Darnley; or, The Field of the Cloth of Gold

CHAPTER V.

The chamber of Sir Osborne Maurice was next to that of Lady Constance de Grey, and from time to time he could hear through the partition the sweet murmuring of her voice, as she spoke to the woman who undressed her. Whatever were the thoughts these sounds called up, the young soldier did not sleep, but lay pondering over his fate, his brain troubled by a host of busy meditations that would not let him rest. It was not that he either was in love with Lady Constance, or fancied himself in love with her, though he neither wanted ardour of feeling nor quickness of imagination; and yet he thought over all she said with strange sensations of pleasure, and tried to draw the graceful outline of her figure upon the blank darkness of the night. And then, again, he called up the fortnight that he spent some five years before at the mansion of her father, when he had gone thither to bid farewell to his old tutor; and he remembered every little incident as though 'twere yesterday. Still, all the while, he never dreamed of love. He gave way to those thoughts as to a pleasant vision, which filled up sweetly the moments till sleep should fall upon his eyelids; and yet he found that the more he thought in such a train, the less likely was he to slumber. At length the idea of the Portingal captain crossed his mind, and he strove to fix at what moment it was that that worthy had quitted the kitchen of the inn, by recalling the last time he positively had been there. He tried, however, in vain, and in the midst of the endeavour he fell asleep.

The sun had fully risen by the time Sir Osborne awoke; and finding himself later than he had intended, he dressed himself hurriedly and ran down to the court, where he met the honest clothier already prepared to set out. His own horse, thanks to the care of Jekin Groby, had been accoutred also; and as nothing remained for him to do but to pay his reckoning and depart, all was soon ready, and the travellers were on the road.

"Ah, ha! sir knight," said the clothier, with good-humoured familiarity, as Sir Osborne sprang into the saddle, "what would they say in camp if it were known that Jekin Groby, the Kentish clothier, was in the field before you? Ha, ha, ha! that's good! And you talked, too, of being off by cock-crow! Lord 'a mercy! poor old chanticleer has almost thrawn his own neck with crowing, and you never heeded his piping."

"I have been very lazy," said the knight, "and know not, in truth, how it has happened. But tell me, honest Master Groby, did you remark last night at what hour it was that the vagabond Portingallo took his departure?"

"Why, 'twas just when my young lady, Mistress Constance, came in," said the clothier; "he slipped away, just as I've seen a piece of cloth slip off a shelf, fold by fold, so quietly that no one heard it, till, flump! it was all gone together. But, bless us!" he continued, "how comical! our horses are both of a colour. Never did I see such a match, only mine has got a white foot, which is a pity. Bought him in Yorkshire when I went down after the cloth. Them damned cheats, however, painted me his white foot, and 'twas not till I'd had him a week that I saw his foot begin to change colour. Vast cheats in Yorkshire! Steal a man's teeth out of his head if he sleeps with his mouth open."

"It is a good horse, though," said Sir Osborne; "rather heavy in the shoulder. But it is a good strong horse, and would bear a man-at-arms well, I doubt not."

Jekin Groby was somewhat of a judge in horse-flesh, notwithstanding his having been gulled by the Yorkshire jockeys; and, what was more, he piqued himself upon his knowledge, so that he soon entered upon a strain of conversation with Sir Osborne which could only be interesting to connoisseurs. This continued some way as they trotted along the road, which offered no appearance of anything bearing the human form divine, till they came to a spot where the way had been cut between two high banks, formed of chalky soil mingled with veins of large flints. On the summit of one of these banks was perched a man, who seemed looking out for something, as he stood motionless, gazing down the road towards them. Upon his shoulder he carried a pole, or staff, as it was called, some thirteen feet long, with a sharp iron head, such as was frequently carried by the people of the country in those days, serving both as a means of aggression or defence, and as a sort of leaping-pole wherewith they cleared the deep ditches by which the country was in many parts intersected. The man himself was apparently above the ordinary height. Whoever he was, and whatever was his occupation, no sooner did he see the travellers, than, descending the bank by means of the veins of flint, which served him as steps, he ran on as hard as he could, and then, turning off through a little stile, was seen proceeding rapidly across a field beyond.

"Did you remark that fellow with his long pole?" demanded Sir Osborne. "We have frightened him: look, he runs!"

"He is vexed to see more than one at a time, sir knight," replied Jekin Groby. "God's fish! I am glad I had your worship with me."

"Why, he can mean us no harm," said Sir Osborne. "The moment a man flies he changes from your enemy and becomes his own. But that fellow was evidently looking out for some one: now, if he know not that you are travelling here with your bags well lined, as you express it, which doubtless you are too wise a man to give notice of to every one, he cannot be watching for us, for my plunder would not be worth his having. I rather think he is some fellow hawking fowl, by the long staff he has on his shoulder."

"It may be so," replied the cloth-merchant. "One is bound to think charitably, and never to judge rashly; but i'faith, I am mistaken if he is not a vast rogue. As to their not knowing that my bags are pretty full of angels, trust them for that. No one is robbed without the consent of the chamberlain or hostler where last he lodged. The moment you are off your beast, they whip you up your cap-case or budget, as it may happen; and if they can't find out by the weight, they give it a shake, after such a sort as to make the pieces jingle. Then again, as for his pole or staff, as you term it, those fellows with their staves are so commonly known for robbery on the road, that no honest man rides without his case of dags at his saddle-bow, or something of the kind to deal with them out of reach of their pike, which sort of snapper, truly, I see your worship has got as well as myself."

"Oh! you need not fear them," said Sir Osborne, somewhat amused at the alarm of the clothier, though willing to allay it. "You are a stout man, and I am not quite a schoolboy."

"Oh! I fear them! I don't fear them," replied Jekin, affecting a virtue which he had not; for though, in truth, not very sensible to fear of a mere personal nature, yet his terror at the idea of losing his angels was most pious and exemplary. "A couple of true men are worth forty of them; and besides, the fellow has run away. So now to what I was telling your worship about the horse. He cleared the fence and the ditch on t'other side; but then there was again another low fence, not higher, nor--let me see--not higher nor---- Zounds! there's Longpole again! Lord! how he runs! He's a-poaching, sure enough." But to continue.

