effortrecovered himself.

  'I will wait for you,' he said, and turned away.

  'For whom, sir?' asked Dorothy, indignantly.

  'You have refused me the gentleman's name,' answered Richard: 'perhaps Imay have the good fortune to persuade himself to be more obliging.'

  'I shall not keep you waiting long,' said the young man significantly,as Richard walked away.

  To do Richard justice, and greatly he needs it, I must make the remarkthat such had been the intimacy betwixt him and Dorothy, that he mightwell imagine himself acquainted with all the friends of her house. Butthe intimacy had been confined to the children; the heads of the twohouses, although good neighbours, had not been drawn towards each other,and their mutual respect had not ripened into friendship. Hence many ofthe family and social relations of each were unknown to the other; andindeed both families led such a retired life that the children knewlittle of their own relatives even, and seldom spoke of any.

  Lady Scudamore, the mother of the stranger, was first cousin to ladyVaughan. They had been very intimate as girls, but had not met foryears--hardly since the former married sir John, the son of one of KingJames's carpet-knights. Hearing of her cousin's illness, she had come tovisit her at last, under the escort of her son. Taken with his newcousin, the youth had lingered and lingered; and in fact Dorothy hadbeen unable to get rid of him before an hour strange for leave-taking insuch a quiet and yet hospitable neighbourhood.

  Richard took his stand on the side of the public road opposite the gate;but just ere Scudamore came, which was hardly a minute after, a cloudcrept over the moon, and, as he happened to stand in a line with thebole of a tree, Scudamore did not catch sight of him. When he turned towalk along the road, Richard thought he avoided him, and, making a greatstride or two after him, called aloud--

  'Stop, sir, stop. You forget your appointments over easily, I think.'

  'Oh, you ARE there!' said the youth, turning.

  'I am glad you acknowledge my presence,' said Richard, not the betterpleased with his new acquaintance that his speech and behaviour had aneasy tone of superiority, which, if indefinably felt by the home-bredlad, was not therefore to be willingly accorded. His easy carriage, hislight step, his still shoulders and lithe spine, indicated both birthand training.

  'Just the night for a serenade,' he went on, heedless of Richard'sremark, '--bright, but not too bright; cloudy, but not too cloudy.'

  'Sir!' said Richard, amazed at his coolness.

  'Oh, you want to quarrel with me!' returned the youth. 'But it takes twoto fight as well as to kiss, and I will not make one to-night. I knowwho you are well enough, and have no quarrel with you, except indeed itbe true--as indeed it must, for Dorothy tells me so--that you haveturned roundhead as well as your father.'

  'What right have you to speak so familiarly of mistress Dorothy?' saidRichard.

  'It occurs to me,' replied Scudamore, airily, 'that I had better ask youby what right you haunt her house at midnight. But I would not willinglycross you in cold blood. I wish you good a night, and better luck nexttime you go courting.'

  The moon swam from behind a cloud, and her over ripe and fading lightseemed to the eyes of Richard to gather upon the figure before him andthere revive. The youth had on a doublet of some reddish colour, illbrought out by the moonlight, but its silver lace and the rapier hiltinlaid with silver shone the keener against it. A short cloak hung fromhis left shoulder, trimmed also with silver lace, and a little cataractof silver fringe fell from the edges of his short trousers into the widetops of his boots, which were adorned with ruffles. He wore a largecollar of lace, and cuffs of the same were folded back from his barehands. A broad-brimmed beaver hat, its silver band fastened with a jewelholding a plume of willowy feathers, completed his attire, which he worewith just the slightest of a jaunty air. It was hardly the dress for awalk at midnight, but he had come in his mother's carriage, and had togo home without it.

  Alas now for Richard's share in the freedom to which he had of lateimagined himself devoted! No sooner had the words last spoken enteredhis ears than he was but a driven slave ready to rush into any quarrelwith the man who spoke them. Ere he had gone three paces he had steppedin front of him.

  'Whate
ver rights mistress Dorothy may have given you,' he said, 'she hadnone to transfer in respect of my father. What do you mean by callinghim a roundhead?'

  'Why, is he not one?' asked the youth, simply, keeping his ground, inspite of the unpleasant proximity of Richard's person. 'I am sorry tohave wronged him, but I mistook him for a ringleader of the same name. Iheartily beg your pardon.'

  'You did not mistake,' said Richard stupidly.

  'Then I did him no wrong,' rejoined the youth, and once more would havegone his way.

  But Richard, angrier than ever at finding he had given him such an easyadvantage, moved with his movement, and kept rudely in front of him,provoking a quarrel--in clownish fashion, it must be confessed.

