But Cromwell had lost his chief prize. For some hours it was supposed—chiefly on Colonel James's representation—that the king was concealed within the city, and every precaution was taken to prevent his escape. But before morning assured intelligence was brought to the Lord General that Charles Stuart had unquestionably fled towards the north, accompanied by the Duke of Buckingham, the Earls of Derby and Lauderdale, and several others, and that Leslie, with his Scottish cavalry, had taken the same direction.

On receiving these tidings, Cromwell gave immediate orders that Lilburn, Fleetwood, and Harrison, each with a regiment of horse, should start in pursuit of the Royalist leaders. At the same time he especially enjoined Colonel James to follow on Charles Stuart's track, in case the Young Man should separate himself—as was not unlikely—from his attendants.

A Proclamation was likewise issued, promising a reward of One Thousand Pounds to any one who should discover the person of Charles Stuart—while the penalty of high treason was declared against all those who should harbour or conceal him. Copies of this Proclamation were forthwith despatched by swift messengers to all towns near which it was deemed likely the fugitive monarch would pass.

Colonel James, with a detachment of horse, started at once for Stourport, while the three Republican generals, previously mentioned, prepared to follow the retreating Scottish cavalry. The companies of militia stationed at the various towns were ordered to keep strict watch, and arrest all fugitive soldiers and malignants. Moreover, they were enjoined to search the houses of all declared Royalists.

Several country gentlemen, resident in the neighbourhood of Worcester, and suspected of taking part in the conflict, were arrested on the night of the battle. Sir Rowland Berkeley had a narrow escape. On taking leave of Charles at Barbourne Bridge, as previously related, the brave Royalist turned towards his old mansion, Cotheridge, in a very dejected frame of mind. Not merely was he anxious for the king's safety, but for his own. He felt that his peril was materially increased by the peculiar colour of the steed he had ridden throughout the day.

However, a plan of avoiding the danger occurred to him. Fortunately, he possessed a couple of piebald horses, and on arriving at Cotheridge he sent the steed he had been riding to a distant farm, and had the other piebald horse placed in the stable and covered with body-clothes. This done, he withdrew to his chamber, and prepared to play the part of a sick man.

Two hours later, Colonel Goff, with a detachment of dragoons, arrived at the old mansion and demanded to see its owner. He was told by the butler that Sir Rowland was extremely unwell and confined to his room, but the answer did not satisfy him.

"Lead me to your master instantly," he said.

Attended by half a dozen dragoons, he then followed the butler up-stairs, and on entering Sir Rowland's room found him in a loose robe and slippers, and presenting the appearance of an invalid.

"What means this intrusion on my privacy?" demanded the baronet.

"You affect surprise at my appearance, Sir Rowland," rejoined Goff; "but you can feel none. I arrest you as a traitor to the Commonwealth. You took part in the battle to-day, and fought with the malignants."

"You are mistaken, general," was the reply. "I am far too unwell to leave my room, and utterly unable to put on arms or sit a horse."

"Tut!" cried Goff, incredulously. "You were present in the fields near Powick, and, later on, in the fight within the city. I myself beheld you on both occasions—on a piebald horse."

"'Tis true I have a horse of that colour," replied Sir Rowland. "But you will find him in the stable, and his freshness will prove that I could not have ridden him as you state. Satisfy yourself, I pray you, general. If it should appear that I have deceived you, treat me as you list."

"Since you affirm this so roundly I will go see," observed Goff, somewhat staggered. "But you must not stir from this chamber."

"I have not the power to leave it," said Sir Rowland, feigning extreme debility.

Placing a guard at the door of the chamber, Goff then proceeded to the stable, where he found a handsome charger, which, being stripped of its covering, proved to be piebald in colour, and exactly resembled the steed he had seen. The freshness of the horse showed that he could not have been out during the day. Astounded at the sight, Goff made no further inquiries, but returned without his prey. As a declared enemy of the Commonwealth, however, Sir Rowland had subsequently to compound for his estate by the payment of two thousand pounds.

We must now repair to the Commandery, whither, as already related, the Duke of Hamilton was conveyed from the field of battle. His right leg had been shattered by a slug shot, and the injury was so severe that amputation of the limb was deemed absolutely necessary by the king's chirurgeon, Kincaid, who was in attendance upon him; but the duke would not submit to the operation. He had passed a night of almost intolerable agony, and was lying on a couch in the room adjoining the great hall. [7] His countenance was livid and distorted; and a cloak was thrown over his lower limbs.

A word as to the dying hero. William, Duke of Hamilton, then in his thirty-fifth year, had succeeded his elder brother, James, who was beheaded for high treason in 1649. Of the large train of distinguished personages who accompanied Charles in his march from Scotland, none was more devoted to the royal cause—none more determinately hostile to the rebellious Parliament—than the Duke of Hamilton. Though despairing of success, the duke adhered firmly to the king to the last, and that he was as brave as loyal was proved by the prodigies of valour he performed on the battle-field at Worcester.

"The torture I endure is almost insupportable, Kincaid," he groaned. "I could not suffer more from the rack."

"No anodyne will assuage the pain, my lord duke," replied the chirurgeon. "As I have already represented to your grace, amputation of the shattered limb is the sole means of saving your life."

"I would rather die than lose the limb," groaned the duke. "'Tis not pain I dread, but disfigurement."

"The Lord General has signified his intention of sending his own surgeon, Trappam, to attend your grace. You will hear what he has to say."

"I will not suffer him to come near me," said the duke, sternly. "I will accept no favour from the regicide Cromwell."

As he spoke, the door communicating with the great hall was opened, and two persons came in. The foremost was Cromwell, the other was Trappam, the chirurgeon. The Lord General was armed as he had been during the battle, and wore a broad-leaved hat, which he did not remove. Marching direct towards the couch on which the wounded man was stretched, he regarded him fixedly for a few moments, and then said, in not unkindly accents:

"I am sorry to find your grace so grievously hurt. But it may be that the Lord will heal your wounds. Such aid as man can render will be afforded by my own surgeon, Master Trappam. He is very skilful, and has wrought many wondrous cures."

"I thank your excellency," rejoined the duke, raising himself, "but the king's surgeon is in attendance upon me, and I lack no other aid."

"Let them consult together," said Cromwell, "I would fain save your life, if I can."

"Wherefore save me?" observed the duke, sternly. "Would you bring me to the block, as you brought the duke, my brother?"

"The duke, your brother, was justly condemned as a traitor to the Commonwealth of England," rejoined Cromwell. "Perchance, your grace may be pardoned. My intercession shall not be wanting if you are disposed to agree to certain conditions."