During the next mile's journey, the same occurrence was repeated four or five times, till at last the appearance of the man with the staff, whom Jekin Groby had by this time christened Longpole, was hardly noticed either by the knight or his companion. In the mean time the horsemen proceeded but slowly, and at length reached a spot where the high bank broke away, and the hedge receding left a small open space of what appeared to be common ground. Its extent perhaps might be half an acre, lying in the form of a decreasing wedge between two thick hedges, full of leafless stunted oaks, terminated by a clump of larger trees, which probably hung over a pond. Thus it made a sort of little vista, down which the eye naturally wandered, resting upon all the tranquil, homely forms it presented, with perhaps more pleasure than a vaster or a brighter scene could have afforded. Sir Osborne looked down it for a moment, then suddenly reined in his horse, and pointing with his hand, cried to Jekin Groby, who was a little in advance, "I see two men hiding behind those trees, and a third there in the hedge. Gallop quick; 'tis an ambush!"

The clothier instantly spurred forward his horse; but his passage was closed by two sturdy fellows, armed with the sort of staves which had obtained for their companion the name of Longpole. Animated with the same courage in defence of his angels that inspires a hen in protection of her chickens, Jekin Groby drew forth his dags, or horse-pistols, and, with the bridle in his teeth, aimed one at the head of each of his antagonists. The aggressors jumped aside, and would probably have let him pass, had he not attempted too boldly to follow up his advantage. He pulled the triggers, the hammers fell, but no report ensued; and it was then he felt the folly of not having well examined his arms before he left the inn.

In the mean while Sir Osborne Maurice was not unemployed. At the same moment that Jekin Groby had been attacked, a man forced his way through the hedge, and opposed himself to the knight, while sundry others hastened towards them. Sir Osborne's first resource was his pistol, which, like those of the clothier, had been tampered with at the inn. But the knight lost not his presence of mind, and spurred on his horse even against the pike. The animal, long accustomed to combat where still more deadly weapons were employed, reared up, and with a bound brought the knight clear of the staff, and within reach of his adversary, on whose head Sir Osborne discharged such a blow with the butt-end of his pistol as laid him senseless on the ground.

With a glance of lightning he saw that at least a dozen more were hurrying up, and that the only chance left was to deal suddenly with the two, who were now in a fair way to pull the clothier off his horse, and having despatched them, to gallop on with all speed. Without loss of a moment, therefore, he drew his sword and spurred forward. One of honest Jekin's assailants instantly faced about, and, with his pike rested on his foot, steadfastly opposed the cavalier. However, he was not so dexterous in the use of his weapon that Sir Osborne could not by rapidly wheeling his horse obtain a side view of the pike, when by one sweeping blow of his long-sword he cleft it in twain. One moment more and the unhappy pikeman's head and shoulders would have parted company, for an arm of iron was swaying the edge of the weapon rapidly towards his neck, when suddenly a powerful man sprang upon the knight's horse behind, and pinioned his arms with a force which, though it did not entirely disable him, saved the life of his antagonist.

Using a strong effort, Sir Osborne so far disengaged his arms as to throw back the pommel of his sword into the chest of this new adversary, who in a moment was rolling in the dust; but as he fell, another sprang up again behind the knight, and once more embarrassed his arms: others seized the horse's bridle, and others pressed upon him on every side. Still Sir Osborne resisted, but it was in vain. A cord was passed through his arms, and gradually tightened behind, in spite of his struggling, where, being tied, it rendered all further efforts useless.

Hitherto not a word had been spoken by either party. It seemed as if, by mutual understanding, the attacking and the attacked had forborne any conversation upon a subject which they knew could not be decided by words.

At length, however, when they had pulled Sir Osborne Maurice off his horse, and placed him by the side of Jekin Groby, who had now long been in the same situation, the tallest of the party, evidently no other than the agreeable gentleman who had watched them along the road with such peculiar care, and whom we shall continue to call Longpole, advanced, holding his side, which was still suffering from the pommel of Sir Osborne's sword; and after regarding them both, he addressed himself to the knight, with much less asperity than might have been expected from the resistance he had met with. "Thou hit'st damned hard!" said he; "and I doubt thou hast broken one of my ribs with thy back-heave. Howsoever, I know not which of you is which, now I've got you. Faith, they should have described me the men, not the horses; both the horses are alike."

"Is your wish to rob us or not?" said Sir Osborne; "because in robbing us both you are sure to rob the right. Only leave us our horses, and let us go; for to cut our throats will serve you but little."

"If I wished to rob thee, my gentleman," answered Longpole, "I'd cut thy throat too, for breaking my companion's head, who lies there in the road as if he were dead, or rather as if he were asleep, for he's snoring like the father-hog of a large family, the Portingallo vagabond! However, I'll have you both away; then those who sent to seek you will know which it is they want. Hollo there! knock that fellow down that's fingering the bags. If one of you touch a stiver I'll make your skins smart for it."

"I see several Portingals," said Sir Osborne, "or I mistake. Is it not so?"

"Ay, Portingals and Dutchers, and such like mixed," replied Longpole. "But come; you must go along."

A light now broke upon the mind of Sir Osborne. "Listen," cried he to the Englishman, as he was preparing to lead them away; "how comes it that you Englishmen join yourselves with a beggarly race of wandering vagabonds to revenge the quarrel of a base-born Portingallo captain upon one of your own countrymen? Give me but a moment, and you shall hear whether he did not deserve the punishment I inflicted."

Longpole seemed willing to hear, and one or two others came round, while the rest employed themselves in quieting the knight's horse, that, finding himself in hands he was unaccustomed to, began plunging and kicking most violently.

"I will be short," said the knight. "This Portingal had agreed to furnish a cargo of fruits to the Imperial army in Flanders; 'tis now two years ago, for we had a malignant fever in the camp. He got the money when they were landed, and was bringing them under a small escort, which I commanded, when we found our junction cut off by the right wing of the enemy's army, which had wheeled. The greatest exertion was necessary to pass round through a hollow way; the least noise, the least flutter of a pennon, would have betrayed us to the French outposts, who were not more than a bow-shot from us, when our Portingal stopped in the midst, and vowed he would not go on, unless I promised to pay him double for the fruit, and not to tell anybody of what he had done. If I had run my lance through him, as I was tempted, his companions would have made a noise, and we were lost; so I was obliged to promise. He knew he could trust the word of an English knight, so he went on quietly enough, and got his money; but then I took him out into a field, and after a struggle, I tied him to a tree, and lashed him with my stirrup-leathers till his back was flayed. He was not worth a knight's sword, or I would have swept his head off. But tell me, is it for this a party of Englishmen maltreat their countrymen?"

"You served him right, young sir," answered Longpole; "and I remember that malignant fever well, for I was then fletcher to Sir John Pechie's band of horse archers. But, nevertheless, you must come along; for the Portingallo and his men only lend a hand in taking you to Sir Payan Wileton, who tells us a very different story, and does not make you out a knight at all."

