Traitor or patriot?

CHAPTER XXIII.

"DID YOU NOT KNOW?" SHE SAID.

Slowly the gatehouse clock tolled out the hours succeeding Lawrence's departure. Terrible and solemn ones they were for Ruth, maintaining her solitary watch beside the secret panel where the wounded man lay, with eyes closed, and now breathing heavily, now catching feeble gasping breaths, so feeble that more than once Ruth thought life had left him.

She had done her best, poor Ruth, and like any Lady Bountiful of treble her years, had got out her little stock of salves and simples and old linen rag, and gently and tenderly dressed the gaping wound; but it was all of just as much and no more use than the endeavours of the skilfullest doctors would have been.

"I am past thy surgery, child," he said in feeble but distinct tones, when towards two o'clock he stirred a little and opened his eyes. "The knife did its work. But give me a drink—ay, a cordial if you have it in your store. So," and he eagerly drank the contents of the little cup which Ruth filled from a flask upon the table, and shouldering himself feebly on his right side, his eyes wandered wistfully round the shadowy chamber as if in search of something, and rested at last on a little table of carved oak, bearing materials for writing. "Bring it here," he said. "Yes, that is well," he went on, as Ruth, marking his wish, even before he had given it utterance, brought the table beside the panel and set it close within his reach. "For I have a message to leave behind me, and my hours are numbered. My minutes belike," and his eyes closed; but in a few seconds he opened them again, and stretched out a trembling hand. "Quick!" he went on. "Pen and paper, dear child, as thou'rt a God-fearing maiden, and hop'st for heaven at last."

The dying man.

"As you do," gently murmured Ruth, spreading the paper as well as she could out upon the narrow bed, and placing the pen in his hand. "As you do, dear Master Goodenough."

"Nay," moaned the dying man. "Sin lies heavy on my soul."

"But God is love, dear Master Goodenough," said Ruth, dashing aside the tears that blurred her sight.

"Who taught thee thy creed?" said the sheriff, wonderingly fixing his hollow eyes on her pitying face. "'Tis none of the master's of this house, for his is a gospel of wrath, and of vengeance for our ill deeds."

"'I will have mercy and not sacrifice.' Does not the Bible say that, Master Goodenough? and the Lord Christ, did not He say 'There is joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth.'"

A last message.

"I doubt," murmured the wounded man, "had I been thy pupil, I had not been in this plight now." Then he gazed down at the blank paper, and thoughtfully setting the pen to it, while Ruth knelt upon the floor beside him and held the lamp close, began to write. "'I Thomas Goodenough, being now at the point of death'—Thy lamp burns very dim, there is a mist about it," he went on, labouring at his self-imposed task, while Ruth trimmed the flame, and made it shine brightly enough, but it remained only a poor dim thing enough for the eyes that never on this world's sea or shore, would see the light again—"'by the hand of the man, Richard Rumsey, who has thus now destroyed my body, as first he did my soul—'

"As first he strove to do that," amended Ruth, watching the words, as one by one the labouring tremulous fingers produced them.

"Take you the pen, and alter it then if you can write, for my hand will not reach to't," said Goodenough, "and may it be as you say, little one," he went on, a gleam of something like content breaking upon his pallid lips as Ruth took the pen, and neatly wrote in her little amendment between the crooked-back up-hill-and-down-dale lines. "'As first he strove to ruin my soul, by—' Nay, but write on, and I will sign—quick—'by fair and reasonable seeming words; persuading me to enrol myself into the foul plot which hath been hatched for the making away of the persons of His Majesty, and of His Majesty's Brother, James, Duke of York; thereby.' Hast thou it all down? 'thereby,'" continued Goodenough, as Ruth nodded, "'to rid the country of the race of Stuarts; and to set up rulers of their own choosing.'"

"Choosing," said Ruth as she wrote the last word.

A tale of murder.

"'It now appeareth,' went on Goodenough after a brief silence, 'by this night's work, that there has further been intended the compassing of the murder of the king, and of his brother, by these bloody-minded men'—write on, child, quick, quick!" Ruth's hand trembled cruelly, and a huge drop of ink fell from her pen; but she wrote on: "'by their waylaying of the coach in which the king shall return from Newmarket;' where's the cup, child? give me another drink. Now, thy pen again—stay, my brain grows confused—ay, from Newmarket, 'upon the by-road which runs by the Rye House, over against Hoddesdon, and there stopping the coach by the overturning of a cart across the narrow way, to shoot the guards from the hedges, and so in cold blood to kill the king and his brother.' Hast thou that all down in black and white?"

"Yes," answered Ruth, though in sober truth the characters glared fiery red from the fair white paper in her fevered eyes.

"'And hereby,' faltered on the dying man, 'I, with these my last perishing breaths do declare, that of the forty conspirers in this plot, I take not upon myself to single out the more guilty, and murderously disposed ones; save only that my own soul is innocent of all desire and intent to shed blood; and furthermore I do desire to state, that of those plotters who gathered this night to discuss the ways and means for His Majesty's death, the young man Lawrence—'"

"Lee; yes, yes, Lawrence Lee," rapidly wrote on Ruth. "I know, Master Goodenough."

"Thou dost? so much the better, the brave lad who would—who would—"

"Ay, who would have saved you from that fearful man if he could."

Goodenough nodded. "Lawrence Lee was not one,' and—and—" Goodenough's voice sank to a whisper, and his dim eyes closed. "I can say no more. I would have—liked to—tell—the noble turn he did me—and—how—thou, whoever thou art—"

The light grows dim.

Slower and slower, fainter and fainter, rose and fell the dying man's voice upon the silence; until suddenly his eyes opened, and fixing wistfully for a little while upon Ruth's face, wandered from it to the paper under her hand. "Set thy name to it," he said, "for—a living witness."

"'Tis well," he went on, when she had obeyed. "And now, give it me here again under my hand, and thy pen—and hold the light close, for it grows so dark—dark—nay, but I cannot see the place;" and his fast glazing eyes strayed helplessly over the paper.

"Here, dear Master Goodenough," said Ruth, taking the cold hand and gently placing it aright, "here is where I have written my name."