"I know not what the conditions may be, but I reject them beforehand," rejoined the duke. "I will die as I have lived, a loyal subject of the king, and an enemy of his enemies!"

"Charles Stuart is a proscribed fugitive," said Cromwell. "Hitherto he has been king only in name; now he has not even the name of king. My messengers are upon his track, and will assuredly find the lurking-place wherein he hideth."

"They will fail to take him," rejoined the duke. "It is written that he shall escape, and return to triumph."

"Where is it so written?" demanded Cromwell, scornfully.

"In the book of fate."

"You do not read the book aright, my lord duke. Were I to turn over its leaves, I should soon light on one in which his death on the scaffold is recorded."

"You will find no such record," rejoined the duke. "You have slain the king, his father, but him you shall not slay. His destiny is not in your hands."

"All things are in the Lord's hands," said Cromwell. "But would Heaven have vouchsafed me this crowning mercy if it had not meant——"

"That you should be king!" interrupted the duke. "Not so. Be not deceived. King you shall never be. Hitherto, the third of September has been propitious to you, but another anniversary of that day shall come, and it will prove fatal."

Exhausted by the effort he had made in uttering these words, he sank backwards, and his countenance assumed the pallor of death.

Thinking he was gone, Cromwell called to the surgeons, who had retired to discuss the duke's case.

"While you are conferring together, your patient has expired," he cried.

"'Tis but a momentary faintness, your excellency," said Trappam. "But assuredly his grace will not live long, if he refuses to undergo the operation."

"Then let him die," cried Cromwell, sternly. "He will 'scape the scaffold." And without another word he quitted the room.

Continuing obstinate, the unfortunate Duke of Hamilton died of his wounds. Though he begged to be buried with his ancestors, at Hamilton, his dying wishes were disregarded, and he was interred before the high altar in Worcester Cathedral.

It was long before the city recovered from the terrible punishment inflicted upon it by the exasperated Republicans. There can be no doubt that Cromwell entertained a strongly vindictive feeling towards Worcester, for the constant attachment it had manifested towards Charles I. and his son. To prevent the possibility of any further rising, he levelled the fortifications with the ground, destroyed the gates, and filled up the dykes. The work was done so effectually, that not a vestige is left of Fort Royal, while only here and there can a few remains of the old walls be discovered. Sidbury-gate is gone; so is the Foregate—so are almost all the memorials of the Battle.

Treated like a conquered city, ravaged, partially destroyed, all its wealthy inhabitants fined, many imprisoned as well as fined, some hanged, it could not be expected that Worcester, elastic as it has ever shown itself, should immediately rise again—nor did it recover until the Restoration.

Then the city became prosperous once more, and it has prospered ever since. If not so picturesque as of yore, it is much better built—at least, we are willing to think so. Most of the old timber houses and ancient edifices have disappeared—but the Commandery is left. The noble cathedral is improved—both externally and internally. A very respectable structure of Queen Anne's time occupies the site of the old Guildhall. In short, it would be difficult to find in the whole realm a city that can vie with Worcester in cheerfulness, prosperity, or beauty of situation. Its inhabitants are as loyal as ever, and ready to fight the old battles o'er again.

Floreat semper fidelis civitas.

CHAPTER II.

HOW THE FUGITIVE KING AND HIS COMPANIONS RODE FROM BARBOURNE BRIDGE TO WHITE LADIES.

More painful feelings were never experienced by a monarch than were those of Charles as he fled from Worcester on the evening of the battle. All was lost. The crown he hoped to win was gone. His life was in jeopardy, and after a vain attempt to escape, he might be placed in the hands of his enemies.

The cavalcade, as already mentioned, numbered about sixty persons of various ranks, but all devoted to the king, and prepared to defend him to the last. But it was the determination of the leaders of the party to avoid any needless encounter. Having quitted the high road to Kidderminster, they were now speeding along the lanes skirting the left bank of the Severn, under the guidance of Lord Talbot's servant, Yates, and another man named Walker. Charles did not ride at the head of the troop, but with the Duke of Buckingham and the Earl of Derby brought up the rear. None of his attendants attempted to disturb the profound reverie into which the unfortunate king was plunged, and so engrossed was he by painful thoughts, that he scarcely seemed conscious of their presence.

It was a pleasant evening, and though the sun had already set behind the Malvern Hills, the heavens were filled with rosy clouds, which were reflected on the surface of the river. The troop passed by several farm-houses, but the scared occupants only watched them at a distance. Anxious glances were occasionally cast back by the fugitives to ascertain whether they were pursued, but no enemy appeared in sight. By degrees the calmness and beauty of the evening produced a soothing effect on the king's troubled mind. What a contrast was offered between the peaceful lanes through which he was now riding and the city resounding with the din of arms, the roar of artillery, and frightful cries.

Having passed Beveré Green, and dashed through the ford of the Salwarp, at Hawford Mill, but without meeting interruption of any kind, they now pursued the Ombersley-road for some distance, but turned off at the Mitre Oak for Hartlebury, and halted at the Old Talbot Inn, where the king drank a cup of sack, while his attendants refreshed themselves with such liquors as they could procure.

Once more they were in motion, and a narrow by-road brought them to Hartlebury-common, then of great extent and dangerous in places, but as they could still see their way, they rode on without fear.

Nothing can be pleasanter, under certain circumstances, than a gallop across a wild heath at the twilight hour; but when danger lurks on every side, when the riders are flying for life—above all, when a king's safety is at stake, the sensations are not quite so agreeable. Deceived by the gathering gloom, the fugitives are apt to suspect that the foe is lying in ambush for them, and to turn needlessly from their course. This was the case with the flying troop. They avoided Stourport because they fancied there was danger in that quarter, and shaped their rapid course past the dismantled manor-house of Hartlebury, which had been garrisoned by Charles I. during the Civil Wars. The ancient mansion might have afforded them shelter for the night, but they did not dare to stop there.

They were still on Hartlebury-common, and were soon close upon Kidderminster, but did not deem it prudent to enter the town. Skirting the valley in which it lies, and galloping past Hoobrook, they proceeded by Chester-lane and Green Hill to Broadwaters. Thence up Black Hill to Sion Hill. Next traversing the beautiful woody district that now forms Lea Park, they descended a gentle acclivity that brought them to the old bridge across the Stour.

Had there been light enough to distinguish it, a charming scene would have been here presented to the king's gaze. But he crossed Hay Bridge without looking at the beautifully winding river or at the precipitous rocks on its opposite bank, well satisfied that there was no enemy concealed amid the woods to dispute his passage.

By the time the troop reached Kinver Heath it had become quite dark, and the guides declared it was impossible to cross the wild and boggy waste at that hour.