Sir Osborne replied nothing (for it seemed that the name of Sir Payan Wileton showed him reply was in vain), but suffered himself to be led on in silence by Longpole and five of bid stoutest companions, while the rest were directed to follow with Jekin Groby and the two horses, as soon as the Portuguese whom the knight had stunned should be in a fit state to be removed.

For some way Sir Osborne was conducted along the highroad without any attempt at concealment on the part of those who guarded him; and even at a short distance from the spot where the affray had happened they stopped to speak with a carter, who was slowly driving his team on to the village. "Ah! Dick," said he, addressing Longpole, "what hast been at?"

"Why, faith," answered the other, "I don't well know. It's a job of his worship's. You know he has queer ways with him; and when he tells one to do a thing, one knows well enough what the beginning is, but what the end of it is to be no one knows but himself. He says that this gentleman is the man who excited the miners on his Cornish lands to riot and insurrection, and a deal more, so that he will have him taken. He don't look it, does he? If it had been to-morrow I'd not have gone upon the thing, for to-day my sworn service is out."

"Ay! ay!" said the other; "'tis hard to know Sir Payan. Howsomdever, he has got all the land round about, one way or t'other, and everything must yield to him, for no one ever withstood him but what some mischance fell upon him. Mind you how, when young Davors went to law with him, and gained his cause, about seven acres' field, he was drowned in the pond when out hawking, not a year after? Do not cross him, man! do not cross him! for either God's blessing or the devil's is upon him, and you'll come to harm some way if you do!"

"I'll not cross him, but I'll leave him," said Longpole; "for I like neither what I see nor what I hear of him, and less what I do for him. So, fare thee well, boy."

Sir Osborne Maurice had fallen into a profound reverie, from which he did not wake during the whole of the way. The astrologer's prediction of approaching evil, and a thousand other circumstances of still more painful presage, came thronging upon his mind, and took away from him all wish or power either to question his conductors or to devise any plan for escape, had escape been possible.

The way was long, and the path which Longpole and his companions followed led through a variety of green fields and lanes, silent and solitary, which gave the young knight full time to muse over his situation. Had he given credit to the words of his conductor, and for an instant supposed that the reason of his having been so suddenly seized was the charge of instigating a body of Cornish miners to tumult, he would have felt, no apprehension; for he knew it would be easy to clear himself of crimes committed in a county which he had never seen in his life. But Sir Osborne felt that if such a charge were brought forward, it would merely be as a pretext to place him in the power of his bitterest enemies.

The manner in which he had been made a prisoner, so different from the open, fair course of any legal proceeding, the persons who had seized him bearing no appearance of officers of the law, the doubt that the chief of them had himself expressed as to the veracity of the charge, and the presence of a set of smuggling Portuguese sailors, all showed evidently to Sir Osborne that his detention solely originated in some deep wile of a man famous for his daring cunning and his evil deeds. Yet still, knowing the full extent of his danger, and blessed with a heart unused to quail to any circumstance of fate, the knight would have felt no apprehension, had not odd little Human Nature, who always keeps a grain or two of superstition in the bottom of her snuff-box, continually reminded him of the prophecy of his singular companion of the day before, and reproached him for not having followed the advice which would infallibly have removed him from the difficulties by which he was now surrounded. The mysterious vagueness, too, the shadowy uncertainty, of the predicted evil, which seemed even now in its accomplishment, in despite of all his efforts, weighed upon his mind; and it was not till the long, heavy brick front of an old manor-house met his view, giving notice that he was near the place of his destination, that he could arouse his energies to encounter what was to follow.

The large folding-doors leading into a stone hall were pushed open by his conductors, and Sir Osborne was brought in, and made to sit down upon a bench by the fire. One or two servants only were in the hall; and they, unlike the persons who brought him, were dressed in livery, with the cognizance of Sir Payan--a snake twisted round a crane--embroidered on the sleeve. "His worship is in the book-room, Dick," said one of the men; "take your prisoner there."

These few words were all that passed, for an ominous sort of silence seemed to hang over the dwelling, and affected all within it. Without reply, Longpole led the young knight forward, followed by two of those who had assisted in securing him; and at the end of a long corridor, which terminated the hall, knocked at a door in a recess.

"Come in!" cried a voice within; and the moment after, Sir Osborne found himself confronted with the man whose name we have often had occasion to mention with but little praise in the course of the preceding pages, Sir Payan Wileton. He was seated in an arm-chair, at the farther end of the small book-room, which, all petty as it was, when compared with the vast libraries of the present day, offered a prodigy in point of literary treasure, in those times when the invention of the press had made but little progress towards superseding the painful and expensive method of manual transcription. About a hundred volumes, in gay bindings of vellum and of velvet, ornamented the shelves, and two or three others lay on a table before him, at which also was seated a clerk, busily engaged in writing.

Sir Payan himself was a man of about fifty, of a deep ashy complexion, and thin, strongly-marked features. His eyes were dark, shrewd, and bright, and sunk deep below his brows, in the midst of which was to be observed a profound wrinkle, which gave his face a continual frown. His cheek-bones were high, his hair was short and grizzled, and his whole appearance had, perhaps, more of sternness than of cunning.

On the entrance of Sir Osborne Maurice, for a moment no one spoke, and the two knights regarded each other in silence, with an austere bitterness that might have spoken them old enemies. But while he gazed on the young knight, Sir Payan's hand, which lay on some papers before him, gradually contracted, clenched harder and harder, till at length the red blood in his thin knuckles vanished away, and they became white as a woman's by the force of the compression. But it was in vain! Sir Osborne's glance mastered his, and dashing his hand across his brow, he broke forth:--

"So, this is he who excited my tenants and labourers to revolt against the king in that unfortunate Cornish insurrection, and who led them on to plunder my bailiff's dwelling, and to murder my bailiff! Clerk, make out instantly the warrant for his removal to Cornwall, with copies of the depositions taken here, that he may be tried and punished for his crimes on the spot where they were committed."

"Sir Payan Wileton," said the knight, still regarding him with the same steady, determined gaze, "we meet for the first time to-day; but I think you know me."

"I do, sir; I do!" replied Sir Payan, without varying from the hurried and impatient manner in which he had spoken at first. "I know you for a rebellious instigator to all kinds of mischief, and for a homicide. Speak, Richard Heartley; did the prisoner offer any resistance? Has he added any fresh crimes to those he has already perpetrated?"

