University of Virginia Library

BOOK II.

Massinger —The Duke of Milan.

1. CHAPTER I.

Shakspeare —Macbeth.

A YEAR had passed since Ardenne's landing on
his native shores, unfixed of purpose, and, above
all, an advocate for peace!—a year in which events
had taken place that rendered hopeless all accommodation
between the hostile parties, until one
should have been proved decidedly superior. The
very day on which the king had fled from London,
lest he should witness the return of the five members
to the house, having been signalized by a most
wild and ill-digested movement of the fiery Lunsford,
sufficiently disclosed the intentions of the royalists
in an attempt to seize a magazine of arms at
Kingston. Then came the treachery of Goring—
the king's fruitless effort against Hull—the calling
out of the militia—the arming on both sides—and
all the small guerrilla skirmishes that were occurring
daily for some months previous to the nominal
commencement of the war. The queen, who had
escaped to Holland, stealing and bearing with her
the crown jewels, which were pawned at once to
furnish arms, and men, and money, was setting

every spring in motion on the continent. Rupert
and Maurice had arrived in England, and the former
was, on his first interview, appointed general
of the cavalry. The royal standard had been
raised, some two months past, at Nottingham, with
evil omens, and under auspices the most unfavourable—a
mighty tempest having poured its fury on
the gathering of the troops, dispirited and few in
number, and unfurnished with the most evident
and indispensable equipments of an army—weapons,
and clothes, and ammunition. The flag itself,
displaying, in addition to the wonted quarterings of
England, a small escutcheon, charged with the royal
bearings and the crown, and compassed by a scroll,
with the proud motto, “Render his due to Cesar!”
was scarcely elevated ere a heavier gust of wind,
accompanied with floods of rain and a fierce crash
of thunder, shivered the staff in twain, and dashed
the ensign violently to the ground; while such was
the increasing fury of the tempest that two whole
days elapsed before it could be reared again. Still,
although by this overt act the king had most unquestionably
issued his appeal to the sword as to
the sole remaining arbiter, matters went on but
heartlessly and slowly. Each side, averse to
throw away the scabbard, paused in a grim and
terrible suspense, irreconcileably hostile to the
other, yet unwilling to incur the blame of being
first to strike, or foremost to refuse accommodation.
The royal forces, far too weak to court the
brunt of battle, aimlessly marched and countermarched,
levying contributions in this place, and
mustering volunteers in that; while the superior
party of the parliament, already strong enough to
have surprised and crushed the royalists at a single
blow, lay in their quarters, waiting, as it would
seem, till they should muster resolution to commence
hostilities. The truth, which has been
strangely overlooked by all historians of these turbulent
and most important times, was simply this
—that, in the outset of that fearful strife, there was
but little difference between the views, and hopes,
and fears of the most eminent and upright men of
either party. How it should ever have been fancied,
much less gravely argued, that the great body
of the English gentry and nobility were anxious to
subvert the constitution, which had been freed from
the arbitrary power of the Norman princes by the
sole efforts of their order, and to erect an absolute
and unchecked despotism, which must have necessarily
ruined their own caste, it is most difficult indeed
to comprehend or to conjecture. Nor is it
less absurd to hold that the more liberal peers,
who, neither few in number nor deficient in sagacity,
were enlisted on the people's side, were in the
least degree prepared to overthrow that ancient
monarchy from which they all derived their greatness,
and to descend at once from their exalted
grade to mere equality with their less elevated
countrymen. In simple fact, the leading men of
either party dreaded defeat or victory with a nearly
equal apprehension; knowing that such an overthrow
befalling either host, as should conclude the
other absolutely masters of the game, would be
most hopelessly destructive to the liberties of England.
It was then in this spirit that the counsellors
of Charles, scarcely more fearful of reverses which
should deliver them a prey to their stern foemen,
than of success which would inflame and aggravate
the monarch's native haughtiness, laboured, with all
their powers, to bring about some reconciliation;
but in vain, their every effort being frustrated by
the imbecile insincerity and double-dealing of their
principal! At length, when the last hopes were
quenched of peace unbought by victory, the fiery
Rupert, who, from the first, had been the open advocate
of instant battle, acting with indefatigable
and almost sleepless energy, collected horses, men,
and cannon from the northern and the midland counties,
until the royal army amounted to the number
of ten thousand—three foot brigades under Sir Jacob
Astley, and the Earl of Lindsey, an officer experienced
in the wars of the Low Countries—three
dragoon regiments, to act as horse or infantry as
need might be, under Sir Arthur Aston—Lord
Bernard Stuart commanding the king's guards, a
troupe dorée, composed entirely of gentlemen,
whose annual incomes are said to have exceeded
the united fortunes of all the members who, at the
outbreaking of the war, were voters in both houses
—a good park of artillery, under the trusty Sir John
Heydon—and the adventurous prince—himself a
host—leading the cavalry, consisting of the very
flower of the youthful gentry, practised in arms,
and high in chivalrous and daring spirit. Then,
early in October, having resolved to strike a blow,
and anxious to give battle to his enemies, the king
marched hastily from Shrewsbury upon the capital.
Meantime the Earl of Essex, who had been recently
appointed by the parliament their general-in-chief,
left the metropolis with an array some fifteen
thousand strong, more thoroughly equipped
and better armed than were the gentlemen of the
opposing host, but far inferior to them in that sustained
and burning spirit, which is of more avail
than tenfold numbers in the day of battle. The
earl's instructions were to tender to the king a joint
petition of the houses—beseeching him to leave the
gathering of malignants, whose ill counsels had so
far prevailed to alienate him from his loving subjects,
and to repair at once to the vicinity of his
most loyal parliament—and, in the case that this
petition should prove of none effect, to rescue him,
by force of arms, from the foul traitors who surrounded
and misled him. To this intent, he was
provided with all the requisites that constitute an
army—a heavy train of well-arranged artillery,
with ammunition and supplies of all kinds in profuse
abundance—a powerful brigade of horse, under
the Earl of Bedford and Sir William Balfour; and
a picked body of the London train-bands, well disciplined
and admirably well appointed! Among
the numerous nobles who accompanied the general
of the parliament, two, perhaps, merit an especial
notice—the young lords Rochford and Feilding—
as being destined soon to meet, as foemen in the
shock of battle, their own fathers, the earls of Dover
and of Denbigh, who were enrolled as volunteers
in the king's guard of horse! Many there
were, indeed, in this array, who yielded not in spirit
or in valour to the proudest cabalier of Charles!—
many who panted for the onset with all the patriotic
zeal of freemen trampled and oppressed—with
all the bitter and fanatic rancour of religious prejudice—and
these were more than matches for the
best of Rupert's soldiery!—but more were doubtful,
and reluctant, and affected by the cold and
backward spirit of their leaders, who felt, perhaps,
a secret apprehension that, in battling for the liberty
and constitution of their land, they might in some
degree be warring with the interests of their order.