Notwithstanding their representations, the king would have pushed on at all hazards, but the Earl of Derby, Charles Giffard, and Careless, who knew the heath, dissuaded him from his rash design. Lord Derby thought there would be far less danger in passing through Stourbridge, even if it should be occupied by militia, which was doubtful, than in attempting to traverse a morass in which they were almost certain to be engulfed.

"There are so many quagmires in Kinver Heath, that, even in daytime, it is difficult to avoid them," observed the earl. "At night it is impossible."

"I am entirely of his lordship's opinion," said Captain Giffard. "I know Kinver Heath well, and I implore your majesty not to risk your royal person upon it."

"Are you afraid to go with me?" asked Charles.

"'Tis my duty to prevent your majesty from rushing on certain destruction."

"Nay, then, if the danger is really so great, we must proceed to Stourbridge, despite the militia."

"The rascals will not be on the look-out for us, so we shall most likely escape them," remarked Careless. "Besides, if we are slain, we shall die like gentlemen. Any death is preferable to being stifled in a quagmire."

"As the hour is late, I do not think the enemy will be on the alert," observed the Earl of Derby. "But no precaution must be neglected. In the event of an attack, all of us who are near your majesty will speak French, so that your presence may not be suspected."

"'Tis well," replied Charles. "You hear, my lords and gentlemen, we are all to become Frenchmen when we reach Stourbridge."

The party then turned towards Stourton, and once more crossing the Stour by the Stewponey Bridge, galloped on towards Stourbridge. When within a quarter of a mile of the town they came to a halt, and Careless and Captain Giffard were sent on to reconnoitre.

As Stourbridge at that time consisted only of one long street, it was easy to ascertain whether any soldiers were on the watch, but none could be discovered. The street was entirely deserted, all the inhabitants having, apparently, retired to rest.

Perfectly satisfied with their inspection, Careless and Giffard returned to the royal party, and informed his majesty that he might proceed without fear. Charles did not question the information he had received, but judging it safest to speed through the town, placed himself at the head of the troop, and galloped along the street.

Roused by the clatter of the horses' hoofs, several of the inhabitants rushed to the windows, and just caught sight of the flying cavalcade.

The Royalists, however, had not got far when a drum was loudly beaten "to arms," showing that Careless and Giffard had been deceived. It presently appeared that a company of militia was quartered at the further end of the town, and their steeds being ready saddled and bridled, the men mounted and formed as quickly as they could in the street to check the fugitives.

But they did not succeed in their purpose. The king and his companions drew their swords, and dashed upon them with such impetuosity that they cut their way through the phalanx, and in another minute were out of the town. These soldiers of the militia, not being so well-seasoned as Cromwell's Ironclads, were staggered by the fierce and determined assault of the Cavaliers, and did not attempt pursuit. Charles and his party, therefore, galloped on as swiftly as they could for a mile or so, when the king slackened his pace.

"Is there an inn hereabouts?" asked the king. "I am desperately thirsty."

"My liege, there is a solitary hostel between Wordsley and Kingswinford," replied Giffard. "But I know not what can be obtained at it."

"A cup of cider or ale will serve my turn now," replied Charles.

"The White Horse is not so badly provided," remarked Careless. "Nat Coulter, the host, can brew as good a pottle of sack as any man in Staffordshire, but I doubt if he can supply us all—even with ale. However, we shall see."

On reaching the White Horse the fugitive Royalists found much better entertainment than might have been expected. Nat Coulter was in bed, but he was soon roused from his slumbers, and with his wife and his two sons set heartily to work to serve his unexpected guests. He had plenty of ale and cider, with which the Cavaliers were perfectly content, but only a single runlet of canary. However, this amply sufficed for the king and the chief personages with him. As to provisions, they ran rather short, Nat Coulter's larder not being very abundantly supplied, but the hungry Royalists devoured all they could find. Though Nat and his household were known to be loyal, Charles did not discover himself to them, but spoke French, and was addressed in that language by his attendants during his stay at the White Horse. Nat, however, being a shrewd fellow, afterwards declared that he had recognised the king.

A consultation was held in the little parlour of the inn. On quitting Barbourne Bridge, Charles, as we have already stated, had decided upon seeking a refuge in Boscobel. He had not abandoned this design, though during the nocturnal ride his plans had undergone some change. It was now proposed that the king should proceed in the first instance to White Ladies, another secluded house belonging to the Giffards, about a mile distant from Boscobel, where arrangements could be made for his majesty's safety, and where he could separate from his companions. Both the Earl of Derby and Roscarrock agreed that this would be the best and safest course to pursue, and it was decided upon by his majesty.

CHAPTER III.

THE PENDERELS.

In Brewood Forest, which was situated on the boundaries of Shropshire and Staffordshire, and extended into both counties, two large monasteries had existed—one being a Cistercian priory, and the other Benedictine. It was from the ruined Cistercian priory, which had been founded by Hubert Walter, Archbishop of Canterbury, in the time of Richard Cœur-de-Lion, that the old mansion in which the fugitive king was about to take shelter derived its name. The house dated back to the period when the monastery was suppressed. It has now disappeared, but the ruins of the priory are left, and consist of a massive wall and a few circular-headed windows. A doorway, with a fine Norman arch, leads to what was once the chapel, but is now a small place of sepulture.

Viewed in connexion with the old mansion, the ruins of the monastery produced a singularly beautiful effect—the strangely-secluded situation of the house adding to its charm. It seemed as though it were hidden from a world of strife and care, and as if none of the dire calamities of war, which those now gazing at it had so recently experienced, could disturb it. Fain would the weary Cavaliers who gazed at the peaceful old house have rested there. But rest, as they well knew, was not for them. Their toilsome and perilous journey was not yet over. With some of them the road they were about to take led to the scaffold.

White Ladies and the monastic ruins adjoining it were surrounded by a low wall, in the midst of which was an old gateway of the same date as the house. Around, as we have said, on every side, were woods, and it was these thick groves that gave to the place the peculiar air of seclusion that characterised it.

Praying the king to allow him to go forward, Captain Giffard rode towards the gateway, which was fastened, but he had not reached it, when a tall stalwart individual, clad in a leathern doublet, and having a woodman's knife stuck in his girdle, strode towards the garden wall. Charles watched this sturdy fellow as he advanced, and was very favourably impressed by his manly countenance.

The forester—for such he seemed—was armed with a wood-bill, which he had snatched up on perceiving the troop, but being quickly reassured on finding his young master with them, he flung down his weapon. After exchanging a few words with him, Captain Giffard bade the forester open the gate, and returned to the king.