"Resist!" cried Longpole; "ay, your worship, he resisted enough, and broke one of the Portingallos' heads, but not more than was natural or reasonable. The other one resisted too; yet it was easy to see that this one was of gentle blood, which was what your worship wanted, I doubt not. But, however, as they were both mounted on strong black horses, such as your honour described, we brought them both up."

"Umph!" said Sir Payan, biting his lip; "there were two, were there?" And he muttered something to himself. "Send me here the captain ----, or Wilson the bailiff. It must be ascertained which is which--though there can be no doubt--there can be no doubt!"

"Mark me, Sir Payan Wileton," said Sir Osborne, the moment the other paused. "Mark me, and take good heed before you too far commit yourself. We know each other, and, therefore, a few words will suffice. Five people in England are aware of my arrival, and equally aware of where I slept last night, and when I set out this morning. Judge, therefore, whether it will not be easy to trace me hither, and to free me from your hands."

Sir Payan Wileton had evidently been agitated by some strong feeling on first beholding the young knight; but by this time he had completely mastered it, and his face had resumed that rigid austerity of expression with which he was wont to cover all that was passing in his mind.

"Railing, sir, and insinuations will be found of no use here," he said, calmly. "Clerk, make good speed with those warrants! Oh! here is Wilson. Now, Wilson, look at the prisoner well, and tell me if you are sure that he is the person who assaulted you yesterday, and who led the miners when they burned your father's house in Cornwall. Look at him well!"

The young man, whom it may be remembered Sir Osborne Maurice had dispatched so unceremoniously over the wall of old Richard Heartley's garden, now advanced, and regarded the knight with a triumphant grin.

"Oh, ho! my brave bird, what! you're limed, are you?" he muttered; and then, turning to Sir Payan, "yes, your worship, 'tis he," he continued. "I'm ready to swear that 'twas he led the men that burned Pencriton House, and that threw me over the wall, because I struck old Heartley for calling your worship a usurping traitor and----"

But at that moment Longpole laid a grasp upon his collar that almost strangled him.

"You struck my father, did you?" exclaimed he; "then pray God to make all your bones as soft as whit-leather, for if they're but as crisp as buttered toast, I'll break every one in your skin!"

"Silence!" cried Sir Payan Wileton; "silence, Heartley! If your father has been struck, I will take care he shall have satisfaction."

"With your worship's good leave, I will take care of it myself," replied Longpole. "I never trust any one to give or to receive a drubbing for me. I like always to calculate my own quantity of crabstick."

"Silence!" said Sir Payan; "again I say, silence! My good Richard, I assure you, you shall be satisfied. Clerk, swear Wilson to the depositions he made. Oh! here is the Portingallo. Captain, is that the man you remember having seen in Cornwall when you were last there?"

"Yes, yes, el Pero! that was himself!" cried the captain; "I sawed him at the ale-house at Penzance with my own eye, when I went to fetch the cargo of coal."

"You mean of tin, captain," said Sir Payan.

"Yes, yes, of ten," replied the Portuguese. "It was just ten, I remember."

Sir Osborne's patience was exhausted.

"Vagabond! thief!" cried he, "do you remember my scourging you with the stirrup-leathers in Flanders, till there was not an inch of skin upon your back?"

"Yes, yes, that was your turn," said the captain; "I scourge you now."

"Remark what he says," cried Sir Osborne, to those who stood round, "and all of you bear witness in case----"

"Prisoner, you stand committed," cried Sir Payan, in a loud voice. "Take him away! Suffer him not to speak! Richard Heartley, place him in the strong-room at the foot of the stair-case, and having locked the door, keep guard over him. Captain, stay you with me; all the rest, go."

The commands of Sir Payan were instantly obeyed; and the room being cleared, he pressed his hands before his eyes, and thought deeply for some moments.

"He is mine!" cried he at length, "he is mine! And shall I let him out of my own hands now that I have him, when 'twould be so easy to furnish him with a hook and a halter wherewith to hang himself, as the good chaplain and John Bellringer did to the heretic Hun, in the Lollards' Tower last year? But no, that is too fresh in the minds of men, and too many suspicions are already busy. So, my captain--I forgot. Sit down, my good captain. I am, as we agreed, about to give this young man into your hands to take to Cornwall. Why do you laugh?"

"He! he! Cornwall," cried the captain; "I do not go in Cornwall."

"Nay, some time in your life you will probably voyage to Cornwall as well as to other lands," said Sir Payan. "Now, 'tis the same to me whether you take him there now or a hundred years hence: you may carry him all over the world if you will, and drop him at the antipodes."

"I understand, I understand," replied the Portingal; "you have much need to get rid of him, and you give him to me. Well, I will take your present, if you give me two hundred golden angels with him." Sir Payan nodded assent. "But let me understand quite all well," continued the captain: "you want me to take him to Cornwall. There is one Cornwall at the bottom of the sea; do you mean that?"

"'Twere fully as good as the other," said Sir Payan, "if the journey were short, and the conveyance sure."

"Two cannon-shot will make it a quick passage," replied the captain; "but they must be made of gold, my good worship."

"Why of gold?" demanded Sir Payan. "Oh! I catch your meaning. But you grow exorbitant."

"Not I," said the Portingal; "I only ask two hundred angels more. Why, an indulgence will cost me half the pay. It's very dear drowning a man. If you like me to take him and leave him in Turkey with the Ottomites, I will do it for the two; but if I send him to Cornwall, he! he! he! you shall give me four."

"But how shall I know that it is done?" said Sir Payan, thoughtfully. "But that must be trusted to. You are not such a child as to be pitiful. Men know how to avenge themselves, and you heard his boast of having scourged you. If you be a man, then do not forget it."

"Forget it!" cried the Portingal, his dark brows knitting till they almost hid his eyes; "give me the order under your hand, and fear not."

"What! an order to murder him!" cried Sir Payan. "Think you my brain is turned?"

"No, no! You have the wrong," said the Portingal; "I mean an order to take him to Cornwall. It shall be very easy to drop him by the way. If I was exorbitant, as you call me, I had make you pay more, because for why, I know you would eat your hand to get rid of him; else why have you make me bring you news of him when he was in Flanders? Why you pay three spies two crowns the month to give you news every step he took? Oh! I know it all. But it is this: I am an honest merchant and no rogue, and when I pop him in the sea I do a little bit of my own business and a big bit of yours, so I do not charge you so much as if it was all yours. Is not that honest?"

"Honest!" said Sir Payan, with a grim smile; "yes, very honest. But mark me, Sir Captain! I'll have some assurance of you. Thus shall it be: I'll give you a warrant to take him to Cornwall, but you shall sign me a promise to drop him overboard by the way, so that there be no peaching; for when our necks are in the same halter, each will take care not to draw the cord on his fellow, lest he be hanged himself."