Such was the aspect of affairs, and such the
state of parties, when, on a brilliant morning toward
the last days of October, a gallant regiment
of horse was winding through the deep green lanes
and devious woodlands of Northampton toward the
little town of Keinton, distant, perhaps, some twenty
miles, at which it was beginning to be understood

that Essex had established his headquarters. An
animating spectacle they formed, and lively, as
they gleamed out and disappeared among the lofty
hedges and dense coppices, still glorious in the
leafy garniture of variegated autumn, their polished
armour glinting back the cloudless sunshine in
long and dazzling flashes, their colours fluttering
in the cheerful breeze, their videttes warily surveying
every thicket, the matches of their arquebuses
ready kindled, and their extended lines sweeping
along the irregular wood-roads in serpentine and
wavy order—pausing at every brook or dell where
they might possibly be set upon at disadvantage,
until their advanced guard should fall back with
tidings that their path was unobstructed—and varying
their array from open file to solid column, as
the nature of the ground might dictate. The leader
of this splendid body was a fine-looking figure, in
the prime of life, well formed and stately, and far
above the ordinary height of men. He wore a
military coat of strong buff leather, garnished with
fringe of tawny silk three inches broad, and loops
of golden braid, partially covered by a breast-plate
and its corresponding back-piece, polished till
they shone bright as silver. He had no gorget,
but a rich cravat of Flanders lace, with long, transparent
ends, half veiling the clear steel on which it
fell. His dark curled hair flowed down his neck
beneath the rim of a steel cap or morion, exquisitely
damasked, but without crest or feather; his
hands were guarded by high gauntlets, and his
lower limbs by breeches of the same material, similarly
ornamented with his cassock, and strong jack-boots
that would have set a sabre-cut at naught.
His sword, a two-edged, basket-hilted rapier of uncommon
length, hung from an orange-coloured
scarf, betokening his adherence to the parliament
—its army having adopted for their badge that colour
from the ancient liveries of Essex, as the cavaliers
had assumed for their distinctive uniform
black feathers and blue shoulder-knots—although
the fashion of his garments and the general bearing
of the wearer were more in character with the demeanour
and the principles of their opponents, than
of those stern and gloomy fanatics who are so generally
and so erroneously believed to have composed
the great numerical strength of the liberal, or
—to speak more justly—constitutional party. The
animal he rode, a mare of splendid action, symmetry,
and size, was evidently a practised charger,
and accoutred, as became one, with demipique and
holsters, and all that goes to the equipment of a
war-horse. In these minutiæ, no less than in the
accurate array and perfect discipline of the tall,
hardy-looking youths who rode along behind him
in the strictest silence—in the condition and the
bitting of the horses—and, above all, in the cool
intelligence with which he listened to the varying
reports of his subordinates, the quick, decisive
firmness which made known, and the prompt energy
which carried out, his orders—might be discovered
at a glance the officer of many actions!—
the soldier on whose mind no lesson of experience
had been lost, until his very nature was no more
the same; that which was once an effort—once
the result of intricate and thoughtful calculation,
arising now from an intuitive foreknowledge, more
like the wondrous instinct of an animal than the
deep reasoning combinations of a man!

