Legends of Lancashire

“Hans,” whispered Rachel, “give us your best blessing. Let it be the one in rhyme.”

A pause was made. Cromwell’s eyes were shut, and Hans solemnly began,—

The good dame was hastening to comply with the request, when Cromwell cried,

“Nay, miller, thou hast but asked a blessing on us. Let us ask a blessing on the provisions. Your’s is but a vulture’s blessing,” and he himself poured forth thanksgivings to God, for all his mercies.

After the repast, Cromwell spoke but little, except to Mary Evelyn, to whose lot he promised better days. But the miller was a little curious to know his intended movements, as it was not every day which brought him such opportunities for looking into the future.

“They expect you at Lancaster, General,” said he turning to Cromwell.

“And yet,” was the answer, “I shall prove that although they expect me, they are not quite prepared for my reception. The walls of Jericho must fall down. And saidst thou, pretty innocent,” as he looked upon Miss Evelyn with a kind eye, “that the Governor of Lancaster Castle, gave evidence against thy father, even to the death?”

“He did, noble warrior. My father was an old friend of Charles. But he could not support him in his tyrannic measures with the Parliament. Whisperings went abroad that my father had agreed to assassinate him. The Governor of Lancaster Castle was reported to have heard him say, that if the king went further, the nation must purchase a block, and that no nobleman who loved his country, would refuse to be the executioner; and such evidence was given; it was false. Oh! my poor father.”

Her eye rolled wildly around, as when in her moments of madness. The miller and his dame perceived it, and went kindly to console her. But the voice of Cromwell, though neither sweet nor full toned, seemed to exercise a charm over her grief, as if he had been some superior being; and instead of raving, she only fell into a fit of insensibility.

“Leave her to me, good people. Now my pretty one, put your hands in mine.”

He looked up solemnly, whilst he whispered,

“God above, heal her mind, and heal our mother country. Affection may yet smile upon her, and kindness may cherish her, but she is a wreck. The delapidated temple may have the earth around, as green as ever, and the sky above, as holy and beautiful, but it is still a ruin. Ho! my good friends, here, she breathes not. Her heart has stopped its pulse against my breast. Throw the spring water upon her face. Now she recovers. Look up, then, innocent one.”

In a few minutes she was able to thank him for his attentions.

“It is a painful subject, but although I hear it not mentioned, it is ever present to my mind. Oh! it is wicked in me to cherish revenge towards that man. I almost hate him. I almost wish him dead.”

“Blame not the wish. I have myself wished, nay prayed fervently for hours at the still approach of midnight, that the man, Charles Stuart, should die by our hands. He has braved the Parliament, and why should the judges spare him?”

And yet this was the man who, in after years, dissolved the Parliament by force, and took the keys home in his pocket. Charles might not order his attendants in as eloquent and strong language, to seize the offenders, as Cromwell used, when he told his servants to take down, “that bauble,”—the mace; but the king was guilty of a less constitutional crime than was the protector.

He continued, in tones of scorn, while malice darkened over his face,—

“If Charles be bad, why, he deserves death; he is unfit to live. If he be good, it is but meet that he should leave this vain and wicked world for another more congenial to his piety, where he may inherit a heavenly crown. Let him bid adieu, and there is no honest man who could object to a monarchy in heaven! Often has Charles called the crown, a crown of thorns. We shall ease him of it. Pity that his tender and royal flesh should be scratched! Often has he called the throne of England a cross. We shall take him down from the cross, and bury him. Pity that he should, any longer, be a spectacle to angels and to men! We shall free him of both his crown and his throne!”

“But surely not of his life?” inquired Miss Evelyn, and the question was repeated by Hans and Rachel Skippon.

It was unanswered:—and Cromwell relapsed into one of those silent moods which came frequently over him, even at the commencement of his public career, as well as afterwards, when he became Lord Protector.

In all his conversation, Mary Evelyn had observed that there was something of an innocent hypocrisy about him. He counterfeited tender feelings, when it was evident, from his face, that he had none; and at other times he restrained tender feelings, and appeared what he was not—cold and indifferent. But in his expressed hatred of the king, there could not be a doubt of his sincerity. The awful sarcasm was in deadly earnest, and the very words hissed, and hissed, as if they were coming from a full furnace of burning wrath. Neither was his love for England at that time insincere. Had his life been of as much value to it as his sword, instead of taking up the one, he was willing to have resigned the other.