"Well, well," said the Portingal, "that's all right. No fear of me, and you will not for your own sake. But look here, Sir Payan. What have you intended to do with the other man that was taken with him, as they tell me, who was at the inn-house, and will tell it to all the world? He's the fat clothier; give him to me too, and let my men have the clearing of his bags. You owe them something for the job, and one has had his head broke, and will die by the time he is aboard. Besides, they were never paid for bringing you up the whole cargo of strong wine, five years past, which was paid for by Dudley, the sequestrator."

"Then he should have paid for the carriage," said Sir Payan.

"But he never got it!" cried the Portingal. "You kept all when you heard he was in prison, good Sir Payan; and when they did take his head off, you drank the wine yourself. But say, will you, or will you not, let my men have all that is inside that fat clothesman's bags, and I will take him, so that you shall never see him again? If not, your whole business shall soon be known by everybody in the world by his tongue."

Sir Payan thought for a moment. "It must e'en be so," said he at length. "Take him, but do not hurt him; and as to his bags, do as you like."

"Oh! hurt him! no!" answered the other. "In six months he shall be so good a sailor as any of the others, and two thousand miles away. But we must get off to-night. I will go down, get the boat close under the cliffs, and be back by about one o'clock in the morning. Have all ready against I come, the gold and the order--warrant, as you call it, and all; and lock all my men up in the big granary, with a thing of bacon, and a big cask of liquor; so shall they be all drunk before three, and asleep by four, and sober again by the while I am back, and nobody hear anything about their being here at all."

"That you must do yourself before you go," said Sir Payan. "In the mean time, I must take care that the prisoners be kept out of sight, for a lady cousin is to be here by noon, and neither she nor hers must hear of this. I myself must be away. She came not yesterday when she should have come; and fain would I pick a quarrel with her house, for they have lands too near my own to be any others than my own. So, though I have ordered her a banquet, yet shall she be served with scanty courtesy; then, if one word of anger fall from her, there shall more follow."

"Oh! if I be here when she shall come," said the Portingal, "I will give her some cause either to be pleased or angry."

"What wilt thou do, fellow?" demanded Sir Payan sternly. "Beware! remember she is of my blood."

"Oh! nothing, nothing!" replied the captain, "only tell her some little compliment upon her beauty. But, my good worship, can you trust all your men about these prisoners?"

"All! all!" replied Sir Payan. "There is no fear. No one of them but I could hang one way or another, and they know it. All except Heartley, and he is bound to me by an illegal oath, wrung from him by fear of seeing his father driven out this hard winter. But 'tis past noon now. Ho! without there! Send in my clerk. What! are the horses saddled? Farewell, Sir Portingal, till one i' the morning!"

CHAPTER VI.

The place to which Sir Osborne Maurice was conveyed, when the servants, according to their master's commands, removed him from the book-room, was a large dark chamber, running along beneath the whole extent of the principal stair-case, and some way into one of the towers beyond. The old manor-house--which for many reasons Sir Payan still inhabited, even after dispossessing Lord Fitzbernard of Chilham Castle--although built of brick, in a more modern style than the ancient holds of the feudal nobility, had not entirely abandoned the castellated architecture formerly in use. Here and there, upon the long front of the building, was fastened a large square tower, useless as a defence, and inconvenient as a dwelling; and at every angle appeared an imposthume-like watch-turret, of redder brick than the rest, like carbuncles upon the face of a drunkard. The curse of small windows also was upon the house, making it look as sombre without as it was dark within, and the thick leafless wood that swept round it on both sides excluded great part of that light which might otherwise have found its way into the gloomy mansion.

Darker than all the rest was the chamber to which Sir Osborne Maurice was conveyed; the whole of that part which was under the stair-case, receiving no light whatever, except from the other half, that, placed in one of the square towers, possessed the privilege of an unglazed window near the ceiling. It would be difficult to say for what purpose this chamber was originally contrived; but it is probable that at the time the house was built (during the contentions of York and Lancaster), such rooms might be necessary, even in private houses, both as places of strength and concealment, although too weak to resist long attack, and too easy of discovery to afford any very secure lurking-place. The use to which Sir Payan Wileton applied it was in general that of a prison for deer-stealers and other offenders who came before him in his magisterial capacity, which offenders he took care should ever be as numerous as there were persons of the lower orders who opposed or displeased him.

The men who conducted the young knight shut the door immediately upon him; and thus being left to ruminate over his fate, with his arms still tightly pinioned behind him, and scarcely light sufficient to distinguish any objects which the room contained, it may well be conceived that his meditations were not of the most pleasant description. But, nevertheless, indignation had roused his spirit, and he no longer felt that depression of mind, and abandonment of hope, which for a time had overpowered him. His first thoughts, therefore, were now of escape and revenge, but for the moment no means presented themselves of either; and though he searched round the apartment, ascertaining the nature and extent of his prison, which only consisted of that room and a large closet containing some straw, no chance whatever of flight from thence presented itself, and he was obliged to wait in hopes of circumstances proving his friend.

In about half an hour, the voice of Sir Payan Wileton was heard without, giving various orders, and a moment after, the trampling of horses sounded as if passing by the window. To Sir Osborne, accustomed for several years to watch with warlike acuteness every motion of a shrewd and active enemy, these sounds gave notice that his persecutor was gone for the time, and even the circumstance of his absence excited in the bosom of the young knight fresh expectation of some favourable opportunity.

Hardly had Sir Payan departed, when the lock, which might well have fastened the door of an antediluvian giant, squeaked harshly with the key; and the tall fellow, whom we have denominated hitherto, and shall still continue to denominate Longpole, entered, and pushed the door behind him.

"The devil's gone out on horseback," said he, coming near Sir Osborne, and speaking low, "and I have just got a minute to thank your worship."

"To thank me, my friend!" said Sir Osborne, somewhat doubting the man's meaning; "for what should you thank me?"

"For throwing the man over a hedge that struck my father," said Longpole, "and by that I see you are a true heart and a gentleman--and a knight into the bargain, I am sure, in spite of all Sir Payan's tales, and his minion's false swearing; and if I were not his sworn servant I'd let you off this minute, if I could find a way."

"But is it not much worse to aid in so black a plot as this than to leave this vile suborner, who is not your born master, and never can be lawfully, if you be the son of old Richard Heartley? Only hear me."