The signatures.

He made a desperate but ineffectual effort to steady the pen on the spot she indicated. "I cannot do it," he said, as the quill dropped loosely in his numbed fingers; "and my mark must suffice. But 'twill serve—'twill serve. Set the paper close—closer;" and then with infinite labour he made the cross mark. "Ruth Rumbold!" he cried, as he moved his hand, and the full light of the lamp fell upon the clear, boldly-marked characters of her signature beneath. "This man—Richard Rumbold's—daughter!" and his eyes fixed upon her in a stare of mingled horror and pity.

She nodded her head slowly up and down. "Did you not know?" she said, meeting his gaze with sad, appealing looks—"did you not know he was my father?"

"Then Heaven help thee, poor child, and comfort thee, for thou hast need of it indeed, poor innocent!"

Then his voice fell away into uneasy inaudible murmurings. His eyes closed again, and presently he seemed to sleep. And so till dawn slowly began to silver the fresh young leaves about the ivy panes, and creep on into the room towards the dark recess, spreading itself gently on the white, still face of the dying man, and the hardly more life-like one of the watcher, there was silence. But just as the song of the birds trilled cheerily forth, he stirred slightly. "Art thou there?" he murmured, feebly stretching out his hand.

"I am here, dear Master Goodenough!" she said, kneeling beside him and covering the pale fingers in her gentle clasp.

"God bless thee, child!" and he drew her hand close towards his lips: "for thy sweet charity God bless—"

Death of Goodenough.

And in a smile of content the lips parted slightly, a low sigh broke from them, and Master Goodenough was dead.

CHAPTER XXIV.

LAWRENCE SLEEPS ON IT.

"Now, Friend What-d'ye-call-'em, are you going to accept his majesty's polite invitation? or d'ye mean to stand staring all day like a stuck pig, at your brother-porker's pate here?"

The dig in the ribs accompanying these words, which were rendered bewilderingly indistinct by reason of the quantity of the toothsome edibles he referred to, filling the speaker's mouth, materially assisted Lee to catch something of their signification; and he started from the reverie into which he had fallen. "Your majesty—" he began, looking round with dazed, uneasy eyes, and staggering forward a pace or two.

"Ha! ha! ha! That's excellent!" broke out a laughing chorus. "Your majesty! Hear the fellow! Are his wits clean gone? I' faith, he looks something like it! Majesty forsooth! There's none of it here, friend; unless we're to be having you for a change. Come, Master Up-in-the-clouds, out with you! Was ever such insolence! Out with you! D'ye hear?"

It was the most doubtful question in the world whether he did. If so, it was, at all events, without a spark of comprehending; and Lawrence Lee continued to lie back, pale and more than half senseless, in the king's chair, whither he had staggered forward as he had uttered those last words, and with a twist and a reel, sunk among its crimson cushions.

"Nay," said another of the crowd of lackeys; "leave him alone. Let him bide a minute. I saw 'twas a comin' over him before the king had done speakin' to him. He went on gettin' whiter and whiter. Come, man, drink a drop o' this;" and he took a tall ruby-red Venice goblet of wine from the table and placed it to the young man's lips. "So; that's brave!" he went on in kindly tones, as Lawrence drank a little of the wine and roused up. "Finish it, man, and have another atop o't. One leg o' mutton drives down another. Oh! eh! but we don't take noes here. Drink, I tell 'ee;" and refilling the goblet, the well-meaning fellow forced Lawrence to drain it again, in spite of his efforts at resistance.

Where is the King?

"Where's the king?—the king?" said Lawrence as consciousness all broke in upon him, and he sat up. "I must speak to him. I haven't told him half—"

"Then t'must wait!" cried another lackey, "for the king's gone."

"Gone!"

"Ay; ever so far by now. He wasn't going to stop here all day listening to your wild-goose tales, I doubt. He's half-way across the heath by now, and all the lot after him."

"But the queen!"

"Ay; her too. Didn't you see them all go? Where had your eyes got to?"

"Gone a wool-gathering along of his wits!" laughed another.

And while their shouts of boisterous laughter made the old walls echo again, Lawrence pressed the palms of his hands on the top of his aching head and made an effort to recall all that had passed, and to solve the puzzle of the strange condition in which he found himself. Possibly the fact of neither food nor drink having passed his lips since a hasty meal snatched at the Nether Hall early dinner of the previous day, was accountable for much of it. Neither can long-fasting men ride a score and a half of miles and retain their wits in good working order; and strong wine, if it be a temporary remedy, is scarcely one to be recommended, as these noisy court lackeys seemed bent on doing. And when he refused the dainty food they hospitably pressed upon him with the savageness only those who have lost all desire for eating, from too long going without it, can ever be guilty of, they forced more wine upon him, challenging him with a toast he neither dared nor willed to refuse.

A loyal toast.

"The king! the king!" they cried, filling all round for themselves, and brimming the goblet in his hand. "Come, Master Stranger, we must see what metal you're made of. Drink a bumper to the king's majesty, and no heeltaps. Here's confusion to all crop-eared knaves."

"Ay, ay!" shouted Lee, starting to his feet, and waving the goblet high over his head. "Confusion to all crop-eared knaves. And now a toast. A toast!"

"Silence! Oh, yes; oh, yes! Listen!" shrieked the noisy crew. "Fill high. His majesty the chairman proposes a toast."

"The queen. God bless her!" cried Lee, putting the glass to his lips and draining it to the last drop.

"Ho! ho! Ha! ha! Queen? Which queen?" cried the roysterers. "Which queen?—"

"Queen Ruth, to be sure!" shouted one, hooking his arm into Lawrence's as Lee rose from the chair. "She of the Rye House, you blockheads. Queen Ruth!"

Lawrence escapes.

The sound of her name steadied Lee's senses like the working of a charm. He straightened himself to his full height, and striking out right and left, sent the troublesome fellows stumbling and tripping pell-mell among the chairs and tables. Then with a parting fling of his empty glass at the one who had dared to make a jest of the dear name, he rushed from the room—on, on—by the now entirely deserted ante-chambers, headlong down the grand staircase, through pitch dark interminable passages, until he found himself standing spent and breathless in the open air, the cloudless blue sky above him, and his feet ankle-deep in a miry lane.