A knocking was now made at the gate, and when Rachel went to it, a soldier of the common rank inquired,—

“Tarrieth my lord in the house? Verily he hath chosen a peaceful spot. The lines have fallen unto him in pleasant places. Lead me the way.”

“Dost thou preach in the army?” inquired the dame.

“No madam; verily, verily I say unto you, that many shall be called unto that work, but few chosen. But thou wonderest at the fluency of my speech. Ah!—out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh. I only edify and exhort in private.”

The good dame could, with difficulty, refrain from laughing at the uncouth soldier. He was tall and thin, and she afterwards remarked,—had Goliath been still alive, the soldier would have been an excellent sword for his huge hand. But he opened his lips so oracularly, and strode so gravely, that these circumstances being taken into consideration, along with his leanness, he was termed by Cromwell himself, with no little blasphemy, when in an unusual fit of jocularity and good humour, “the holy ghost!”

When they had gained the house, he made a low reverence to Cromwell, repeating the words, “honour to whom honour is due, fear to whom fear.”

“Well, my good soldier, what wouldst thou?”

“Will it please you, my lord, to walk forth in the cool of the day, and commune with thy servants, our captains and officers?”

“Yes, in a few moments I shall be with them.”

The soldier retreated to the door slowly, whilst he said,

“Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.”

Cromwell, in a little, walked forth alone. The miller looked at his form. It was muscular, but not strong, and well built, but not handsome; but all its movements were expressive of power.

“He will save the nation,” exclaimed Miss Evelyn, “and for all his greatness, he is yet so pious and devout.”

“I could trust that man,” replied Rachel, “but I could not feel any attachment or affection to him. He might perish to-morrow, and yet, but for our country, I would not mourn at his loss.”

The night was beautiful and still. It was early in the month of May, and the sunshine had all its young summer innocence. In mirth it seemed now to rest upon the little green knolls, and then to retreat to the mountain. The shadows were passing over the white cottage, as if chiding the bright rays which shone within.

“My good friends,” said Cromwell “it is now time for our evening devotions. Let them not be performed in a house made with hands, but in the open air. And yet I would rather worship in your dwelling, than in all the gorgeous temples, which speak too much of man, to say any thing of God. But, let us to the garden.”

His eye beamed with a love for nature. He is said often to have dwelt with rapture on the beauty of external objects, and to have wished that his lot, however humble, had been cast in a pastoral retirement, far from bustle and care. Nature had first given him thoughts of liberty. It was not the lightning and the storm, which inspired them. He cared not for the cold mountains, with their terrific heads mantled in the tempest. He looked around upon lovely nature. He called himself her son. It was not because she was free, but because she was beautiful, that he swore never to be a slave. A beautiful mother, and a son with a craven soul: it must not be!

They went forth to the garden. A pleasant arbour at the extremity, topping the eminence, and shaded with trees, was their temple. The balmy fragrance of eve rested on the bushes, and the glow of coming twilight floated in the sky. Cromwell for a moment listened in silence, as if the song of spirits, keeping their sabbath, was borne on the gentle west wind.

“What a temple is this,” he said, “to worship God! I cannot endure to enter churches, and there to gaze upon the gay gilded fluttering sons of pride, clothed in purple and fine linen. But here, I can gaze upon objects still more gaily adorned, and I dare not call them vain.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Miss Evelyn, catching fire and animation from the republican. “Churches teach so much the lesson of our mortality. Many graves are around us. But this temple teaches us of immortality.”

“Thou speakest well, beauteous maiden. Mortality is a great lesson, but immortality is one greater and more useful. Mortality teaches us to trace our connections and relatives in the worm. But immortality in God and angels! Sin brought the first to light, but Christ the other.”