"Nay, sir knight," said Longpole; "faith I must not hear you, for I must mind my oath, and do as I'm bid, though it be the devil bids me. I only came to thank you, before I brought the other prisoner here, and to tell you, that though I have forgotten and forgiven many hard knocks, I never forget a good turn, and that you'll find, whatever you may think now. Every dog has his day, but the dog-days don't last all the year."

After this quaint hint he waited for no reply, but quitted the room as fast as possible, and in a moment after returned, pushing in the unfortunate Jekin Groby almost drowned in his own tears.

"Here, I've brought your worship a great baby," cried Longpole, before he closed the door, "who has wasted as much salt water in five minutes as would have pickled a side of bacon."

As soon as they were alone, Sir Osborne attempted to comfort the unhappy clothier as far as he could, assuring him that he had nothing to fear; for that he was not in the least the object of the attack, which had only comprised him on account of his being present at the time.

"But my bags! my bags!" blubbered Jekin Groby; "they've got my bags: four hundred and twelve golden angels, and a pair of excellent shears, oh! oh! oh! I know it's along of you that I've got into the scrape. Oh dear! oh dear! Why the devil didn't you tell me you had made the Cornish men revolt? then I wouldn't have gone with you; I'd ha' seen you hanged first. But I'll tell King Henry and Lord Darby, I will; and I'll have back my angels, I will. Lord! Lord! to think of my being committed for aiding and abetting Osborne Maurice, alias Osborne Darling, alias Jenkins, alias Thompson, alias Brown, alias Smith, to make the Cornish folks revolt; I that was never there in my life!"

"Nor I either," said the knight, calmly.

"Why, they all swear you were!" cried Jekin Groby, leaving off weeping; "and that you and five hundred miners burnt and sacked the towns, and I believe carried away the steeples on your backs, for a matter of that, you did so much. They all swear it."

"And they ail swear falsely," answered Sir Osborne, "as you may very well see, when they swear that you were there aiding and abetting me."

"Gads! that's true too," said Groby: "if they swear such big lies about me, why mayn't they do the like about you? I thought that nice young lady, and that goodly old priest, would not ha' been so fond of your worship if you had been a robber and an insurrectionist. Lord a' mercy! I beg your worship's pardon with all my heart." As Groby lost sight of the subject of his bags, his grief abated, and looking round the room, he added, "I say, sir knight, is there no way of getting out of this place? What think ye o' that window?"

"If I had my hands free," said Sir Osborne, "I would try to climb up and see."

"Gads man! let's see your hands," said Groby; "mine are tied too, but I've managed many a tight knot with my teeth. Turn round, your worship, more to the light, such as it is. Ah, here I have it, the leading cord! Now pull; well done, millstones! It gives!" And what by dint of gnawing and pulling, in about five minutes Jekin Groby contrived to loosen the cord that fastened the knight's arms, and a very slight effort on Sir Osborne's part finished the work, and freed them completely. The knight then performed the same good office to his fellow-prisoner; and poor Jekin, overjoyed even at this partial liberation, jumped and sang with delight. "Hist! hist!" cried he, at length; "if I remember, that long rascal of a fellow did not lock the door: let us see. No, as I live, the bolt's not shot. Let us steal out; but first I'll look through the keyhole. Out upon it! there he sits, talking to two of his fellows; ay, and there's a latch too on the outside of this cursed door, with no way to lift it on the in."

"The window is the surest way," said the knight, "if I can but reach it. Lend me your back, good master Groby, and I will see. The sun shines strong through it, and yet I cannot perceive that it throws the shadow of any bar or grating."

"Welcome to my back," said the clothier: "but, oh! do not leave me in this place; pray don't ye, sir knight!"

"On my honour I will not!" replied the knight, "though it is not you they care to keep. Once I were away, you might have your liberty the next hour. But still I will not leave you."

"Thank you, sir knight, thank you!" said honest Jekin. "All I ask is, when you are up, help me up too; and if we can get out, leave me as soon as you like, for the less we are together, I take it, the better for Jekin Groby. And now upon my back; it is a stout one."

Jekin now bent his head against the wall, making a kind of step with his two clasped hands, by means of which Sir Osborne easily got his elbows on the deep opening of the window, which, from the thickness of the wall, offered a platform three feet wide, and with an effort he swung himself up. "Clear, all clear!" cried he, joyfully. "And now, my good Jekin, let us see how we can get you up. Stay, let me kneel here;" and turning round, he knelt down, holding out his hands to Jekin Groby. But it was in vain that Sir Osborne, with all his vast strength, strove to pull up the ponderous body of the Kentish clothier. He succeeded, indeed, in raising him about a foot from the ground, and holding him there, while he made a variety of kicks against the wall, and sundry other efforts to help himself up, all equally ineffectual; but at length Sir Osborne was obliged to let him down, and still remained gazing upon him with a sorrowful countenance, feeling both the impossibility, with any degree of honour, to leave him behind, and the impracticability of getting him out.

Poor Jekin, well understanding the knight's feeling, returned his glance with one equally melancholy; and after remaining for a moment in profound silence, he made a vast effort of generosity that again unloosed the flood-gates of his tears, in the midst of which he blubbered forth: "Go, sir knight, go, and God speed you! Heaven forbid that I should keep you here! Go!"

Sir Osborne jumped down, and shook him by the hand. "Never!" said he, "never! But there seems still some hope for us. That tall fellow, that we called Longpole this morning, is more friendly to us than he seems; and I can tell him something that will perhaps make him serve us more completely, if he will but hear me. Let me see whether he is now alone." And by the same means that Jekin Groby had before used to ascertain that the man was there, Sir Osborne discovered that the two other servants had left him, and that he was alone. "Hist! Richard Heartley!" said Sir Osborne, putting his mouth to the keyhole; "hist!"

"Who calls?" cried Longpole, starting up.

"'Tis I," said Sir Osborne; "open the door, and speak to me."

"I dare not! I must not!" cried Longpole. "Have patience!" he whispered, "have patience! I will come to you after dark."

"Yet listen to me," said Sir Osborne; but at that moment a sound of horses' feet was again heard through the open window, and, unwillingly, he was obliged to desist.

The arrival of some guest now took place, as Sir Osborne judged by the sounds which made themselves heard: the inquiries for Sir Payan, the directions for tending the horses, and the orders to have them at the gate in an hour, the marshalling to the banquet-hall, the cries of the serving men, and all the fracas that was made, in that day, in honour of a visitor.