The King's garden.

The place seemed to form a sort of thoroughfare to the back premises of the palace, whose walls skirted its length on one side, while the other was bounded by a tall privet-hedge. Between the ragged twigs he could discern the broad flat stretch of country beyond. On the left, some fifty yards off, stood the timbered plaster fronts of a row of street cottages, and a few paces to his right a high narrow iron gateway, flanked by a couple of moss-grown stone pillars surmounted respectively by the royal lion and unicorn. Through this gate's filigreed iron-work, at the end of a somewhat broad, gravel, yew-bordered path, Lee could see a podgy marble Cupid spouting water through a hunting-horn into a basin. Lured by the gentle plash of the water, he approached the gate and attempted to push it open. With a faint screech, as if of surprise at being disturbed, it yielded, and undeterred by its stone guardians, whose jaws seemed indeed to grin less in defiance of his intrusion, than in wonder and derision at his fancy for exploring the deserted place, Lee entered, and strolled towards the fountain. On its broad edge he seated himself, to the great confusion of the gold and silver fish moving about its weedy depths, and found that it formed the centre of a fair-sized garden, the path by which he had come being one of four, radiating off at equal distances between grass-plots, towards the lofty red brick boundary walls, gay now with the snowy blossom of espaliered fruit-trees.

Here and there white stone gods and goddesses gleamed amidst the dark yew paths, and would have seemed to render the silence of the place still more intense, had it not been broken by the voices of the myriad insect creatures footing it merrily among the parterres, and the darting butterflies, while stout old bumble-bees hummed cogitatively as they gathered in their wealth, as if they were mentally reckoning the probable sum total of its returns; and all to the music of Sir Cuckoo, who had a vast deal to promise of the good time coming.

A reverie.

Well, well; and Lawrence Lee, rising from his seat on the fountain's brink, and strolling listlessly onward by the nearest path, heaved a prolonged and heart-vexed sigh, making all the while not too flattering comparisons between these careless denizens of the king's pleasaunce—the bees, of course, simply proving his case by their exceptional prudence—who troubled their feather-brains not one doit about to-morrow's storms, which were as likely as not—more likely than not, indeed, to fall; as you might see if you would but spare half an eye towards the south-eastward horizon—and the king himself. As to the idiotic, selfish, frivolous lot about him, they were beneath contempt, Lawrence considered. To compare them with the butterflies and gnats would be an insult—to the insects.

This stage of his meditations brought him so near to the foot of a flight of rustic wooden steps that he tripped upon the lowermost one; and looking upward, as he recovered his balance, he saw that they wound up to some height, terminating at the entrance of a pavilion of octagon shape, built into the angle of the wall, and partly overhanging the road running beneath. For sheer lack of something better to wile away his enforced leisure—for to see the king again, by hook or by crook, Lawrence was determined—he ascended the steps, and found himself in a small eight-sided chamber. Its walls were studded with morsels of spar, bright-coloured shells, and bits of looking-glass disposed in various and eye-fatiguing geometrical devices, sparkling like Hassan's cave in the rays of sun, now beating fiercely through the two windows. One of these looked upon the road, the other, commanding a view of the rear of the palace, admitted light into the place; but in accordance with the rule of such pleasure-houses, no air, since they were "not made to open."

The summer house.

Nevertheless, a cool breeze rustled in through the doorless entrance; and Lawrence, wearied out, and still dizzy with the fumes of the wine which had been forced upon him, sank upon the part of the bench running round the wall which was nearest the inner window, and fell to a listless contemplation of the scene before him.

Ugly, or altogether unpicturesque it assuredly could not be called; but incongruous and disorderly it was, with its queer irregular mass of wall and roof, new and old, time stained and brand new, all flung together without apparent rhyme or reason, as if they might settle down as they could.

It was some time before Lawrence was able to distinguish, amid such countless odd holes and corners, the door by which he had found his way into the open air; and longer still before, carrying his eye to the upper story, he discovered the row of little bull's-eye casements which lighted the corridor conducting to the king's apartments. That it ran to the rear of the palace he had some hazy sort of notion; since through one of those casements he had caught a glimpse of waving green beechen boughs, and had guessed at the possibility of a garden beyond, while not a single tree shaded the street front of the palace.

A long nap.

The last straw, eastern wiseacres say, breaks the camel's back; and it is possible that his toilsome little ascent to the pavilion, and the burning sunbeams pouring in through the glass on Lawrence's head bore their share in producing the drowsy sensations stealing so rapidly upon him, that all the scene before him dissolved as he looked, into one confusing haze. "'Tis like a dream," he murmured to himself, pressing the palms of both his hands on his throbbing temples, in a desperate effort to shake off their oppression. "A murrain on those rascals for drenching me with that stuff till I feel as if I was spinning in an Epping Fair merry-go-round. Like a dream—a bad dream"—and his head drooping lower and lower upon his arms outspread upon the broad window-seat, rested a dead weight there at last, and he fell asleep.

Heavily as one of the Seven Sleepers he slept on. Ten, eleven, mid-day came and went; and still, as afternoon lengthened, and the shadows grew deep upon the grass, he stirred only to sink back again into the unrefreshing sleep of utter fatigue and exhaustion. Sultry as midsummer the sunbeams poured into the airless chamber, till its walls seemed sheeted in parti-coloured flame, which grew but the more dazzling as the time of parting drew on, and the gray evening mists began to spread over the low-lying fields.

A sudden waking.

High aloft in the greenish blue sky the young May moon rose and mingled her mild beams with the fiery westward glow, and still he slept on; but restlessly now, and muttering hurried but inarticulate words, as if he was dreaming uneasy dreams. How much longer he would have drowsed the precious hours away, it is hard to guess, had it not been for a sudden and deafening blare of French horns and all kinds of music, mingled with shouts of gay laughter and voices which broke just beneath the window, sending Lee to his feet with a start and a cry of terror. "Fire! Fire!" he shouted, staggering to the middle of the floor and gazing in wild distraction round the pavilion, while he gasped for breath in its stifling atmosphere. Could it be that he was dreaming still? Strange ugly visions of—Nay, now, but see what things are dreams! and what is it after all but the setting-sun blaze? And as Lee stumbled tremblingly back against the trellised doorway, greedily drinking in the cool evening air, his senses dawned upon him.