They all joined in singing a psalm. Mary Evelyn’s sweet voice, with its low and tremulous sounds, occasionally induced Cromwell to be silent and listen, while he kindly placed his hand upon hers. He next read a portion of Scripture,—one of the Psalms—which he afterwards commented upon, in his address to Parliament, as Lord Protector of the Commonwealth. He then knelt down on the grass and prayed, “Father above, we come to thee! We now bow at thy feet: soon we shall lie in thine arms! Far above us, still thou hidest not thy face. Excuse us in this act of adoration, for opening our eyes to see the heavens, and for sinking our hands on the ground to feel thy footstool. The moon and the stars may not arise, but the clouds which conceal them, tell their tale. The flowers of the earth may have withered, but the clods of the valley, beneath which their fair young forms are buried, take their place, and speak to us of thee!”

Here he paused, as if overcome by the greatness of the Being whom he addressed. But soon it was the strong republican who prayed, and he raved about Israel; Israel’s God, and himself the deliverer of both, as he presumed.

When he had concluded, he abruptly arose and left them. They followed him into the house, after a few minutes, but he had gone to his apartment for the night. As long however as they themselves were awake, they heard him walking up and down.

On the following morning, the sun was not earlier in arising upon the turrets of Lancaster Castle, than were the soldiers of the garrison. They were in armour, and the cannons were all charged and manned. The Governor was walking about to every post and every circle, encouraging them to do their duty to the king and country.

His eyes were occasionally turned to the vale where Cromwell’s troops were encamped.

“Do they yet move,” said a noble youth who now approached. “Father, shall we able to hold out a siege against such a famed general?”

“Is my son a traitor,” bitterly asked the governor. “If he be, then my first duty of vengeance is against him. No! a king has blessed thee, and wouldst thou fight against him who once took thee, an infant, in his royal arms, and swore that thou wert like thy beautiful mother? Thy mother! Ha, the subject and the name are unfit for me. Let me not think of them.”

“Father,” proudly replied the youth, “thou doest me wrong. Not only my sword, but my very life is pledged for the king’s interest. But to war with Cromwell is to war with destiny. He can pray and he can fight.”

“Let his troops come,” was the scornful answer, “and we shall quickly send them upon their knees, to attend to their devotions. See, there is spare room for a few thousands to pray upon the ground out before us. They shall find room to stretch out their full length carcass, and they may breathe out groans which cannot be uttered, because they are dead!”

“They pray before they come to the battle. During it, you will not find them once on their knees.”

“Ha! doubtest thou?” exclaimed the governor. “If they refuse to kneel in loyalty to Charles while living, why, we shall allow them, in death, to kneel to their mother earth, which they love so fondly, ‘dust to dust,’ as they themselves would say.”

“Not before their garments are rolled in blood!”

“Art thou a canting hypocrite too? Hast thou been baptized with the said holy fire. It is the fire of rebellion. Satan was the first roundhead. He spoke of liberty. He mentioned it in the high court of parliament, but royalty conquered, and the good cavalier angels pushed him and all his troops over the battlements. Let Cromwell scale these turrets, we shall explain to him a precipitous descent. Let him come.”

“Thou hast thy wish,” was the reply. “His troops are advancing. Now for the action.”

“My brave boy,” said the governor, as he placed his hand upon the head of his son, “forgive me for my harsh words. Thou art my only child, my sole hope. Heaven bless thee and shield thee! But haste my men, is all in readiness?”

In half-an-hour Cromwell’s troops were posted upon a neighbouring hill, opposite the castle. A flag of truce was fixed.

A herald from the Roundheads now advanced; and being admitted into the town, proceeded to the castle. The persons usually thus employed were half preachers, and half warriors, who threatened with the sword of the Lord, and of Gideon. The present messenger of peace, belonged to this class. Obadiah Cook was his name, and as he announced it to the governor, who appeared at the drawbridge, all the soldiers gave a loud laugh.

“Friend,” said the governor, “is thy name Obadiah Cook?”

“It is, Sir Governor,” was the reply, “I am like that famous prophet, who sheltered God’s servants from the wicked Ahaz. Oh! for a place in the wilderness, that there my soul might fly away and be at rest!”

“What prevents it from flying? Surely not thy body, for it is so weak. Indeed, Obadiah, thou seemest too like thy namesake of old, and art too fond of cooking for the hundred prophets. Man, consider your own wants.—But your errand, Obadiah?”