"By heaven!" said Sir Osborne, "it is Lady Constance de Grey! I remember she proposed coming here towards noon. If we could but let her know that we are here, or good old Dr. Wilbraham, her people would soon free us. But never does it fall better. Longpole has gone from his watch, or he might tell her. However, the door is only held by this latch; let us try to force it. Place your shoulder with mine, good Groby. Now a strong effort!" But in vain. The giant door stood unmoved, and Sir Osborne was obliged to resign himself to his fate.

Presently the noise of serving the repast in the chief hall died away, and the servants, retiring to their own part of the house, left the rest in quiet, while not a sound stirred to communicate to the bosoms of the prisoners any sensation either of hope or expectation. After about a quarter of an hour's pause, however, a door opened, and the voice of Lady Constance was heard speaking to Dr. Wilbraham. "Nay, my good father," she said, "do not go yourself to seek them. Though we have been treated with but little courtesy, yet we may stay a quarter of an hour longer. Perhaps the servants have not dined, and that is the reason they do not come."

"By your leave, lady, I will go," said the chaplain, "and will see that the horses be brought up; for to my poor mind we have staid here too long already for the civility we have received. I will not be long."

"Doctor Wilbraham!" cried Sir Osborne, as the door shut; "Doctor Wilbraham?" But the good tutor turned another way, and passed on without hearing the voice of his former pupil, and silence resumed her dominion over the part of the house in which they were placed. In a minute or two after, however, a heavy foot announced to the watchful ears of the young knight the approach of some other person; but he turned away towards the hall where Lady Constance had been left, and seemed to enter.

Shortly the voice of the lady made itself heard, speaking high and angrily, in a tone to which the lips of Constance de Grey seldom gave utterance.

"I do not understand what you mean, sir," said she, coming out of the hall. "Where are my servants? Where is Dr. Wilbraham?"

"That was not your way, my pretty lady," cried the voice of the Portingal captain. "Let me kiss your loafly hand, and I will show you the way."

"Stand off, sir!" exclaimed Lady Constance. "Dare you insult me in my cousin's house?"

"This way! this way! Lady Constance de Grey," cried Sir Osborne, in a voice that shook the hall. "This way there are friends. Throw up the latch!"

At that moment the unscrupulous Portingal seems to have offered some still greater insult to the young lady; for, with a scream, she darted towards the spot to which the voice of Sir Osborne directed her, and throwing up the latch, as he called to her to do, ran in, followed closely by the Portingal. Urged by fear, Lady Constance flew directly to the knight, and recognising a friend, clung to him for protection. The captain, not observing that his hands were freed, did not scruple to pursue her, even close to the side of the prisoner, calling to her not to be afraid; that he would show her the way. But Sir Osborne raised his arm, and in a moment laid the Portingal grovelling on the ground, with the blood gushing from his mouth and nostrils.

Lady Constance still clung to the knight, who totally forgetting the possibility of escape, endeavoured to soothe her and calm her agitation. Not so Jekin Groby: after pausing for a moment, confounded by the whole business, he at length bethought him, that as the door was open he might as well walk out, and with this intent made a quick step or two towards it. His purpose, however, was defeated by the Portingal, who recovered from the blow, and perceiving the design of the clothier, started upon his feet, and jumping through the open door, banged it in the face of honest Jekin, at the same time making the whole house ring with his cries of "Help! help! The lady is letting out the prisoners, and they shall all get loose! Help! help!" And getting hold of the rope of the alarum, he rang such a peal as soon brought the whole household, together with the servants of the Lady Constance, round the door of the strong room.

Various were now the cries and exclamations: "What's the matter?" "Are they out?" "Which way did they go?" "Where's the lady?" "Oh Lord!" "Oh lauk!" "Oh dear!" "Dear me!" "How strange!" "Who'd have thought it!" While the Portingal, with his face all streaming with blood, explained to them that Lady Constance wished to let the prisoners out; and that he, notwithstanding their efforts, had shut them up all together, by the valour of his invincible arm, and he called his bloody muzzle to bear testimony to the truth of his asseveration.

"You lie, you vagabond thief!" cried one of the young lady's servants. "It was you stole my riding whip, when you ran away in such a hurry from the inn last night."

"You must make a great mistake, my friend," said Dr. Wilbraham, who had come up amongst the rest. "Lady Constance de Grey has too much respect for the law to assist any prisoners to escape from the house of a magistrate. Let me in here, and we shall soon hear the truth of all this."

"And let me in!" "And let me in!" "And let me in too!" cried a dozen voices; and all prepared to rush into the room the moment any one raised the latch, on which Longpole had his hand for the purpose.

"Devil a one of you!" cried Longpole. "Curiosity, I've heard say, was one of the great vices of the old gentlewoman of Babylon, and so certainly I shall not gratify yours. March every one; for his worship, when he went away, gave me charge of the prisoners, and I am to answer for them when he comes back. The only one who goes with me shall be his reverence, who, God bless him, taught me to read and write, and speak French, when I was little Dick Heartley, the porter's son at the old castle."

"And art thou little Dick Heartley?" exclaimed Doctor Wilbraham. "We are both changed, Dick; but open me the door, good Dick, for by that Portingalo's speech I fancy the young lady is here also with the prisoners, though I conceive not how."

Heartley accordingly opened the door sufficiently to allow the clergyman to pass, and then following, he shut it, taking care to put his dagger under the latch, to prevent its obstructing his exit, in case of the servants' leaving the spot during his stay.

At first the change from a bright light to comparative obscurity prevented the good tutor from distinguishing clearly the objects in the apartment to which he was admitted by Longpole; but who can express his astonishment when he beheld Sir Osborne? Forgetting Lady Constance and every other circumstance, he clasped his hands in a sort of agony. "Good God!" exclaimed he, "is it possible? You here! You, my lord, in the power of your bitterest enemy? Oh! Osborne, Osborne! what can be done to save you? And is it you," cried he, raising his voice, and turning to Longpole, in a tone of bitter reproach, "and is it you, Richard Heartley, that do the work of jailer upon your own born lord and only lawful master?"

"My born lord!" cried Heartley, springing forward; "what does your reverence mean? Who is he? They told me his name was Maurice--Osborne Maurice."

"Osborne Darnley, they should have said," replied the young knight. "Your old lord's son, Dick Heartley."

Heartley threw himself at his lord's feet. "Why did not you tell me? Why did not you tell me?" cried he. "I'd sooner have chopped my hand off. I that first taught you to draw a bow and level an arrow! I that sought you all through the camp at Terrouenne to be your servant and servitor, as in duty bound, only that you were away guarding the fort bridge on the Lambre! Cut my hand off! I'd rather have ripped myself up with my dagger."