"That's an honest fellow, I'll be sworn," observed Charles, "and as brave as honest. He looked just now as if he would strike down the first man who attempted to enter."

"And so he would, my liege, had we been rebels and Roundheads," replied Giffard. "George Penderel has been a soldier, and served in your royal father's army at Edgehill, where his brother, Tom Penderel, was killed. He is now a woodward, as are all his brothers, except Humphrey, the miller of Boscobel."

"If they are all like George, they must be a gallant set," remarked Charles. "Are there many of them?"

"Five living," remarked Giffard. "And George is a fair sample of the rest. They are all true men, stout of heart and strong of limb, as if made of their native oak. Above all, they are loyal to the core. It is to their care," he added, lowering his voice, "that I propose to confide your majesty. Lord Derby and Colonel Roscarrock will give you an assurance of their fidelity."

"They have already done so," replied Charles. "What ho! George Penderel," he exclaimed.

Hearing himself called, the stalwart forester, who had been standing near the open gate, instantly came forward, but on approaching the king, he stopped and doffed his cap.

"You know me, I perceive, George," said the king.

"I have never set eyes on your majesty before," rejoined the forester, "but I should know that royal countenance among a thousand."

"I hope some others who may chance to see me in these parts may not be gifted with thy discernment, honest George," replied Charles. "You have served the king, my father—now you must serve me."

"In the field, sire?" cried George, eagerly.

"Alack! my good fellow, I have no longer an army," remarked the king sadly. "These are all the followers left me—and I must, perforce, part with them."

"But I will never leave your majesty unless you bid me," rejoined George.

"You have four brothers, ha?"

"All as trusty as myself. Your majesty will be safe with us. All the wealth of the kingdom should not tempt us to betray you."

"Enough," replied the king, dismounting—his bridle being held by George Penderel.

The principal personages composing the royal retinue dismounted at the same time, and followed his majesty into the house. By the direction of Captain Giffard all the horses were then taken into the interior of the ruined monastery, with the exception of the king's steed, which was brought by George Penderel into the hall.

A search was next instituted for provisions, and in this quest Careless played a conspicuous part. Repairing to the kitchen, he there found Dame Penderel and a servant-maid, and the fire being fortunately lighted, he soon sent a large dish of fried eggs and bacon to the king, which was greatly enjoyed by his majesty and the nobles with him. Nor while he provided so well for the wants of others did the thoughtful major neglect his own, but contrived to make a very hearty breakfast in the kitchen. It must not be supposed that the rest of the troop, who were now in the ruined priory chapel, fared so well. Bread, biscuits, oat-cakes, and cheese were distributed among them, and they had plenty of sack.

Meanwhile, Captain Giffard, who was all anxiety to make arrangements for the king's safety, had sent for Richard Penderel—commonly known as "Trusty Dick"—who dwelt at a cottage in the forest, called Hobbal Grange. William Penderel, the eldest brother, who resided at Boscobel, which was about a mile distant from White Ladies, had likewise been sent for by the Earl of Derby.

Trusty Dick was first to arrive, and Charles was as well pleased with his looks as he had been with those of the younger brother. William was powerfully built, and quite as tall as George.

"His majesty has resolved to disguise himself, Dick," said Captain Giffard. "What sort of attire ought he to put on?"

"If his majesty will condescend to wear a suit of my clothes," said Richard Penderel, "I'll engage that not a rebel trooper among them all will recognise him. My best jerkin, leather doublet and green trunk hose, will just fit you, sire, and I haven't worn them more than once or twice."

"The disguise will suit me exactly," cried Charles. "I will become a Brewood forester like thyself. We are about the same height, as I think, though thou hast the advantage of me in respect of bulk."

"Truly, I am somewhat clumsier than your majesty."

"Haste, and fetch the clothes, Dick, for I presume thou hast not got them with thee," said Captain Giffard.

"One thing more is needful to complete the disguise," said Richard Penderel. "I scarce like to mention it. Yet if it be neglected, all else will be marred."

"What is the indispensable matter?" asked Charles.

"Your majesty must consent to part with your long locks," replied Dick.

"Oddsfish! I had not thought of that," exclaimed the king. "But I see the necessity. Better lose my locks than my head. Go fetch the clothes."

Trusty Dick made a humble reverence and departed.

Not long afterwards, William Penderel of Boscobel made his appearance. He was the most remarkable of this remarkable brotherhood. All were tall—not one of them being under six feet in height—but William towered above the others by a couple of inches.

Although gigantic in stature, he was well proportioned, and possessed prodigious strength. His features were cast in a massive mould, and though somewhat heavy, had the same honest expression that characterised the whole family.

On entering the house he found Lord Derby in the hall, and its appearance—filled as it was with Cavaliers, with the king's horse in the midst of them—satisfied him that some great disaster had occurred.

"Your lordship is welcome back," he said, bowing reverently; "though I own I would rather not have seen you again so soon. Rumours of a terrible defeat at Worcester have reached us, I know not how."

"Ill news, they say, travels quickly," replied the earl, surprised; "but this news must have travelled through the air, if it has reached you before us, for we have ridden here direct from Worcester, and almost without stoppage."

"Oh, my lord, messengers doubtless have galloped from post to post, and so have gotten before you. But tell me, I pray you," he added, anxiously, "is the king safe?"

"The king is here," replied the earl. "Come with me and you shall see him."

So saying he opened the door of a parlour panelled with dark oak, and fitted up with oak furniture. Charles was seated in the room, and Lord Wilmot, Captain Giffard, and Careless were with him.

Without any prompting, the huge forester immediately prostrated himself before the king, who gave him his hand to kiss.

"This is William Penderel, sire," observed the earl.

"I do not need the information," replied Charles. "I am right glad to see thee, William. I have already seen two of thy brothers."

"Then your majesty has seen two of your loyal subjects," replied the forester, rising. "We will defend you to the death."

"William Penderel," said the Earl of Derby, in a voice well calculated to impress his hearer, "I know thy fidelity and worth, and have answered for thee and for thy brothers to the king's majesty. A sacred duty now devolves upon you, and take heed you perform it well. You will have the care of the king. He is surrounded by enemies—cunning as foxes in quest of prey. Beware of their wiles and stratagems. Open foes may be guarded against—secret foes are most to be dreaded."

"I and my brothers will strive to guard his majesty against all foes, open and secret," replied William Penderel; "and with Heaven's help I doubt not we shall accomplish his deliverance."

"Help to conceal me—that is all I ask at present," said the king.

"We have more than one hiding-place at Boscobel," observed Penderel. "I can conceal his lordship as well as your majesty."

"Mistake me not, William," said the Earl of Derby. "I shall not tax thy services—nor will any other. Thou must look to the king alone."