“He that hath ears to hear, let him hear. Are ye so deaf? The very loop holes of that idolatrous castle, of that high-place of iniquity, condemned by the Psalmist, take in my words. My master, Cromwell, in the name of the Parliament of England, demands you to surrender the castle, else it shall be razed to the ground, and there shall not be one stone left upon another, which shall not be thrown down. Last night, when I had retired to sleep, in the midst of my meditations, I heard an angel flying through the sky, and crying with a loud voice ‘Babylon is fallen, Lancaster Castle is no more.’”

At this moment a ball whizzed over the head of Obadiah.

“Is that the angel which flew through the sky?” inquired the sentinel, who had discharged it, and who, with curses regretted that it had not gone a little nearer in order that the herald might have known more accurately.

“Darest thou?” exclaimed the governor, as he turned to the sentinel. “Another time, thou receivest thy punishment.”

The herald continued,—

“You are cut off from all provisions, you shall soon be compelled to eat your wives, your little ones, and yourselves. Then surrender in time.”

“Not so,” replied the governor, with a laugh, “we have better dainties than that. We have as good ale, as ever Oliver himself brewed at Huntingdon. Nay, I should like to have a chat with him, over some of it. Sentinel, throw Obadiah a loaf.”

The herald, who did not seem by any means over-fed, caught the descending bread, and stowed it about his person.

“Now, fool, return and tell Oliver that we despise his vengeance, and laugh at his mercy.”

“Then,” exclaimed the angry and indignant messenger, “a voice against Lancaster, a voice against the Castle, a voice against—”

“Yourself. A voice against yourself,” and a well aimed ball, from the governor’s pistol, brought him to the ground, from off his steed.

The report could not have been heard from the hill, where Cromwell’s troops were posted, but the herald’s fall must have been noticed, as instantly active preparations for the attack seemed to be making, and soon several pieces of cannon opened their fire upon the castle in close volley. From the upper batteries it was returned, and from the loop holes over the strong arched gateway, muskets were fired upon those of the Roundhead soldiers, who had broken down the gates of the town, and were advancing furiously.

“Prevent them,” cried the governor, “from recovering the dead body of their comrade. Let him at least be useful in his death, and be a meal to the crows and the vultures.”

But although the musketry wrought havock among the Roundheads who approached, they bore off Obadiah, whilst they put to the sword all the inhabitants whom they met scouring the streets in their fear. They returned reinforced, in spite of the cannon, which was now also turned against them, and they entered the church, and from the broken windows took aim at the besieged with their muskets.

Cromwell remained with the soldiers on the hill, and was seen whenever the dense smoke was occasionally rolled away by sharp breezes which arose, walking from cannon to cannon, encouraging and giving directions. Many a ball was aimed at him, but he seemed to escape unhurt.

“Old Noll, is invincible,” said one of the soldiers, “for, now, I loaded my musket with a silver coin, and took such a correct aim, that I could have wagered that the very wart on his nose would receive the charge, and yet, there he is moving about, and raising his prospective glass. He is the son of a witch!”

Throughout the whole summer’s day the cannons thundered. They had taken effect upon the highest battlements, as well as on the gateway, for these were sadly shattered. Many of the Royalists had fallen as they sallied forth upon the Roundheads, in the church; and a few had been wounded, as they manned the castle walls and served the cannon. But the governor, a brave old man, refused to surrender, as long as one stone of the fortress was left.

“See, my soldiers, the flag of Charles, still waves true to him, although it be in rags. Let us be as faithful.”

At sunset, a signal of truce was displayed, on the hill, and the cannons ceased; but the party who had occupied the church still kept up the fire, and the governor directed his men not to cannonade the church but to retire to the turrets, where the roundhead musketry would be harmless. As night came on, the inmates of the church, however, found that there was little good cheer to be had in Zion. The vestry had been ransacked, the communion cups examined, but no wine could be found, and there was not bread enough to supper a church mouse.

“Well,” exclaimed one, “it is of no use firing, let us barricade the doors, and compose ourselves to rest. I choose the pulpit for my bed. Soft cushions to dose on!”