  'By heaven,' said Scudamore, 'if Dorothy had not begged me not to fightwith you--,' and as he spoke he slipped suddenly past his antagonist,and walked swiftly away. Richard plunged after him, and seized himroughly by the shoulder. Instantaneously he wheeled on the very footwhence he was taking the next stride, and as he turned his rapiergleamed in the moonlight. The same moment it left his hand, he scarceknew how, and flew across the hedge. Richard, who was unarmed, hadseized the blade, and, almost by one and the same movement of his wrist,wrenched the hilt from the grasp of his adversary, and flung the thingfrom him. Then closing with the cavalier, slighter and less skilled insuch encounters, the roundhead almost instantly threw him upon the turfthat bordered the road.

  'Take that for drawing on an unarmed man,' he said.

  No reply came. The youth lay stunned.

  Then compassion woke in the heart of the angry Richard, and he hastenedto his help. Ere he reached him, however, he made an attempt to rise,but only to stagger and fall again.

  'Curse you for a roundhead!' he cried; 'you've twisted some of mytackle. I can't stand.'

  'I'm sorry,' returned Richard, 'but why did you bare bilbo on a nakedman? A right malignant you are!'

  'Did I?' returned Scudamore. 'You laid hands on me so suddenly! I askyour pardon.'

  Accepting the offered aid of Richard, he rose; but his right knee was somuch hurt that he could not walk a step without great pain. Full ofregret for the suffering he had caused, Richard lifted him in his arms,and seated him on a low wall of earth, which was all that here inclosedlady Vaughan's shrubbery; then, breaking through the hedge on theopposite side of the way, presently returned with the rapier, and handedit to him. Scudamore accepted it courteously, with difficulty replacedit in its sheath, rose, and once more attempted to walk, but gave agroan, and would have fallen had not Richard caught him.

  'The devil is in it!' he cried, with more annoyance than anger. 'If I amnot in my place at my lord's breakfast to-morrow, there will bequestioning. That I had leave to accompany my mother makes the mischief.If I had stole away, it would be another matter. It will be hard to bearrebuke, and no frolic.'

  'Come home with me,' said Richard. 'My father will do his best to atonefor the wrong done by his son.'

  'Set foot across the threshold of a roundhead fanatic! In the way ofhospitality! Not if the choice lay betwixt that and my coffin!' criedthe cavalier.

  'Then let me carry you back to lady Vaughan's,' said Richard, with atorturing pang of jealousy, which only his sense of right, nowthoroughly roused, enabled him to defy.

  'I dare not. I should terrify my mother, and perhaps kill my cousin.'

  'Your mother! your cousin!' cried Richard.

  'Yes,' returned Scudamore; 'my mother is there, on a visit to her cousinlady Vaughan.'

  'Alas, I am more to blame than I knew!' said Richard.

  'No,' Scudamore went on, heedless of Richard's lamentation. 'I mustcrawl back to Raglan as I may. If I get there before the morning, Ishall be able to show reason why I should not wait upon my lord at hisbreakfast.'

  'You belong to the earl's household, then?' said Richard.

  'Yes; and I fear I shall be grey-headed before I belong to anythingelse. He makes much of the ancient customs of the country: I would hewould follow them. In the good old times I should have been a squire atleast by now, if, indeed, I had not earned my spurs; but his lordshipwill never be content without me to hand him his buttered egg atbreakfast, and fill his cup at dinner with his favourite claret. And soI am neither more nor less than a page, which rhymes with my age betterthan suits it. But the earl has a will of his own. He is a master worthserving though. And there is my lady Elizabeth and my lady Mary--not tomention my lord Herbert!--But,' he concluded, rubbing his injured kneewith both hands, 'why do I prate of them to a roundhead?'

  'Why indeed?' returned Richard. 'Are they not, the earl and all hispeople, traitors, and that of the worst? Are they not the enemies of thetruth--worshippers of idols, bowing the knee to a woman, and kissing thevery toes of an old man so in love with ignorance, that he tortures thephilosopher who tells him the truth about the world and its motions?'

  'Go on, master Roundhead! I can chastise you, and that you know. Thiscursed knee--'

  'I will stand unarmed within your thrust, and never budge a foot,' saidRichard. 'But no,' he added, 'I dare not, lest I should further injureone I have wronged already. Let there be a truce between us.'

  'I am no papist,' returned Scudamore. 'I speak only as one of the earl'shousehold--true men all. For them I cast the word in your teeth, youroundhead traitor! For myself I am of the English church.'