"I understand your lordship," replied William Penderel; "and I promise you that my sole care shall be bestowed upon his majesty. But let me humbly counsel your lordship and those with you not to tarry here too long. A troop of militia under command of Colonel Bloundel, is quartered at Codsall, which is not more than three miles off, and as soon as they receive news of the battle, they will assuredly search all the houses hereabouts."

"Thou art right," replied the earl. "We must not remain here long."

At that moment the Duke of Buckingham and Roscarrock entered the room.

"We have news for your majesty," said the duke; "news of Leslie."

"What of the traitor?" cried Charles, frowning.

"He has rallied with the whole of his cavalry on the heath near Tonge Castle," replied Buckingham. "A messenger has just arrived, saying that he waits there to conduct your majesty to Scotland."

"What number of men has he with him?" asked Charles.

"About three thousand, sire, so the messenger affirms," replied Roscarrock.

"Three thousand men might have turned the battle yesterday," said Charles, bitterly. "Let those go with the traitor who list, I will trust him no more. If he would not stand by me when I had an army at my command, of a surety he will not stand by me now that I have none."

The tone in which the king spoke showed that his resolution was taken. No one, therefore, attempted to dissuade him from his purpose.

"We must separate," he continued. "I shall seek safety in flight. Those who have faith in Leslie, can join him. I will not attempt to influence your decision. Retire, I pray you, and consult together."

All then left the room, with the exception of Careless, who remained with the king.

CHAPTER IV.

HOW CHARLES WAS DISGUISED AS A WOODMAN.

"Must I, too, quit your majesty?" asked Careless.

"There is no help for it, Will," replied Charles. "My best chance of escape—the sole chance, in fact—lies in being left to myself. I shall be well served by these faithful Penderels."

"Of that you may rest assured, sire," said Careless. "Yet I still think I may be of some service to your majesty. At any rate, I shall not quit the neighbourhood of Brewood Forest, so that I may be readily found, if wanted. I know the country as well as the Penderels themselves. So unimportant a circumstance may easily have slipped from your majesty's memory, and I must therefore remind you that I was born at Bromhall, in Staffordshire, within three miles of White Ladies."

"Ah, I recollect!" cried Charles. "No wonder you are well acquainted with the district."

"I have not seen Bromhall for years," pursued Careless, "and few recollect me. Nevertheless, I can make myself at home there."

"Take my advice, and go not near the place," said Charles. "Of a certainty you will be discovered by the rebel troopers from Codsall. Since you are familiar with the forest, hide yourself within it, and join me at Boscobel. But now for my disguise. No one but yourself shall clip off my locks. Have you procured a pair of scissors from Dame Penderel?"

"Here they are, sire," replied Careless, producing them.

"'Sdeath! they are like shears," exclaimed the king. "However, they will do the work more quickly. Have you aught to throw over my shoulders?"

"A towel borrowed from the good dame."

"That will do," replied Charles. "Now begin, and lose no time."

It required a desperate effort on Careless's part to commence, but in a few minutes he had cut off the long black locks on which the young monarch had justly prided himself.

"Have you done?" asked Charles.

"Be pleased to look at yourself in the glass, sire, and you will find your hair cropped as close as that of a Puritan."

Charles groaned on remarking the frightful change wrought in his personal appearance.

"Zounds! you have disfigured me most horribly," he cried.

"I have reluctantly obeyed your majesty's orders," replied Careless. "Here are love-locks enow for twenty fair dames," he added.

"Unluckily, there is not a single fair dame on whom to bestow them. Bid Dame Penderel burn them."

"Rather let me bid her keep them safely as a memorial for her children," rejoined Careless.

"As you will," said the king. "Now help me to take off my ornaments."

"Little did I think I should ever have this sad duty to perform, sire," observed Careless, as he knelt down to remove the garter from the king's knee.

"These are but badges of royalty, and can be easily replaced," said Charles. "A kingdom is not so easily got back."

With his attendant's aid he then divested himself of the blue riband, the George of diamonds, and all his ornaments.

"My watch has stopped," he remarked. "I have neglected to wind it up."

"It has been struck by a bullet," said Careless, examining it. "Look how deeply the case is dinted, sire. This watch has saved your majesty's life."

"Then I will bestow it on the best friend I have," said the king. "Wear it for my sake, Will."

"I will wear it next my heart," was the fervent reply. "Your majesty could not have bestowed upon me a more precious gift."

Just then Lord Wilmot, Colonel Roscarrock, Colonel Blague, and some others came in, and almost started back on seeing how strangely the king was metamorphosed.

"You see, gentlemen, to what a state I am reduced," he observed, with a sad smile. "I must commit these ornaments to your custody," he added.

"I hope we shall soon be able to restore them to your majesty," said Lord Wilmot, who received the George.

"What has been decided?" inquired Charles. "Do you all join Leslie?"

"The majority have so determined," replied Lord Wilmot. "But I shall take another course. Perhaps I may attempt to reach London. I shall not be far from your majesty," he added, in a low tone.

"What is to be done with your horse, my liege?" asked Colonel Lane. "Have you any further occasion for him?"

"None whatever," replied Charles. "If the horse should be found here, he might lead to my discovery."

"Then I will gladly take him, for my own steed is dead beaten," rejoined Colonel Lane.

The saddest moment was now at hand. The Duke of Buckingham, the Earl of Derby, and the other nobles came in to take leave of the king.

Charles was profoundly affected, and the nobles were overpowered by emotion. Very little was said by them, for their grief was too real and too deep to find expression in words. Ceremony was laid aside, and Charles embraced them all. With very gloomy forebodings they then left the room—Lord Derby being the last to retire.

"I trust we shall soon meet again, my dear lord," said Charles, as he stood beside him, with his arm upon the earl's shoulder.

"I do not think I shall ever behold your majesty again in this world," replied Lord Derby, in a melancholy tone. "I have a presentiment that I am going to my doom."

"Then stay with me," said the king. "The hiding-places at Boscobel belong of right to you. Proceed thither at once."

"Heaven forbid that I should endanger your majesty's safety by any attempt to preserve myself," exclaimed the earl. "If I fall into the hands of the enemy, I shall be cheered by the firm conviction that your majesty will escape, and in the end will be restored to your kingdom. That I shall live to see that happy day I doubt—nay, I am well assured I shall not—but it will come nevertheless."

"Look forward to it, my lord—look forward to our next meeting!" cried Charles.

"We shall meet in heaven, I trust, sire—not on earth," replied the earl, solemnly. "I bid your majesty an eternal farewell."

Charles did not attempt to reply, for he was strongly impressed by the earl's manner, and Lord Derby quitted the room.