"Ay, ay," he said to himself, with a faint smile of amusement at his own fancies, as he stretched his neck over the wall, just in time to obtain a glimpse of the brilliant cavalcade turning the street corner in a cloud of white dust, and caught the shouts of the little crowd collected to see the king pass. "Come back, has he? Yes, yes, God save him, with all my heart and soul—God save the king! But the question is, you see, good people. The question is—" and then Lawrence Lee came to a dead pause, and fell into a deep reverie. "How was he to be saved?" pondered on the young man, his brows knitting painfully. This happy-go-lucky Charles, who suspected no foul play, because he would persist in judging others by himself, despite all his harsh experiences, and thought no one capable of taking so much trouble as to contrive it. This good-natured gentleman, whose manner of speaking, far more than the words he spoke, had won Lawrence Lee's heart, as they were apt to win all who approached him. How—so the young man now asked himself, could he ever have been brought to nurse one traitorous thought towards him? Ay, now indeed he understood, as never he had before, his mother's glowing look, when with the proud tears glistening star-bright in her eyes, she would say: "Thy father died for his king, lad."

What is to be done?

The last shout sank to silence. The birds' song ceased. The last ray of the sunset glory faded, and only the plash of the fountain broke the silence, and still Lawrence Lee stood leaning against the ivied wall so motionless, and his face showing so white and fixed in the dazzling moonlight, that he might have been taken for one of the garden's statues; but at last, as eight o'clock struck in the town belfries, and far-off village church towers chimed it back, he stirred, and slowly descended the little rustic steps.

A deep resolve.

"Rest thee well, father," he murmured, reverently folding his hands as he went. "The world may blame me, and say what it lists. The king shall be saved, though my life should answer for it. Father—only let heaven count me worthy to be called thy son."

And so across the garden, and through the gate, still standing half open as he had left it, he passed on into the street.

CHAPTER XXV.

SUPPER AT THE SILVER LEOPARD.

"Oh, all that I grant you; 'tis indeed a mockery of hospitality which moves a man to press his good things on his guest beyond his appetite; and the rascals were to blame—much to blame. But, my good Master Lee, you're absolutely no trencherman."

And as he spoke, Master Alworth laid a tempting cut from the huge sirloin before him upon Lawrence Lee's plate. "A strapping fellow of your inches," he went on, "should know better how to dispose of a glass, and to ply his knife and fork."

"Nay," answered Lee, toying with the implements in question till he seemed to be making grand havoc with the slice of beef. "But I have supped excellently," and he glanced in courteous admiration at the temptingly loaded table. "Such good things would almost charm a dead man."

"And 'tis almost what he looks," thought the goldsmith, as he secretly scanned Lee's colourless face; colourless save where on either cheek two spots burned crimson red.

A good servant.

"Though I doubt dead men's eyes never shone like his," he mentally added. "What the mischief ails the lad?" but aloud he only replied in well-pleased tones: "They're wholesome enough; and to speak no treason, Master Lee, the king's own kitchen, at least here in Newmarket, boasts not such a hand as my old Margery's at turning a venison pasty; try a morsel of it. No? well then, drink, man, drink. There's no finer colouring for white cheeks like your's, than a glass of my old Tokay. What! you won't neither?" said his hospitable host with a shrug, as Lee drew the massive silver-gilt goblet smilingly but resolutely on one side. "I' faith! I like not sots and topers," he went on, as he filled his own glass to the brim, "and as worthy Warwickshire Will—Oh, no offence, young gentleman—out of date Master Shakspere may be, but mind you, he can frame as wise and witty a phrase when he pleases, as any of your Shadwells or Rochesters, or your long-winded Master Drydens either, and he says ''tis a shame for men to put an enemy in their mouths, to steal away their brains.' But wine need be no man's enemy. It should rather be his trusty servant and helper. For wine, as another wise man hath it, is a good servant, though it be a tyrant master, just as fire—"

"Fire! Fire!" loudly echoed Lawrence, starting from the brown study into which he had fallen during his entertainer's disquisition.

"Why, bless the good fellow!" ejaculated the goldsmith under his breath, as he leant back in his well-cushioned chair, and tipping together the points of his ten fingers, contemplated Lawrence through his half-closed eyelids with no small curiosity. "'Tis but a cloud-brained lad after all; one would ha' guessed I'd flashed a musket-shot in his ear, to see him start."

"Ay," he added aloud, "I was but remarking that fire is a good servant, but a bad master, since 'tis easier to kindle a flame than to put it out. But come, tell me now. How did your suit prosper to-day with his majesty? Though in truth what its nature was I know not; nor desire to be inquisitive," he added good-humouredly, as he perceived that Lee showed little willingness to enlighten him. "But you succeeded in it?"

"No—yes, no—that is, I saw the king."

"And spoke with him?"

"And spoke with him—Oh yes."

"And what think you of his majesty?" catechised on his host, just a thought drowsily. "A right debonair and gracious gentleman, is he not so?"

"Every inch a king," enthusiastically cried Lee.

Lawrence drinks another toast.

"Oh ho! have I warmed the ice at last?" thought the goldsmith, with a twinkle in his eyes. "Why, so say I, Master Lawrence," he cordially rejoined. "And—come now, a challenge, you can't refuse—nay, i' faith! but you must drain it. I shall hold you a double-dyed traitor else indeed. Here's to King Charles," and reaching the bottle over Lee's goblet, he filled it, unchecked this time, and rose to his feet. "God bless him, and confusion to his foes by land and sea."

"Confusion to his foes!" echoed Lawrence, rising too, and draining the cup to its dregs.