  'It is but the wolf and the wolf's cub,' said. Richard. 'Prelaticalepiscopacy is but the old harlot veiled, or rather, forsooth, her bloodyscarlet blackened in the sulphur fumes of her coming desolation.'

  'Curse on, roundhead,' sighed the youth; 'I must crawl home.'

  Once more he rose and made an effort to walk. But it was of no use: walkhe could not.

  'I must wait till the morning,' he said, 'when some Christian waggonermay be passing. Leave me in peace.'

  'Nay, I am no such boor!' said Richard. 'Do you think you could ride?'

  'I could try.'

  'I will bring you the best mare in Gwent. But tell me your name, that Imay know with whom I have the honour of a feud.'

  'My name is Rowland Scudamore,' answered the youth. 'Yours I knowalready, and roundhead as you are, you have some smatch of honour inyou.'

  With an air of condescension he held out his hand, which his adversary,oppressed with a sense of the injury he had done him, did not refuse.

  Richard hurried home, and to the stable, where he saddled his mare. Buthis father, who was still in his study, heard the sound of her hoofs inthe paved yard, and met him as he led her out on the road, with aninquiry as to his destination at such an hour. Richard told him that hehad had a quarrel with a certain young fellow of the name of Scudamore,a page of the earl of Worcester, whom he had met at lady Vaughan's: andrecounted the result.

  'Was your quarrel a just one, my son?'

  'No sir. I was in the wrong.'

  'Then you are so far in the right now. And you are going to help himhome?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Have you confessed yourself in the wrong?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Then go, my son, but beware of private quarrel in such a season ofstrife. This youth and thyself may meet some day in mortal conflict onthe battle-field; and for my part--I know not how it may be withanother--in such a case I would rather slay my friend than my enemy.'

  Enlightened by the inward experience of the moment, Richard was able tounderstand and respond to the feeling. How different a sudden actionflashed off the surface of a man's nature may be from that which, hadtime been given, would have unfolded itself from its depths!

  Bare-headed, Roger Heywood walked beside his son as he led the mare tothe spot where Scudamore perforce awaited his return. They found himstretched on the roadside, plucking handfuls of grass, and digging upthe turf with his fingers, thus, and thus alone, betraying that hesuffered. Mr. Heywood at first refrained from any offer of hospitality,believing he would be more inclined to accept it after he had proved thedifficulty of riding, in which case a previous refusal might stand i
nthe way. But although a slight groan escaped as they lifted him to thesaddle, he gathered up the reins at once, and sat erect while theyshortened the stirrup-leathers. Lady seemed to know what was required ofher, and stood as still as a vaulting horse until Richard took thebridle to lead her away.

  'I see!' said Scudamore; 'you can't trust me with your horse!'

  'Not so, sir,' answered Mr. Heywood. 'We cannot trust the horse withyou. It is quite impossible for you to ride so far alone. If you willgo, you must submit to the attendance of my son, on which I am sorry tothink you have so good a claim. But will you not yet change your mindand be our guest--for the night at least? We will send a messenger tothe castle at earliest dawn.'

  Scudamore declined the invitation, but with perfect courtesy, for therewas that about Roger Heywood which rendered it impossible for any manwho was himself a gentleman, whatever his judgment of him might be, toshow him disrespect. And the moment the mare began to move, he felt nofurther inclination to object to Richard's company at her head, for heperceived that, should she prove in the least troublesome, it would beimpossible for him to keep his seat. He did not suffer so much, however,as to lose all his good spirits, or fail in his part of a conversationcomposed chiefly of what we now call chaff, both of them for a timeavoiding all such topics as might lead to dispute, the one from a senseof wrong already done, the other from a vague feeling that he was underthe protection of the foregone injury.

  'Have you known my cousin Dorothy long?' asked Scudamore.

  'Longer than I can remember,' answered Richard.

  'Then you must be more like brother and sister than lovers.'

  'That, I fear, is her feeling,' replied Richard, honestly.

  'You need not think of me as a rival,' said Scudamore. 'I never saw theyoung woman in my life before, and although anything of yours, being aroundhead's, is fair game--'

  'Your humble servant, sir Cavalier!' interjected Richard. 'Pray use yourpleasure.'

  'I tell you plainly,' Scudamore went on, without heeding theinterruption, 'though I admire my cousin, as I do any young woman, ifshe be but a shade beyond the passable--'

  'The ape! The coxcomb!' said Richard to himself.

  'I am not, therefore, dying for her love; and I give you this one honestwarning that, though I would rather see mistress Dorothy in herwinding-sheet than dame to a roundhead, I should be--yes, I MAY be amore dangerous rival in respect of your mare, than of any lady YOU arelikely to set eyes upon.'