The chivalrous but ill-fated peer's presentiments were unfortunately realised. Immediately after taking leave of the king, as described, all the nobles, with the exception of Lord Wilmot, who had engaged the services of John Penderel, the second brother, quitted White Ladies, taking with them the whole troop of Cavaliers, and proceeded, under the guidance of Charles Giffard, to the heath near Tonge Castle, where they expected to find Leslie and his cavalry. But the Scottish general was gone, and was marching northwards, as they learnt, by way of Newport, so they took the same direction.

They had not, however, ridden many miles when they were overtaken by Lord Leviston and a few of the royal life guards who had fought at Worcester. Lord Leviston and his handful of men were flying before a strong detachment of horse, commanded by Colonel James, and on seeing his lordship's danger, the Earl of Derby and the other nobles at once faced about, and attacking the Roundheads with great fury, drove them back. This success greatly raised their spirits, but it was quickly followed by a reverse. Just beyond Newport, they were encountered by Colonel Lilburn, while Colonel James, having received considerable reinforcements, followed and attacked in the rear.

Leslie's cavalry was completely routed and dispersed. Lord Derby, Lord Lauderdale, Lord Sinclair, and the faithless Scottish leader, were captured, and conveyed first to Whitchurch, and next to Banbury in Cheshire. Subsequently, the ill-fated Earl of Derby was removed to Chester, and imprisoned in the castle, there to await his trial for high treason. Charles Giffard was likewise taken prisoner at the conflict near Newport, but contrived to escape at Banbury.

But we are anticipating the course of events, and must return to the fugitive monarch at White Ladies. Careless had witnessed the departure of the devoted band with feelings akin to self-reproach for not going with them, when on returning to the house, he found Richard Penderel with the suit of clothes intended for the king's disguise, and immediately took them to his majesty. That nothing should be wanting, Trusty Dick had brought a coarse shirt and a woodman's cap with the garments, and in a few minutes Charles had taken off his rich apparel, and put on the sturdy forester's habiliments. His buff coat and broadsword-belt were replaced by a leathern doublet, and jerkin of green cloth, while common country hose were drawn above his knees, and heavy hob-nailed shoes had succeeded his riding-boots.

As soon as the change was effected, William and Richard Penderel were introduced by Careless, and were astonished by the alteration in the king's appearance. Both averred that his majesty looked just like one of themselves, and would impose on the most suspicious rebel.

A clever mimic, Charles tried, and not unsuccessfully, to imitate Trusty Dick's gait and manner. The elder Penderel could not repress a smile as he regarded him. The sole objection urged by those who scrutinised the newly-made forester's appearance was that his hands were too white, but this was quickly remedied by a little charcoal dust. His complexion was dark enough, being as brown as that of a gipsy.

"Your majesty must be careful not to answer if you are spoken to by any of the common folk, since you have not the accent of the country," observed William Penderel.

"Fear nothing. I shall easily acquire it," replied Charles. "Is Lord Wilmot gone?" he inquired.

"Ay, my liege," was the reply. "He left the house immediately after the departure of the troop. My brother John went with him, and intended to take him to Mr. Huntbach's house at Brinsford, where he will stay till some other hiding-place can be found. Any message your majesty may desire to send can be readily conveyed to him by John."

"And now, sire, since you are fully disguised," said Careless, "I counsel you not to remain here a moment longer. 'Tis possible the house may be surrounded, and then you will be unable to escape."

"Whither do you propose to take me?" asked Charles of the Penderels.

"It will be best that your majesty should remain in the forest during the day, in case an immediate search should be made at Boscobel," replied William Penderel. "We will hide you in a thick part of the wood, about half a mile hence, called Spring Coppice, where no one will be likely to search for you."

"I know Spring Coppice well," said Careless. "If your majesty should hear a whistle, you will understand it is a signal from me, and need not be alarmed. Though unseen, I shall not be far off."

He then took leave of the king, and quitted the house.

No sooner was Charles gone than all traces of his visit were removed by George Penderel and his wife.

His majesty's habiliments were carefully wrapped up and deposited in an old chest, as were his feathered hat and boots, while his shorn locks were preserved like relics.

CHAPTER V.

HOW CHARLES WAS CONCEALED IN SPRING COPPICE, AND HOW IT RAINED THERE, AND NOWHERE ELSE IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD.

On quitting the house, Charles and his two stalwart attendants entered the ruins of the old priory, where Trusty Dick, by the aid of the ivy, climbed the massive wall, and looked around to satisfy himself that all was secure. Not perceiving anything to occasion alarm, he soon descended from his post of observation, and the party left the ruins and entered the wood at the rear of the house.

Pursuing a roadway among the trees, they marched on at a quick pace. On either side there was a good deal of fine timber, and several ancient oaks caught the king's eye as he strode along. Presently they came upon a broad clearing, where the underwood having been removed, only a few scattered trees were left, and having crossed it, they penetrated a wilderness of brambles and thorns, through which Charles could never have made his way unassisted, and this rough barrier passed, they reached a waste overgrown with short wood, which was cut at certain seasons for fuel. This was Spring Coppice, and just beyond it were the shady groves of Boscobel.

Though there were few large trees in Spring Coppice, there was a good deal of tangled underwood, and a thick covert afforded an excellent place of concealment. It was towards this spot that his guides now led the king. While the covert was almost impenetrable to those unacquainted with it, there was an outlet to the Boscobel woods, which could be easily gained in case of need.

In the very heart of the covert, like the centre of a maze, there was a small open space, free from underwood, and covered with a carpet of smooth sward. Here it was proposed that the king should remain, while his two guides undertook to act as scouts and sentinels, and warn him of any danger. Having shown his majesty how to hide himself amid the underwood, and how to gain the outlet into the adjoining thicket, they left him, promising that one of them would return ere long.

Almost for the first time in his life, Charles was now completely alone. Yesterday, at the same hour, he was a king, and had an army at his command. Now he was dependent for his safety upon a few loyal rustics. Not for a moment did he doubt their fidelity, or believe that threats of punishment or offers of reward would induce them to betray him. Yet accident might bring his enemies to his place of concealment. In that case he was resolved to sell his life dearly, though the only weapon he possessed was the woodman's knife in his girdle.

He strove to divert his melancholy thoughts and while away the time by pacing round and round the little circular spot in which he was enclosed. But he soon got tired of this enforced exercise, and threw himself at full length on the sward. How he wished that Careless was with him, or Lord Wilmot! To add to his discomfort, the morning, which had been dark and dull, became still more gloomy; clouds gathered overhead, and at length discharged themselves in a steady down-pour. He sought shelter among the trees, but could not protect himself entirely from the wet.