The same spirit of sleep had descended upon the soldiers of the castle, and even some of the sentries were stretched out on the battlements. The governor and his son, did not awake them, as they walked together. Their eyes were fixed upon the enemy’s camp, when suddenly a wide flash was seen, and a cannon shot struck against the turrets. The firing continued, and soon, it was as regularly returned, when loud shouts arose within the lower courts. The next moment a party of roundheads were among the governor’s men, headed by Cromwell and Captain Birch, who had just arrived to act in concert with the general. The governor was seized and bound, and, along with his son, placed under a strong guard, while his men were put to the sword, overcome by the unexpected attack. The Royal flag was lowered, and in a short time the castle was in the possession of the roundhead troops!

“Captain,” said Cromwell, “our stratagem has succeeded. By playing the cannon, we diverted their attention to the hill where we were posted, and thus we advanced unseen. But where is the gallant officer of your department, who led the way, and clambered up the gateway?”

“Here he is, general, and true stuff he is made of. He was captured by the royalists a few months ago: but last week he effected his escape. Montressor, stand forward, and receive the thanks of General Cromwell, for your bravery.”

It was Arthur Montressor. Cromwell warmly extolled his services, even whilst he reminded him, “that not unto us, but unto God’s name be the glory.”

“General,” said Montressor, as he humbly bowed, “might I ask a favour, which can be of no interest in you to deny. Will you grant me leave of absence from the troops, for this night?”

“Absence!” returned the general, in a harsh voice, “and for what would you take absence? For some nocturnal appointment with a fair one?—young man you are silent: it must be as I have guessed. Then take my unqualified denial. No such license here,” and he turned away abruptly.

“Montressor,” said Birch, as he was about to accompany Cromwell, “you remain in the castle all night. Should you disobey, our sentries have the same liberty to treat you as they would the captive governor. Good night!”

Montressor stood for a moment motionless.

“The governor!—thank God that I have not left the castle!”

Early on the following morning Cromwell, attended by his officers, entered the apartment where the governor was confined. They found him asleep. Cromwell put his finger to his lips, and motioned them to the window, where they stood in silence. It commanded a wide view of the lawn in front, where the hill was almost a flat plain. Sheep and kine were browsing on the grass, and suggested images of rural peace and retirement, as if it had not been the seat of war a few hours previous. From their own thoughts they were aroused by the door of the apartment being cautiously opened. As they themselves stood in a recess, not directly opposite the door, they could watch without being observed. Nothing but a hand groping the way, and two bright eyes gleaming in the shade of the staircase, could be seen. The next moment a tall form, shrouded in a horseman’s cloak, moved silently in. He looked at the sleeper. His hand trembled as it was raised to the brow. He started, as if moved with some sudden resolution, drew forth a pistol, and fired it in the direction of the governor. He threw back his cloak, and perceiving that the ball had not been true to its mark, drew his sword, and rushed forward;—but Cromwell and his officers stood before him.

“Montressor! Beware!” thundered forth Cromwell, as he seized the youth’s arm.

The report had startled the governor.

“Ha! traitors! cowardly traitors! Do I see aright? Is it Cromwell who has played the ruffian? Cromwell,—after pledging my life to myself in the most solemn oath? And that whilst I was asleep! Base,—cowardly, was the act. And why shouldst thou have made the young man your tool? Could not your own withered hands have been stained with my blood, and not the white hands of innocent youth? Base, cowardly!”

“Thou doest me wrong,” replied the general, as calmly as if he had been rebutting a slight and unimportant accusation, “as these my officers, and as the assassin himself can testify. I had entered to propose to you my terms of a negociation with you. You were asleep, and, old man, I had no desire to prevent you enjoying a transient solace. This assassin,—villain I will call him, though he belongs to my troops, entered and fired. Wretch,” and he turned upon Montressor, whilst he stamped in fury, and the sweat broke out on his massive forehead for very anger, “why hast thou dared to inflict death, when I, your general, gave my oath that he should be in safety?”

He became more calm, but his eye relaxed not its awful sternness, although his voice was low as he added,

“Young man, allow me to unbuckle thy sword,—nay, no scruples—and prepare to die!”

All started. Cromwell turned round upon them with a look that forbade remonstrance.