"And, since his majesty so well pleases you, what think you of his Newmarket palace?" continued Alworth, as both resumed their seats, manfully struggling to keep up the lagging ball of conversation, though, to own the truth, a long day over his ledgers, the dulness of his companion, who did not seem to be able to originate one single observation, and the supper he had eaten, were beginning to work more and more soporifically upon him.

A rat-hole for a palace.

"Palace!" cried Lee with sudden animation. "A rat-hole; just a rat-hole. Only fit to be smoked out!"

CHAPTER XXVI.

"FIRE! FIRE!"

Silent and dark as any city of the dead lies Newmarket under the starless sky. Not so much as a glimmer to be seen even about the palace, excepting from the mullioned lattices of the king's own bedchamber.

Two hours since, Charles bade good-night to his courtiers, who, despite their best efforts to be entertaining, were yawning frightfully after their long day's pleasure; and then, retiring to his dressing-room, he dismissed also his drowsy valets, who, evidently for once in a way, seemed not indisposed to allow him to draw on his own night-cap instead of doing it for him, "for all the world," as he used to complain, as if he were "some poor Tyburn gallows-wretch."

Whether he was too tired for sleep, which is sometimes the case with people, or not tired enough, it was certain the king himself was in no mood for sleep; and wrapping his silken dressing-gown about him, and trimming the wick of the massive silver lamp upon the table with his own august fingers, he drew it towards him, and stretching himself upon a couch, took up a book which lay tumbled face downwards among its cushions.

Charles sits up to read.

"A fair outside truly," he murmured half aloud to himself as he carelessly scanned its richly emblazoned velvet and gilt binding, and then proceeded as carelessly to turn its embossed pages; "and with such a mighty pretty dedication to my sacred majesty, that my poor privy-purse will suffer cruelly, I fear. Tho' I'll dare swear that 'tis all as full of emptiness, or at best of fulsome fawning flatteries, as my fine lords and ladies, who hang upon my skirts, and care no more for me than this little Médor here," and he gently caressed the satin soft ears of the little dog who had jumped to its favourite spot between himself and the downy cushions, "who loves me—for the cake and comfits I carry in my pocket. Nay, but I do thee an ill compliment after all, Médor; for though to be sure thou mightst not be at the pains to stretch out one of thy fringy paws here to help me in my need, at least thou'dst not turn against me, as some I wot of would, who have fed upon my bounty. But what have we here?" continued the king, turning on again at the pages of his book. "Nay, now, fie, fie, Master Poetaster! but is not your choice of mottoes here uncourtly, to say the least?

"'For kings and mightiest potentates must die.
For that's the end of human misery.'

"I' faith! and I doubt 'twould trouble you no more than the rest of the herd, were I to die to-night, so long as your dedication money were safe to you. All—all alike, every man jack, and woman jill of you. 'The king is dead,' you'd cry, 'alack! alack!' though I doubt your breath might not reach to so much as that—'The king is dead—'"

A startling visitor.

"God save the king!"

"Who goes there?" cried the king, starting to his feet and flinging down the book. What voice was this, snatching, as it were from his lips the very words that were upon them, and in tones so deep and significant, from the darkest recesses of the dimly lighted chamber? "Who goes there?" he reiterated, peering hard into the obscurity, till at last his keen gaze caught the outlines of a figure enveloped in a black riding cloak.

"A friend," answered the voice in hurried tones.

Charles laughed bitterly. "Our foes in disguise call themselves that," he said. "Come forward—friend, into the lamplight here."

The intruder needed not to do so much in order to reveal his identity; for the words had not left the king's lips before a glare of light lit up the whole apartment, and revealed the face of Lawrence Lee. An exclamation of anger broke from Charles; and he darted a look of mingled suspicion and defiance on Lee.

"Ha! I thought as much, Master Talebearer," he cried; "and this is your vaunted loyalty—this is—"

"Fire! fire! your majesty," and Lee rushed forward with outspread arms. "Come quick! for God's sake, come! afterwards hang me—kill me—do as you will. But now—now—the palace is on fire, I say! and there's not an instant to lose."

Madness indeed.

"Fire?" cried the king, casting a rapid glance upward at the dazzling glare lighting up every object in the room, and hurrying towards the curtained entrance, only to stagger backward into Lee's arms, overcome with the smoke and flame bursting from the heavy drapery as he lifted it.

"No, no! great heavens! not that way!" shouted Lee. "Already the corridors have caught, and communication will be cut off. Come for your life;" and he dragged the half-breathless king across the room. "Here, by the private staircase!"

"What private staircase?" demanded Charles, reeling forward after Lee, with his hand to his month. "I tell thee, man," he went on, in tones of anger as well as of fear, "there is no private stair—"

"Come! come!" shouted his deliverer with a laugh of triumph which rang through the burning room, and he seized the king round the waist with both arms; "we are safe enough this way—as yet."

"The dog! the dog!" cried the king, struggling in Lee's embrace, and pointing towards poor Médor, whose piteous yelpings resounded from the couch.

"Ay, come, then," said Lawrence, turning, and catching up the little animal with one hand, he thrust it into his pocket. Then tightening his clutch upon the king, he dragged him to a square hole in the side of the wainscoted wall as yet untouched by the flames, and almost flung him down on his knees as with a vigorous push he thrust him through the aperture.

"What is the meaning of this, sirrah?" angrily demanded the king, as, after a maddening interval passed in stumbling and sliding through pitch darkness encircled by Lee's arms, he went round and round, down and down, as if in some hideous nightmare dream, till at last his feet were safely deposited on level ground, and his shoulders against a rough stone wall, which struck ice cold through his silken dressing-gown. "Say! what does it all mean?"

Fire on the brain.

"Fire! fire! your majesty," was all Lawrence could find breath to articulate, as, reeling from the weight of his burden, he advanced towards a lamp whose rays sufficed dimly to reveal a low stone vaulted roof, supported by thick pillars, whose outlines loomed ghost-like through the obscurity. "The palace is on fire;" and catching up the lamp, and again seizing the king, this time, however, only by the arm and with a more gentle grip, he succeeded in dragging him a few paces farther.