The rain continued—heavily, heavily.

Several hours passed, which seemed more wearisome, more dismal than any hours the king had ever previously spent.

During the long and dreary interval no one came near him, nor did any sounds reach his ear, except the ceaseless pattering of the rain upon the leaves. Now and then he heard the rustle of a rabbit among the underwood, the cry of a blackbird, or the challenge of a cock pheasant. Nothing else. No whistle from Careless—no signal from the Penderels.

Having now no watch he could not tell how time was passing, but he thought it much later than it really was. At last he heard sounds of some one approaching, and a voice, which he easily recognised as that of Richard Penderel, called out "A friend!"

Trusty Dick was accompanied by his sister, who was married to a woodman named Yates, and the good wife carried a basket containing some eatables and a bottle of sack, the sight of which greatly rejoiced the king, who had become ravenously hungry. Trusty Dick had brought with him a blanket, which he laid upon the ground beneath a tree, so as to form a dry seat for his majesty, while Elizabeth Yates spread the contents of her basket before him. Charles was so hungry that he thought of nothing at first but satisfying his appetite, but after he had consumed half a dozen hard-boiled eggs, a large piece of cold meat, the best part of a loaf, and had well-nigh emptied the flask of sack, he began to converse with Dame Yates.

Though built on the same large scale as her brothers, Elizabeth had rather a comely countenance, and the good-humoured smile that lighted it up as she watched the king's performances was exceedingly pleasant to behold.

"Saints be praised!" she exclaimed; "it does one good to see your majesty enjoy your humble meal."

"I never enjoyed aught so much," replied the king. "I have got a forester's keen appetite. I thank thee for the blanket thou hast brought me, Dick, but if I remain longer here I shall have rheumatism in all my limbs."

"There is danger abroad," replied Dick. "A body of rebel troopers, under the command of Colonel Bloundel, has been to White Ladies. Colonel Bloundel declared you were concealed somewhere, and not only searched the house, but the ruins of the old priory, and was greatly enraged and disappointed when he failed to discover your majesty. He then ordered a dozen of his men to search the forest and join him at Boscobel, and I make no doubt they are there now. My brother William has gone thither to see what they are about, and will bring your majesty word. It is well you were concealed here."

"The saints have had your majesty in their guard!" exclaimed Elizabeth, who, like all her brothers, was a devout Romanist. "A marvellous thing has happened. Elsewhere it has been fine, but here, at Spring Coppice, it has rained."

"It has rained heavily enough, as I can testify from experience," cried Charles.

"But the rain prevented the rebels from searching this wood," observed Dick. "I followed them unobserved, and undoubtedly they were coming hither, but when they found it so wet they gave up the quest, and proceeded to Boscobel."

"'Tis strange, indeed!" said Charles, gravely.

"I see Heaven's hand in it quite plainly!" ejaculated Elizabeth, crossing herself devoutly; "and so will good Father Huddlestone."

"Father Huddlestone!" exclaimed Charles. "You will have to confess to him."

"Ah! you need not fear him, sire," cried Elizabeth. "The good priest is devoted to your majesty. He has taught us all to fear God and honour the king."

"Father Huddlestone has made us what we are, sire," said Dick. "But we must not tarry here longer. I will come again at night-fall."

"Not till then?" cried Charles. "Have you seen aught of Major Careless?"

"No, sire," replied Dick. "He has kept out of the way of the rebels. And I must again caution your majesty not to stir forth till I return, as some of the enemy may be lurking about."

By this time Elizabeth had packed up her basket, and the pair departed.

It was still raining steadily, but cheered by the hearty meal he had made, the king did not heed the discomfort so much as he had previously done. Wrapped in his blanket he couched beneath the trees, and soon fell fast asleep, nor did he awake till he was roused by a voice, and found Trusty Dick Penderel standing near him.

"What's the hour, Dick?" he demanded, yawning and stretching himself. "It seems growing dusk. I have slept ever since you left me."

"In that case, your majesty must have slept for six or seven hours, for it is now not far from eight o'clock," replied Dick. I trust you feel refreshed."

"I feel equal to any amount of exertion," cried Charles, springing to his feet. "But what news do you bring me?"

"Not very good, my liege," replied Dick. "You must not go to Boscobel. Colonel Bloundel is still there."

"But I cannot pass the night here," cried Charles.

"I do not mean you should, my liege, I propose to take you to my cottage, Hobbal Grange, where I will try to lodge you, in my humble way."

"Hark ye, Dick, a plan has occurred to me while I have been here. I will try to get into Wales, where I have many subjects of proved loyalty. Once at Swansea, I can easily find means of embarking for France. Can you guide me to any place where I may safely cross the Severn?"

"At Madeley there is a bridge. It is about seven miles distant."

"Only seven miles!" exclaimed Charles. "Then I will go to Madeley to-night after refreshing myself at thy cottage."

"As your majesty pleases. But I am sorry you mean to abandon Boscobel."

"I may go there yet," said Charles.

They then quitted the coppice and issued forth into the more open part of the forest.

The rain had now ceased, and the clouds having entirely dispersed, the night promised to be clear and starlight. They marched along cautiously—halting ever and anon to listen for a sound—but heard nothing to occasion them alarm. Not a trooper was to be seen—indeed, they did not encounter a single individual on the way to Hobbal Grange.

CHAPTER VI.

HOW CHARLES SUPPED AT HOBBAL GRANGE, AND WHOM HE MET THERE.

Hobbal Grange, the farm-house tenanted by Richard Penderel, was situated on a small green in the midst of the forest on the road between White Ladies and Boscobel. Though described by its owner as a cottage, it was a very comfortable abode. Richard Penderel was married, and his wife, a buxom, good-looking woman, had brought him one son, but he was from home at the time.

On reaching his dwelling, Trusty Dick opened the door, and ushered the king into the house-place, as it was called—a spacious apartment with a huge fireplace at one end, and furnished with a long oak dining-table, a couple of benches, and some half-dozen chairs.

A good fire burning in the grate gave the room a very comfortable look. The ceiling was low and whitewashed, as were the walls, and the rafters were garnished with hams and sides of bacon, while nets contained sundry oat-cakes. Dick's wife and their niece, Frances, the daughter of William Penderel, a good-looking girl, who had just got into her teens, were frying some collops of meat, as the forester entered with his guest.

"Mary," cried Dick, winking at his wife, as he spoke, "this be Will Jackson, whom I told thee I should bring wi' me to supper."

"Glad to see him, I'm sure," replied Mary, dropping a curtsy, which the king returned with an awkward attempt at a clownish bow that provoked a smile from young Frances Penderel.