“I refuse not,” proudly answered Montressor, “to die. But listen to my motives for attempting the life of that man. I loved. Oh! she was fair, gentle, and happy, as a spirit of heaven! General, smile not in scorn. Does a dying man rave in a foolish and romantic strain? She was more than an angel to me. She would have been my wife! But her father was murdered, and she was an orphan, deprived of her home; herself,—almost a maniac. Yes, she was mad when her condemned father placed her hand in mine, and betrothed us together, for ever and ever. And who was the murderer? Sir governor,—tell me who caused the death of Sir John Evelyn?”

The governor covered his face with his hands. Cromwell started up from the chair which he had taken.

“Sir John Evelyn! Where is his daughter? Young man, be brief, and answer me. Is she in the care of a miller and his wife, at a short distance from Lancaster?”

“There I left her. But I have been, ever since, a captive, and when I asked permission to leave the castle last night, in order that I might obtain information concerning her fate, you denied me. She may be dead. It would be well!”

“She is alive,” muttered Cromwell, as he again seated himself.

“Young man,” said the governor in a kind tone, “you would forgive me if you knew all. I have, since the death of Sir John, learned with inexpressible regret, that the evidence which I gave against him had been artfully arranged, so that I might be deceived. I have often declared his innocence. And, General Cromwell, if you will listen to the prayers of a Royalist, and one whose life he has attempted—for which offence you have condemned him; oh! grant him a pardon, and his life! It was but natural, nay, it was praiseworthy to seek my life!”

Cromwell shook his head.

“It cannot be. Discipline must be enforced. I saw the maiden of this youth’s affection and troth. She is a very Rebecca, beautiful and discreet. I promised to avenge her father’s death. Yet my oath of safety to you has been pledged;—and woe be to him who attempts to make a word of mine of non-effect! Captain Birch, order five of the musketeers to load; and bring out the troops in the front of the castle. I give you half an hour.”

The captain, as he went out, frequently turned round to see whether Cromwell might not relent, and forbid such a stern order from being carried into effect—but no!—

“Not for my own sake,” pled Montressor, “but for that of the orphan, do I ask my life. For my own services in a just cause, I esteem them as nothing; but to die such a death, seems a poor recompense even for a faithful dog. General, grant me life for Mary Evelyn’s sake!”

He knelt,—and along with him the governor and all his officers.

“It cannot be,” was the decisive reply. “But, young man, you shall have writing materials, if you have anything to charge to the living. Let them be brought.”

Montressor, with a trembling hand, wrote a letter to Mary Evelyn, and as he finished it, the drum was heard without.

“To whom can I assign my last duty?”

“To me,” replied the governor. “Trust me, that if I can make any reparation for the past, I shall.”

“It is well,” remarked Cromwell, in cold-hearted cruelty,—“If any man wrong another, let him return good, fourfold.”

Montressor, after this, was firm and collected. But for the slight quiver on his lips, it could not have been known that he was going to his death.

“Sir Governor,” he once more asked, “wilt thou be kind to her? Hast thou a daughter, to love her as a sister?”

“No—I have but a son, and he—”

“Cannot, cannot comfort her,” interrupted Montressor with some bitterness.

“Yet I know a knight,” returned the governor, “whose daughters are well known for kindness and charity. Sarah and Madeline Bradley, on knowing her history, will find her a home with them.”

“A home! Poor Mary, her best home will be the grave! There is my letter. Were it not that the sight would be horrible, I should die with this letter in my hand, and you would send to her, that she might receive it from myself! Farewell! I entered this room, a few minutes ago, with the intention of taking your life, and now I leave it to lose mine own!”

Cromwell opened the door.

“There is your way. Young man, I trust to your honour, therefore you remain unshackled to die.”

Already the soldiers were drawn out before the castle. The five musketeers who were commissioned to carry the sentence into execution stood in advance, their muskets in hand. Montressor took his place.

“Kneel,” said Cromwell.

“Yes, to heaven,” was the reply.

“Stay,” exclaimed the general, as he rushed forth in a burst of tenderness. The condemned youth started joyfully up. Hope was kindled.

“Young man, I love thee as a son. Take my embrace,” and he threw his arms around Montressor. “Look—for no other but you, a dying man, must see Cromwell weep!—Look at these tears. Now, my son. Yes, my very son, farewell!”