"This way! this way—"

"No," said the king, wrenching himself free, and coming to a dead standstill with his back resolutely planted against the wall! "I'll go no farther; not a yard. 'Tis some plot," he added, casting suspicious looks round from Lee's face to the darkness visible, and then again to the eager agitated countenance of the young man. "Some scurvy plot. Villain!" he cried, suddenly seizing Lawrence by the throat. "How many are there of you? Speak!"

It was only by something like a miracle, however, that Lee was still able to breathe. "Speak!" shouted the king, and his imperious tones echoed again and again through the vaulted place, till for the moment he might well have fancied that a host of conspirators were hidden away behind the pillared arches; but not a creature came to the rescue, and Charles's grip relaxed. "I cry your pardon," he said then, a little shamefacedly, and retaining his hold about Lee's shoulder more in kindness now than in anger. "Such doubts are unworthy. A miserable requital indeed for this good service you have shown me. Your face should be no traitor's. Nay, never blush. I thought this morning that 'twas as honest a one as I had seen for many a day, and should tell its own story."

A desperate plan.

"Yet even though my tongue helped it, your Majesty would not listen. Yet here as we stand," went on Lee, as Charles replied only by a shrug of his shoulders, "man to man, liege-man to his lord," and Lawrence fell on his knees at the king's feet, "I swear I spoke the truth. But it was to worse than deaf ears. All in vain—and so—and so—" his voice faltered.

"And so—Ods-fish, man!" cried Charles in bewildered astonishment at the agitation of Lee's face. "Don't be afraid. Speak out. And so?"

"I fired the palace."

"You!" cried the king, recoiling in horror.

"What else was to be done?" asked Lee, regaining his composure, and shrugging his shoulders in his turn! "We smoke out the fox's hole when we can't unearth him."

"To kill him after all, poor fellow," said the king, with a half smile, and a faint glimmer of the old suspicion in his dark eyes fixed on Lawrence, as though he was striving to penetrate to his inmost heart.

"Nay," bluntly answered the young man, "I have no wit for carrying on conceits of that kind, nor time for it neither. If I burnt out the fox, 'twas to save him from himself, and get him to make off out of harm's way."

"And what of the queen, and all my poor people?" cried the king, looking with troubled eyes along the way they had come. "A heavy ransom they are paying for my rescue. Let us get out of this place, and help, before every one of them is burned in bed."

Out of danger.

"'Tis but little enough harm they'll come to, I'll warrant," said Lee, in cool tones, and detaining the king with a firm hand. "The fire had a mighty pretty effect," he continued, with pride, "a mighty pretty effect; and so do a man's frills and furbelows, though he hasn't a thread of shirt underneath to bless himself with; and 'twas just that and no more—a flash in the pan, a snap-dragon, that has but just burned up all your Majesty's little favourite odds and ends, and rattle-traps, but I doubt it had not done a groat's worth of harm."

"That's reassuring," said the king dismally.

"Your Majesty may take my word for it," continued Lawrence. "I did but fire the wainscot of your chamber, as close as I could by the stone corridor, which I know cuts off all communication with the rest of the palace."

"But how did you know that?"

"One may learn a great deal—"

"By opening one's mouth, hey, and asking questions?"

Lawrence dictates to the King.

"By keeping it shut, and listening," said Lawrence. "Your Majesty may trust me for minding what I was about, and that I risked no chance against that sweet lady's life, just for the sake of saving your Majesty's."

"Well, well," said Charles, feeling more and more satisfied that he might place confidence in his deliverer. "But I like not these extremes," he went on, shivering and dragging his thin Indian silk garment about him. "First, you frizzle me within an inch of my life, and then you freeze me to the marrow. How long is it your pleasure that we stop in this dreary cellar?"

"So please your Majesty's own pleasure, you might be sleeping in your own bed-chamber at Whitehall by this time to-morrow night? 'Twould be the best course I can advise."

"I might do worse, I doubt," shivered the king.

"But you must leave Newmarket unattended and secretly. My horse stands at your Majesty's service."

"And a pretty figure I should cut upon him!" ruefully laughed the king, looking down at his airy attire. "To say nothing of my singed periwig here," and he passed his hand over the spot where the coal-black locks had been scorched and burnt.

"Your Majesty would in any case be safer for finding one of another colour to travel in; and if you'll but keep moving, I'll warrant that Master Alworth will help you to it, and all else you may need."

"Alworth! Richard Alworth!" cried Charles.

"Ay," said Lawrence. "Your Majesty, I take it, can trust him."

"With untold gold," warmly said the king—"with my crown jewels—"

"With yourself, then."

"Have with you, Master Lee;" and the last lingering doubt faded from his face. "Which way?"

The private stair.

"Up by this little staircase."

CHAPTER XXVII.

"IN THE NIGHT ALL CATS ARE GRAY."

The after-supper nap indulged in by Master Alworth was no little affair of forty winks; and he would possibly have slept on till morning's light, had not the sound of countless tramping feet, and a deafening uproar of voices outside in the street, disturbed his repose.

"Hey day! morning already!" he grumbled, sitting up shiveringly, and cramped in every limb. "Ha! what's that?" he went on, blinking and rubbing his eyes, as a flare of red light broke across the green-tinted traceried lattice of the window looking into the High Street, and lit up the room clear as day. The next moment he was in utter darkness, for the lamp had disappeared. "Mercy alive, 'tmust be fire!" ejaculated the goldsmith, as another and another flash rose and fell; and aided by the fitful light, he groped, stumbling among the chairs to the window-seat, where he sank down staring horror-stricken at the showering sparks, as they fell on the heads of the crowd surging in the street, as far as his eyes could reach. "What, where is it?" he gasped, dashing open a pane, and seizing the nearest gaper by the chin.

Quick work.

"The king's private apartments, so 'tis said," answered the man, shaking himself free, and rushing onward with the rest. "And the king! the king!" shrieked Alworth, in a frenzy of dismay as he turned from the window, and groping forward in the direction of the door, stumbled into a pair of strong supporting arms.

"Here, Master Alworth, safe and sound," said the unmistakable sonorous tones of Charles, as he set the trembling old man on his feet again. "Thanks to my young friend here."