  'What do you mean?' said Richard gruffly.

  'I mean that, the king having at length resolved to be more of a monarchand less of a saint--'

  'A saint!' echoed Richard, but the echo was rather a loud one, for itstartled his mare and shook her rider.

  'Don't shout like that!' cried the cavalier, with an oath. 'Saint orsinner, I care not. He is my king, and I am his soldier. But with thisknee you have given me, I shall be fitter for garrison thanfield-duty--damn it.'

  'You do not mean that his majesty has declared open war against theparliament?' exclaimed Richard.

  'Faithless puritan, I do,' answered Scudamore. 'His majesty has atlength--with reluctance, I am sorry to hear--taken up arms against hisrebellious subjects. Land will be cheap by-and-by.'

  'Many such rumours have reached us,' returned Richard, quietly. 'Theking spares no threats; but for blows--well!'

  'Insolent fanatic!' shouted Vaughan, 'I tell you his majesty is on hisway from Scotland with an army of savages; and London has declared forthe king.'

  Richard and his mare simultaneously quickened their pace.

  'Then it is time you were in bed, Mr Scudamore, for my mare and I willbe wanted,' he cried. 'God be praised! I thank you for the good news. Itmakes me young again to hear it.'

  'What the devil do you mean by jerking this cursed knee of mine so?'shouted Scudamore. 'Faith, you were young enough in all consciencealready, you fool! You want to keep me in bed, as well as send me there!Well out of the way, you think! But I give you honest warning to lookafter your mare, for I vow I have fallen in love with her. She's worththree, at least, of your mistress Dorothies.'

  'You talk like a Dutch boor,' said Richard.

  'Saith an English lout,' retorted Scudamore. 'But, all things beinglawful in love and war, not to mention hate and rebellion, this mare, ifI am blessed with a chance, shall be--well, shall be translated.'

  'You mean from Redware to Raglan.'

  'Where she shall be entertained in a manner worthy of her, which issaying no little, if all her paces and points be equal to her walk andher crest.'

  'I trust you will be more pitiful to my poor Lady,' said Richard,quietly. 'If all they say be true, Raglan stables are no place for amare of her breeding.'

  'What do you mean, roundhead?'

  'Folk say your stables at Raglan are like other some Raglan matters--ofthe infernal sort.'

  Scudamore was silent for a moment.

  'Whether the stables be under the pavement or over the leads,' hereturned at last, 'there are not a few in them as good as she--of whichI hope to satisfy my Lady some day,' he added, patting the mare's neck.

  'Wert thou not hurt already, I would pitch thee out of the saddle,' saidRichard.

  'Were I not hurt in the knee, thou couldst not,' said Scudamore.

  'I need not lay hand upon thee. Wert thou as sound in limb as thou artin wind, thou wouldst feel thyself on the road ere thou knewest thouhadst taken leave of the saddle--did I but give the mare the sign sheknows.'

  'By God's grace,' said the cavalier, 'she shall be mine, and teach methe trick of it.'

  Richard answered only with a grim laugh, and again, but more gently thistime, quickened the mare's pace. Little more had passed between themwhen the six-sided towers of Raglan rose on their view.

  Richard had, from childhood, been familiar with their aspect, especiallythat of the huge one called the Yellow Tower, but he had never yet beenwithin the walls that encircled them. At any time during his life,almost up to the present hour, he might have entered without question,for the gates were seldom closed and never locked, the portcullises,sheathed in the wall above, hung moveless in their rusty chains, and thedrawbridges spanned the moat from scarp to counterscarp, as if from thefirst their beams had rested there in solid masonry. And still, duringthe day, there was little sign of change, beyond an indefinable presenceof busier life, even in the hush of the hot autumnal noon. But at nightthe drawbridges rose and the portcullises descended--each with its ownpeculiar creak, and jar, and scrape, setting the young rooks cawing inreply from every pinnacle and tree-top--never later than the last momentwhen the warder could see anything larger than a cat on the brow of theroad this side the village. For who could tell when, or with what forceat their command, the parliament might claim possession? And now anotherof the frequent reports had arrived, that the king had at lengthresorted to arms. It was altogether necessary for such as occupied astronghold, unless willing to yield it to the first who demandedentrance, to keep watch and ward.