"Master Jackson is going to Madeley," pursued Dick, "and being unacquainted with the country, might get lost at night, so I have promised to show him the way there after supper."

"Then he ben't going to sleep here?" observed Mary.

"No, my good dame, I thank you," said Charles. "To-night I shall sleep at Madeley, and to-morrow cross the Severn. I want to get to the Welsh coast as quickly as I can."

"Don't ask any more questions, Mary, but get supper ready," interposed Dick.

"'Twill be ready in a trice," she replied. "Lay a clean cloth, Frances."

In a very few minutes a large dish of collops and a great bowl of potatoes were placed on the table, and the king and his host sat down to the meal, and were waited upon by Mary Penderel and her niece.

A jug of strong ale helped to wash down the viands. Charles rather suspected from the good dame's manner that she was aware of his rank, but he didn't trouble himself on the subject, but went on with his supper.

An unexpected interruption, however, was offered to the meal. Some one tried the door, and finding it fastened, knocked against it rather authoritatively. Charles instantly laid down his knife and fork and started to his feet.

"Go see who is there," said Dick to his wife. "But let no one in."

On this Mary went to the door, and in as firm a tone as she could command, for she was a good deal frightened, asked who knocked.

"'Tis I! Don't you know me, Mary?" cried a familiar voice.

"Blessed Virgin!" she exclaimed. "'Tis Father Huddlestone himself!"

"Your majesty may go on quietly with your supper," whispered Dick to the king. "As I have told you, the holy man may be trusted. Open the door, dame."

Mary instantly complied, and a middle-aged and rather stout personage entered the room. His close-fitting cassock of black stuff was covered by a long black gown. His appearance was far from ascetic, his face being round, rosy, and good-humoured in expression, while his scrupulously shaved cheeks showed marks of a very black beard.

Father Huddlestone was priest to Mr. Whitgreave, of Moseley Hall, in the neighbourhood of Wolverhampton, and resided with that gentleman, who was a well-known Royalist.

"Heaven's blessings on this house and on all within it!" exclaimed the priest as he came in. "I do not blame you for keeping your door bolted during these troublous times, good daughter. An enemy might slip in unawares. You have a guest already, I perceive," he continued, glancing at Charles. "I have brought you two more. Nay, do not start, my good woman. No danger need be apprehended from one of your own sex."

"What is this I hear, father," cried Dick, getting up from the table, and stepping towards him. "You have brought some one with you, you say?"

"Here she is," replied Father Huddlestone. "Pray come in, fair mistress."

On this invitation, a young lady in a riding-dress entered the house, followed by a slim, good-looking page.

In the young lady, Charles recognised Jane Lane at a glance. As to her attendant, he almost fancied, from the slightness of the figure, it must be a female in disguise.

"Methought you said there was only a lady, good father?" cried Dick.

"This page counts for nothing," rejoined the priest. "The lady is Mistress Jane Lane, of Bentley Hall. I have promised her an asylum here for the night, and I am sure you will afford it her."

"There may be reasons why I should not remain here," said Jane, perceiving the king. "I will go on with you to Moseley Hall, good father."

"There can be nothing to prevent you from staying here, so far as I am concerned, fair mistress," observed Charles, who had risen from the table, but stood apart. "I am about to proceed on my journey immediately."

"Are you quite sure you had so decided before my arrival?" asked Jane.

"Quite sure," he replied. "Richard Penderel will tell you so."

"Who is this young man, Mary?" asked Father Huddlestone, looking very hard at the king. "He hath the dress of a woodward, but neither the look nor the manner of one."

"I will tell your reverence some other time," she replied, evasively.

"Perhaps your reverence can prevail on Mistress Jane Lane to sit down with us and share our supper," said Charles to Father Huddlestone.

"I shall need no entreaty, for in truth I am very hungry," replied Jane, taking a place at the table, while the priest sat down beside her.

"How are you named, good youth?" asked Charles of the supposed page.

"Jasper," was the reply.

"Then come and sit down by me, Jasper," said the king.

"Shall I, madam?" inquired the page of his mistress, who signified her assent, and the so-called Jasper took a place by the king.

Fortunately, Mary Penderel had made such bountiful provision that there was plenty for the new-comers.

"No accident, I hope, has happened to your mistress, young sir?" observed Charles to the page.

"We were on our way from Wolverhampton to Bentley Hall, when we were attacked by a patrol of rebels in the forest, who were in search for the king," replied Jasper. "They did us no injury, but took our horses."

"How came it that you did not defend your mistress better?" asked Charles.

"How could I defend her against half a dozen armed men?" cried the page. "If I had had a pistol, I would have shot the first Roundhead rascal who came up through the head."

"Rather through the heart, I should say," remarked the king, with a smile.

"Heaven preserve his majesty, and deliver him from his enemies!" exclaimed Father Huddlestone. "May their devices be confounded."

"Amen!" ejaculated Jane Lane, fervently. "Could I communicate with his majesty, I would counsel him to embark for France as speedily as may be."

"Such, I doubt not, is his design," remarked the priest. "But there is danger on every side," he added in a significant tone, and looking at the king as he spoke.

"I have heard no particulars of the battle of Worcester," observed Jasper. "His majesty has escaped, I know, but I would fain learn that his aide-de-camp, Major Careless, is safe."

"Rest easy on that score, Jasper," said the king. "I saw Major Careless this morning."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the page, unable to repress his emotion. "Oh, I am so glad. You have taken a great weight from my breast."

"You appear greatly interested in Major Careless," remarked Charles. "Have you known him long?"

"Only since his majesty arrived in Worcester. I hope I shall see him again."

"Have you any message for him, in case I should meet him?" whispered Charles.

"None," replied the page, in the same tone. "But he will remember the house in Angel-lane."

"Ah! then you are——"

The page imposed silence by a look.

Just then Richard Penderel arose, and glanced significantly at Charles, who at once took the hint, and rose likewise.

"Don't let me disturb the company," said Dick. "But Master Jackson and I have a long walk before us, and must be moving."

"Quite right, my son," replied the priest. "But I should like to say a word to Master Jackson before he sets forth."

Taking Charles aside, he said to him in a low earnest tone: "I will not waste time in professions of loyalty and devotion, nor can I be of any present use to your majesty. Whatever your plans may be, I trust Heaven will prosper them, but should it be necessary for you to seek a place of concealment, you will be safe with my worthy friend and patron, Mr. Whitgreave, of Moseley Hall. Richard Penderel will guide you thither."

"Should occasion require it, I will take refuge in Mr. Whitgreave's house," replied Charles.

"Your majesty will be pleased to learn that Lord Wilmot is now at Moseley," pursued Father Huddlestone.