"But how—how—" began Alworth, gasping like a stranded fish.

"The sphinx helped me, Master Alworth," said Lee, as he lighted a couple of waxen tapers which stood on the buffet, by the flame of the almost spent lamp. "But we'll talk about all that another time. Meanwhile there's a plot being hatched against the king's life; and if he stays here till folks from the palace yonder find him, and he be detained, and no doubt they are already in search of him, 'tis likely to go hard but his life runs in danger."

"What's to be done?" cried Alworth, gazing with scared eyes from Lee to the king. "What is to be done?" he went on, wringing his hands. "What can I do?"

"Lend him your coat, and the rest of it, and your hat, and spare him your periwig—Eh?" added Lee, laying despoiling hands on the grizzled article in question. "So, by your leave, 'in the night all cats are gray.'"

"I would give my skin to save your Majesty," murmured the goldsmith, as he watched Lee tear off Charles's singed perruque, and assist him in fitting on the more venerable borrowed locks.

"Nay," laughed the king, "'tis not a flaying question, I trust, though it comes pretty near it, to be sure," he added, with a compassionate glance at Alworth's coatless bald-pated figure. "Here, Master Alworth, take this for pity's sake. Exchange is no robbery;" and tearing off his gorgeous robe de chambre, he flung it across the shoulders of Alworth, who, as he proudly drew the garment about him, produced an effect less beautiful than striking, and as much as possible like some Chinese idol with his smooth shining crown adorned by its tight little wisp of hair. "Your Majesty," he said, as Lee put his finishing touches to the king's rapid toilette, "looks charming—perfection!" he went on, clasping his hands. "The very double of myself. No one would ever take you for the—h'm—the sort of person you are."

Ready for the road.

"I look like a better man, I doubt," answered the king, turning to survey himself in a mirror. "And now, Master Lee, what next?"

"Stars and Garters," said Lee.

"Ods-fish, man!" cried Charles, opening his eyes. "Hadn't we best be leaving those alone? They'd be telling tales."

"Stars and Garters is the name of my mare," smiled Lee, "who is to carry your Majesty."

"To London?"

"Nay, not so far as that, only to the King's Arms by Hoddesdon Rye."

Into the lion's mouth.

"What?" cried Charles, with a little start of surprise. "Into the lion's mouth?"

"And the unicorn's. Your Majesty will find no loyaler hearts than beat there, where danger most threatens you."

"I could get to London by another road; 'twould be better, even if it were ever such a circuitous one," said the king dubiously.

"'Twould be safer to take the road I propose," said Lee, "since it is the one by which I must return home; and I must have further speech with your Majesty."

"Is your horse a good one?"

"Her better is not to be found in your Majesty's stables. She'll prove worth the cost of her feed. I'll warrant your Majesty will be telling me that, when next we meet."

"At the King's Arms?"

"To-morrow afternoon; and there are those who will not be far behind your Majesty on the road."

And then Lee, kneeling at the king's feet, took his hand, and, kissing it, turned to go.

"Wait a bit," said Charles, detaining him; "what—who the mischief am I?"

"For the next eighteen hours you cannot be a better person than Master Alworth, called on sudden pressing business affairs to London."

"That's all very well," said the king, still rather perplexedly; "but I don't clearly comprehend—"

"Then your Majesty must pardon me for saying you are not Master Alworth."

Masquerading.

"Well, well," laughed Charles, "'tis not the first time Charles Stuart has been driven to exercise his wits."

"And Stars and Garters," continued Lee, "will serve the King of England at his need every whit as well as ever Royal Oak did. In ten minutes she will be at the street corner."

And bidding a warm adieu to the goldsmith, Lawrence Lee hurried away.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

And so as the shadows fled away, and breaking day cast its pale gleams across the face of the dead conspirator, Ruth drew the panel back into its place; for down in the malting-yard she could hear the voices of the men getting to their work, and she turned away, making an effort to collect her thoughts.

It was no easy task; and she was still far from having achieved it when she was roused by the apparition of Maudlin Sweetapple's head through the tapestry.

"Marry come up! Dressed a'ready!" cried the old woman grumblingly. "We shall be havin' thee astir in the middle o' the night next! That comes o' the maaster sendin' o' thee off to bed at sundown, like he's bin so fond o' doin' o' late. Oh, ay! they may say what pleases 'em," continued Maudlin, searchingly scanning Ruth's face in the young yellow sunshine; "but I say it don't agree with thee, child. Thy cheeks are as white as turnips; an' thy face as gastered as if thou'dst bin seein' of spirits. And—for the gracious power's sake!" she shrieked in terror as a rattling at the locks of the opposite door suddenly made itself audible, "what's that? Master Rumbold, as I'm a livin' soul! And me—"

Rumbold home again.

The rest was lost in the privacy of her own apartment, into which Maudlin speedily withdrew her benightcapped head.

"I may come in, Ruth?" said the maltster, as he pushed open the door, and paused for an instant on its threshold for her reply, casting, as he did so, one swift keen glance round the room. "I was upon the drawbridge and saw you opening the window. Up and dressed earlier than usual; is it not so?"

"Is it, father?" said Ruth mechanically.

"Ay, is it, is it," he rejoined in impatient tones. "Have you and your pillow quarrelled, that you are so soon astir?" he went on. "Come, can you not answer me?"

"I could not sleep, father," faltered she.

"And why not, mistress?" he demanded with the uneasy twitch of his lips which sometimes did duty with him for a smile. "Were the rats more troublesome than usual? A plague on the vermin for eating my malt till I shall be ruined; and vexing thy rest."

But Ruth only shook her head.

"Why, what then?" he insisted. "Was perhaps the White Woman walking? Ah! for shame, child, on thy foolish fancies!"

"Alack! father, 'twas no fancy," answered she. "It was no White Woman's spirit that haunted yonder room last night; but the black one of an evil, wicked-hearted man."

"Psha!" said Rumbold with an uneasy laugh. "Let us have done with riddles. I understand you now. You heard me and my boys—" He stopped with a confused, shamefaced smile. "That is what the foolish fellows, you know, love to call themselves. You heard, belike, I say, me and my friends—"

"Friends, father!" reproachfully interrupted she.