Montressor sunk upon his knees in despair. He waved his hand to the musketeers, and soon their duty was performed.

Cromwell himself raised the lifeless body, and sternly said to the soldiers,

“Let all, let each beware! Justice and duty are unrelenting, even to the brave and the beloved!”

Well did the governor perform his pledge. The fatal news were communicated to Mary Evelyn by Madeline Bradley, who, heart-broken herself, knew how to feel for a sister sufferer. Sir Robert’s mansion was the orphan’s home. She and Madeline took short walks together, sat together in the same easy chair, and slept together. Hand in hand they were bound for the tomb, and the foot of the one seemed not to be before that of the other.

The governor, every day, (for he had no longer the charge of the castle,) came, and conversed with her, whose father he had been the innocent cause of betraying to death. His son attached himself to the company of Sarah Bradley. The heart-broken sufferers, saw their mutual affection, and kindly fostered it. Often too, did the worthy miller and his wife make their appearance, and they were always welcome.

It was near midnight, and Madeline and Mary were alone in their apartment. They lay in each other’s arms, gazing, at times, involuntarily upon the white counterpane, on which the moonshine fell. They spoke not, but the gentle and low breathing assured them, that they had pined away together, and were now almost spent, and ready to go.

“Madeline, sweet Madeline,” said Mary, “Sarah will be a bride, in a month—we shall both be brides in a few hours, nay, in a few minutes. Let us be calm, for soon we meet our lovers.”

“Yes, my Mary, kiss me! We need not call for my father and Sarah. We are very happy alone. Another sigh, and all will be over. Kiss me again.”

“Yes, Madeline,” and a gentle breeze came in at the casement, and a sweet ray of the moon came to these gentler and sweeter faces—but the maidens were no more!

We may mention, that, in a few days after the siege, Cromwell left Lancaster Castle in the charge of a part of his troops. Soon, however, it was recaptured by the exertions of the gallant Earl of Derby.

R. Cocker, Printer, Market-place, Wigan.

The Publisher, when the foregoing preface was in type, and when, in the midst of active preparations to commence another volume, received a communication from the Author to the effect, that his pen was of no more service. How it has been taken away from him it can do the public no good to explain:—suffice it for the Publisher to assert that circumstances have been forced on, which are infinitely more painful than a want of ability, or material in the author; a want of encouragement from a kind and numerous public; or a want of determination on his own part to continue and extend the work.

The Author had intended, as will be seen in the preface, to write a series of historical scenes,—scenes of surpassing interest:—the Subscribers, numerous at the very first, were continually increasing, especially among the higher classes:—the Publisher was opening new agencies, receiving new congratulations, and employing new resources, when an event occured totally unexpected, which compels him, most reluctantly, to withdraw the pledge so often given, that other Legends were to issue from his press.

Wigan, May 22, 1841.

Transcriber’s Notes:

Page numbers 273 and 274 were used twice by the printer. The first set of pages is left unnumbered in this eBook.

Missing and extra punctuation probably introduced at printing corrected. Period punctuation, spelling and inconsistent hyphenation retained.

On page 30, “strange” changed to “stranger” (health and safety of the stranger)

On page 53, missing hyphen added (not to-night; the air is chill.)

On page 59, missing hyphen added (changed parties to-day)

On page 107, capitalization corrected (discourse last Sunday)

On page 136, “dissaude” changed to “dissuade” (tried all her arts to dissuade)

On page 156, “mischievions” changed to “mischievous” (the mischievous girl)

On page 247, capitalization corrected (pensive eye of Lady Mabel)

On page 261, “Hs” changed to “He” (He was a noble boy)

On page 264, “frighful” changed to “frightful” (into that frightful gallery)

On page 285, missing space added (beside his lady, his sword drawn)

On page 286, extra word “the” removed (instantly the door was secured)

On page 294, “siezed” changed to “seized” (seized by two armed men)

On page 295, missing word “of” added (the charge of one of the guards)

On page 299, extra word “as” removed (exposed as I am)

On page 316, “Montresser” changed to “Montressor” (said Montressor above, and he gently disengaged)

On page 348, missing hyphen added (He might perish to-morrow)