It may be supposed that the surprise of Lady Constance and of Jekin Groby was somewhat analogous to that expressed by Longpole on finding that the person they had known only as Osborne Maurice, or at best as Sir Osborne Maurice, an adventurous soldier, whose necessitous courage had obtained for him the honour of knighthood, was in fact the young Lord Darnley, whose misfortunes and accomplishments had already furnished much employment for the busy tongue of fame. To the young lady, especially, this discovery gave a sensation of timid shame, for the interest she had so unguardedly displayed in his fate; an interest which nevertheless she might perhaps feel heightened when she found all that she had heard of Lord Darnley identified with all that she knew of Osborne Maurice. "I too may ask, my lord," she said, "why you did not tell me; or rather, why you did not tell my father, who ever expressed the deepest interest in your fate, and in his life-time might have served you?"

"Your noble father, lady," replied Lord Darnley, "was well aware who I was, even when I was a guest at his mansion; and he, as well as the rest of my friends, thought it best that I should still conceal my name while in England, in order to veil me from the machinations of a man whose unaccountable interest at court, and unscrupulous nature, were almost certain to carry through whatever villanous attempt he undertook against me. Our lands and lordships he holds, not as we did, by chivalry and tenure of possession, but only as steward of Dover Castle, an office given and recalled at pleasure. You now see how wise was the precaution, since here, in the midst of the most civilised country in Europe, I have been unlawfully seized, on the king's highway, accused of fictitious crimes, and destined to a fate that only time will show. To think that I, a man-at-arms, long used to camps, and, without boasting, on bad soldier either, should be, like an infant, in the hands of this deep-plotting usurper! 'Tis enough to drive me mad!"

"No, no, my lord," said Heartley, or, as we have called him, Longpole, "don't you fear. They say that when Old Nick stirs the fire, he is sure to burn his fingers, and when he salts a birch broom, he pickles a rod for his own back. But stay, let me see that there is no one at the door listening: no, there they are, at the farther end of the hall, but they can't hear. So, my lord, I'll undertake to get you out this blessed night. My oath to Sir Payan is up at twelve o'clock to-night."

"No oath can bind you to commit a crime," said the clergyman; "and that it is a crime to aid in any way in detaining your lord here, can easily be proved."

"Oh! your worship," said Heartley, "I can't reason the matter with your reverence, you'd pose me in a minute; but, nevertheless, I'll keep my oath, and I can give you a good reason for it. It would do my lord no good if I was to break it: there are twenty people round about who would all join to stop him if I were to let him out this moment, and with my young lady's three servants to boot, we should still be beaten by the numbers. We must wait till after dark; ay, and till after the bell rings to bed at eleven; but then I will find means to free my lord."

"But may they not have thus time to commit some evil deed?" demanded Lady Constance, "and your tardy succour may come too late."

"No, no, my lady," replied Longpole; "I heard yon Portingallo, who is just riding away, tell his rascally slavish crew, as he was locking them up in the granary, that at half-past one he was to be back; and then they were to carry down the two prisoners to the ship, for which they were to have two hundred gold angels amongst them. Now, we shall be far enough before half-past one."

"At all events, my lord," said Lady Constance, "it will not be long before we are at Canterbury, from whence we can send you sufficient succour, backed with authority competent to procure your release."

"But remember, lady," said the knight, "that I am but Sir Osborne Maurice, and no one must know me as anything else if it can be avoided; for it is of the utmost consequence to my interest, that at present I should not appear before our noble but somewhat wayward king, as I really am. And now, let me return you a thousand and a thousand thanks for your kind interest past and present; to which but add one favour. When I am free, give me but one little glove from this fair hand," and he raised it to his lips, "and I will place it on my pennon's pike, and write underneath it, gratitude; and if it fall in the listed field, or the battle plain, Darnley is dead."

"Nay, nay, my lord," replied Lady Constance, with a blush and smile, "too gallant by half! But you are a prisoner, and I believe promises made in prison are not held valid. Wait, therefore, till you are free, and in the mean time you shall have my prayers and best wishes, and such aid as I can send you from Canterbury I will."

There is a witchery in the sympathy of a beautiful woman, whose influence all men must have experienced, and all women understand; and though our hero felt the most devout conviction that he was not the least in love in the world with Lady Constance de Grey, there is no knowing how far his gratitude for the interest she took in his fate might have carried him, had she remained there much longer; and even when she left him, and he heard the horses' feet repass the window of his prison, he felt as if he were ten times more a prisoner than before.

There was something so kind and so gentle in her manner, and her smile illuminated her countenance with such angelic light, that while she was there, even though speaking of them, his sorrows and his dangers seemed all forgot. She was so young, and so beautiful too, and there was in her look and her gesture and her tone so much of that undefiled simplicity which we love to suppose in a higher nature of beings, that the young knight, as an admirer of everything that is excellent, might well make the fair creature that had just left him the theme of his thoughts long after she was gone; and in such dreams absorbed, he paced up and down the strong-room, finding out that loss of rank and fortune was a much greater misfortune than ever, till then, he had deemed it.

At the same time that Lady Constance departed, our friend Longpole also left the prisoners; promising, however, to see them from time to time during the day, and to find means of liberating them at night. In this arrangement Jekin Groby took care to be specially included; and trusting implicitly to the promises of Dick Heartley on the score of his freedom, his only farther consideration was concerning his bags.

"Don't you think, my lord," said he, after waiting a moment or two in order to see whether Lord Darnley would finish his meditative perambulations; "don't you think King Harry will make this Sir Payan, or Sir Pagan as they ought to call him, refund my angels? Hey! my lord?"

"If there be justice in the land," replied Darnley; "but mark me, good Jekin; you call me my lord. You have heard me say that it may be of the utmost detriment to my interest if I be known as Lord Darnley. Circumstances have put you in possession of my secret; but if you would pleasure me, if you would not injure me, forget from this moment that I am any other than Sir Osborne Maurice: call me by no other title, think of me under no other name."

"No, indeed, my lord," said Jekin; "I promise your lordship never to call you my lord again; I won't indeed, my lord! Lord! There, only see, my lord, I have called you my lord again! Well, it does come so natural to one, when one knows that you are my lord, to call you my lord. What a fool I am! But your lordship will forgive me; and so I'll go and sleep in that straw in the closet, and forget it all, for I shan't get my natural rest to-night, that's clear."

So saying, Jekin nestled himself in the straw, which had attracted his attention, and shutting the door to exclude all light, he was soon buried in a profound sleep; while Sir Osborne (which, according to his wish, we shall not cease to call him) continued his meditations, walking up and down, as if on guard at some dangerous post.