  Admitted at the great brick gate, the outermost of all, and turningaside from the steps leading up to the white stone gate and mainentrance beyond, with its drawbridge and double portcullis, Richard, byhis companion's directions, led his mare to the left, and, rounding themoat of the citadel, sought the western gate of the castle, which seemedto shelter itself under the great bulk of the Yellow Tower, the cannonupon more than one of whose bastions closely commanded it, and made upfor its inferiority in defence of its own.

  Scudamore had scarcely called, ere the warder, who had been waked by thesound of the horse's feet, began to set the machinery of the portcullisin motion.

  'What! wounded already, master Scudamore!' he cried, as they rode underthe archway.

  'Yes, Eccles,' answered Scudamore, '--wounded and taken prisoner, andbrought home for ransom!'

  As they spoke, Richard made use of his eyes, with a vague notion thatsome knowledge of the place might one day or other be of service, but itwas little he could see. The moon wa
s almost down, and her low light,prolific of shadows, shone straight in through the lifted portcullis,but in the gateway where they stood, there was nothing for her to showbut the groined vault, the massy walls, and the huge iron-studded gatebeyond.

  'Curse you for a roundhead!' cried Scudamore, in the wrath engendered ofa fierce twinge, as Heywood sought to help his lamed leg over thesaddle.

  'Dismount on this side then,' said Richard, regardless of the insult.

  But the warder had caught the word.

  'Roundhead!' he exclaimed.

  Scudamore did not answer until he found himself safe on his feet, and bythat time he had recovered his good manners.

  'This is young Mr. Heywood of Redware,' he said, and moved towards thewicket, leaning on Richard's arm.

  But the old warder stepped in front, and stood between them and thegate.

  'Not a damned roundhead of the pack shall set foot across thisdoor-sill, so long as I hold the gate,' he cried, with a fierce gestureof the right arm. And therewith he set his back to the wicket.

  'Tut, tut, Eccles!' returned Scudamore impatiently. 'Good words areworth much, and cost little.'

  'If the old dog bark, he gives counsel,' rejoined Eccles, immovable.

  Heywood was amused, and stood silent, waiting the result. He had noparticular wish to enter, and yet would have liked to see what could beseen of the court.

  'Where the doorkeeper is a churl, what will folk say of the master ofthe house?' said Scudamore.

  'They may say as they list; it will neither hurt him nor me,' saidEccles.

  'Make haste, my good fellow, and let us through,' pleaded Scudamore. 'BySaint George! but my leg is in great pain. I fear the knee-cap isbroken, in which case I shall not trouble thee much for a week ofmonths.'

  As he spoke, he stood leaning on Richard's arm, and behind them stoodLady, still as a horse of bronze.

  'I will but drop the portcullis,' said the warder, 'and then I willcarry thee to thy room in my arms. But not a cursed roundhead shallenter here, I swear.'

  'Let us through at once,' said Scudamore, trying the imperative.

  'Not if the earl himself gave the order,' persisted the man.

  'Ho! ho! what is that you say? Let the gentlemen through,' cried a voicefrom somewhere.

  The warder opened the wicket immediately, stepped inside, and held itopen while they entered, nor uttered another word. But as soon asRichard had got Scudamore clear of the threshold, to which he lent not ahelping finger, he stepped quietly out again, closed the wicket behindhim, and taking Lady by the bridle, led her back over the bridge towardsthe bowling-green.

  Scudamore had just time to whisper to Heywood, 'It is my master, theearl himself,' when the voice came again.

  'What! wounded, Rowland? How is this? And who have you there?'

  But that moment Richard heard the sound of his mare's hoofs on thebridge, and leaving Scudamore to answer for them both, bounded back tothe wicket, darted through, and called her by name. Instantly she stoodstock still, notwithstanding a vicious kick in the ribs from Eccles, notunseen of Heywood. Enraged at the fellow's insolence, he dealt him asudden blow that stretched him at the mare's feet, vaulted into thesaddle, and had reached the outer gate before he had recovered himself.The sleepy porter had just let him through, when the warder's signal tolet no one out reached him. Richard turned with a laugh.

  'When next you catch a roundhead,' he said, 'keep him;' and giving Ladythe rein, galloped off, leaving the porter staring after him through thebars like a half-roused wild beast.

  Not doubting the rumour of open hostilities, the warder's design hadbeen to secure the mare, and pretend she had run away, for a good horsewas now more precious than ever.

  The earl's study was over the gate, and as he suffered much from goutand slept ill, he not unfrequently sought refuge in the night-watcheswith his friends Chaucer, Gower, and Shakspere.

  Richard drew rein at the last point whence the castle would have beenvisible in the daytime. All he saw was a moving light. The walls whenceit shone were one day to be as the shell around the kernel of hisdestiny.