An anxious question.

A deep flush suffused Rumbold's face, but his tones of assumed careless indifference changed. "How now, mistress?" he demanded with sternly knitted brows. "Was it needful to be craving your leave for them to pay a little visit to the Warder's Room to—to inspect its pictures, and—and—its old oak chest, and—and—what not?" rather lamely concluded Rumbold, darting at the same time a keen sideways glance at her. "But let me tell you, Ruth, I like not these would-be prying ways of yours. 'Tis fortunate that these walls"—and he glanced with infinite satisfaction round the solid-looking wainscot—"were not made in to-day's gimcrack fashion, for the entertainment of every eaves-dropper who pleases to be lending his idle ear to—to concerns that are too high for him. You did hear nothing?" he added with ill-concealed anxiety after a moment's pause.

"Father—dearest, do you love me?" was all her answer. "In truth, do you love me?"

"Ay, ay. What a strange girl you are, Ruth! I love you dearer than life, little one;" and he drew her towards him, and laid her head down gently on his breast. "Far, far dearer than life. But hark you," and then all the wistful tenderness died out of his voice, "that says not that I love your faults. Among which I find this prying, curious habit—that accursed inheritance of which our poor unhappy mother Eve has bequeathed her daughters so large a share of."

"But, father—dearest—"

"Ay. Then let me see thee thy father's child. Seek truth and righteousness as he has always done; and put off,—as some one put off certain mountebank pink petticoats we wot of—eh, little Ruth?—the pride of life, and the lust of the eye and the ear; for these are but part and parcel all of things that lead to the soul's destruction; feeding vain imagination and empty fancy—"

"Father! father!" interrupted Ruth, wildly, "I would it were fancy, or that my poor silly imagination were to blame. But 'tis truth and fact indeed. See here!" and dragging him before the panel, she pushed it open with hasty trembling hands. "See what these—friends of yours have done!"

"Sheriff Goodenough!" cried Rumbold, recoiling in horror-struck amazement! "Dead?"

Murdered!

"Murdered—look. There is blood upon his hands."

"Who has done this? Who?—"

"Colonel Rumsey."

"The villain!" muttered Rumbold, grinding his teeth. "I knew," he went on meditatively, knitting his brows, "that their hearts were not at peace with one another. How came we to be so ill-advised as to leave them alone together?—Yet to dream of its coming to this! And how—" Then he paused. What need to ask how she had come by her information? The broken panel explained all. "What brought it about?" he said after another silence. "They came to high words?"

Ruth nodded.

"Concerning?—"

"The murder of the king."

"Master Goodenough being opposed to it?"

"And Master Rumsey," nodded Ruth, "all for striking him down—unawares—like he has poor Master Goodenough himself."

Honour among conspirators.

"Ay," said Rumbold, "I guessed as much; though he breathed no word of it. I suspected it, I say, to be in his thoughts. Heaven forgive him! I think now, he would not have hesitated at putting poison in—a man's food, be he Charles Stuart, or any other—or stabbing him in his sleep, so only that he might gain his end."

"But you, father, you?" almost joyfully cried Ruth.

"Nay, we are not assassins. I and my—friends. And this scum of the earth, Richard Rumsey was not fit to consort with men of honour like us—we looked, Walcot and the rest of us, we looked indeed to be the slayers, if heaven blessed our project, or the slain, and it saw fit. A fair fight, front to front—"

"Fair!" cried Ruth, "Fair? In that narrow by-way? Where the coach could not pass for the overturned cart!"

Rumbold frowned. "You have it all, seemingly, at your fingers' ends, mistress," he said, "and 'tis useless to dissemble with you; or to reason over nice and just distinctions with obstinate young maids' brains. Enough! See only that you make a discreet use of your indiscretion. Keep a silent tongue in your head. Do you hear me, mistress? Or by—"

"Father! father! kill me. Do with me what you will," cried Ruth, throwing herself at his feet. "By this time the king knows all!"

"Girl!" and in his fury he turned pale as the dead man beside him, and seized her by both wrists. "How? By what means? Who? This is Lawrence Lee's handiwork? Speak."

Her lips moved, but she made no answer.

The looming gallows.

"Betrayed!" he wailed forth in a paroxysm of impotent fury, "and brought to naught! Destroyed like any wind-bag. All our holy work—our sacred compact. By the machinations of a frivolous girl, and a love-sick Don Quixote of a boy! Oh, Ruth, Ruth! Little Ruth, was he indeed more to you than your father—and your very faith? Ay, but 'tis so—'tis so. What have you done? And is it nothing to you neither, that this brave night's work of your's must see me swing for it on Tyburn tree?"

"Father! father! No, no," shuddered Ruth. "There is time—time yet to escape."

"Ho! Is there so?" cried he with a grating bitter laugh. "I protest now, my daughter, you are really too tender and dutiful. Time is there? Time for me to play the poltroon's part, and make a byword and a scorn of myself while the world lasts! No, let them take me here. And yet—"

A father lost.

He paused, and his hold on Ruth's arms relaxed, so that she slowly fell away from him, while he stood sternly gazing into the chilly morning haze as though he saw in it some prophetic vision. "And yet," he murmured, "to be hunted down so. To let myself be trapped like vermin—when still I may be preserved, for an instrument to crush out the superstition and the tyranny of these evil days that darken more and more—"

"Father! father!" implored Ruth. "Quick! By the vaults. Before it is too late!"

"Yes," he went on, letting his keen glance drop on her for a moment, and then fixing it again like some prophetic seer, on empty space. "So it shall be. And my voice shall yet once more be uplifted to cry: Woe! woe! to the doers of wickedness in high places. Yes, I will live. I will live! I will stoop, even to the very dust beneath my feet—to conquer. I will live—and if every hair of my head were a man, I would venture them all in this quarrel."

Then he turned, and looked towards the door.

"Father!" cried Ruth, dashing aside the tangle of hair all fallen about her face, and clinging to him with agonized clutch. "Father! one kiss—one word—one little word before you go!" But his face was turned stonily upon the door.