It lacked, perhaps, an hour of noon when this detachment,
having extricated itself, without so much
as hearing of an enemy, from the wide tracts of
woodland, portions of which may still be seen in
the adjacent counties of Huntingdon and Bedford,

had reached the summit of a considerable eminence;
which, falling away steeply toward the
west, commanded an extensive view over the velvet
pastures of Northampton, checkered with cornfields
and dark tracts of fallow—with many a whitewashed
cottage peering from out the foliage of its
orchards, and many a village steeple, with its mossy
graves and tufted yew-trees, and here and there
some castellated mansion, scarce seen amid its
shadowy plantations — stretching away till they
were bounded far to westward by the blue hills
of Warwickshire. Just on the brow of the declivity
there stood a large and isolated farm, with stabling
and outhouses sufficient to accommodate a
hundred head of cattle; upon the green before it
the leader of the party drew his bridle, and, after
a quick glance across the champaign at his feet,
and another toward the sun, which had already
passed its height, entering the dwelling, held short
consultation with the sturdy yeoman who possessed
the fertile acres. Before five minutes had elapsed
he issued from the lowly doorway, ordering his
party to dismount and pile their arms, and take
what brief refreshment the farmhouse might offer
during an hour's halt. A hasty bustle followed, as
down the troopers sprang with jingling spur and
scabbard, and merriment suppressed no longer by
the rigid discipline enforced upon the march—no
oaths, however, or profane and Godless clamours
were heard, disgracing equally the officers who tolerated
and the men who uttered them. Gayety
there was, and decent, sober mirth, but naught of
hoisterous, much less licentious revelling. Videttes
were stationed on commanding points, patrols
detailed—and then, the horses picketed and
well supplied with provender, fires were lighted,
and canteens produced with all their savoury
stores; and the men, stretched at length on the
smooth greensward, chatted and laughed as gayly
over their hurried meal as though they were engaged
in some exciting sylvan exercise, and not in
the tremendous toil of warfare. The hour allotted
for their stay had wellnigh passed—when, from
their farther outpost, a horseman galloped in,
bloody with spurring, and, driving through the scattered
groups, flung his rein heedlessly upon his
charger's neck, and turned him loose before the
door—while, with an air betokening the consciousness
of bearing high and stern intelligence, he hastened
to convey his tidings to his officer. There
needed not, however, words to tell the men that
danger was at hand! A moment's anxious gaze at
the vidette, and the jest ceased, the flagon was suspended
ere it reached the thirsty lip, the laugh was
not laughed out! Another moment, and the fires
were all deserted—the remnants of the meal laid
hastily aside—horses, recruited by their feed, were
bridled—swords buckled on, and helmets braced,
and firearms inspected; and, ere their leader came
again among them, in anxious conversation with
the messenger, they waited to mount only till the
ready trumpets should sound boot and saddle!

“Get you to horse!” he said—“get you to horse
as silently as may be! But spare your breath,”
he added, turning abruptly to the bugler, who was
already handling his instrument, “till it be needed
for a charge, which, an' we be so lucky as I deem
we are, it may be—and right early! Sir Edmund
Winthrop, have your men into line as speedily as
may be; but move not until farther signal! My
charger, Anderton — and let a sergeant's guard
mount instantly! I go to reconnoitre—a bugler
with the party. Soh! Steady, men, steady!”—and,
without farther pause, he leaped into his saddle

and, followed by the small detachment, galloped
at a fierce pace down the hill-side, rugged and broken
as it was, in company with the patrol who had
brought in the tidings. Close to the bottom of the
hill whereon the troops were halting there ran a
deep and hollow gorge, cutting across the road
which they had kept thus far directly at right angles,
and screened from observation on the upper
side by a long, straggling belt of furze and underwood,
with here and there a huge and weather-beaten
oak or glossy beech, forming the outskirts
of a heavy mass of forest that fringed, for several
miles in length, the extreme left of the level country
across which their line of march would lead
them. Through this gorge, as the sentinel reported,
a powerful force of cavalry was moving toward
the causeway at scarcely two miles distance; but
whether friends or foes he might not, as he said,
determine. Checking his charger at the junction
of the roads, the officer dismounted; and, taking
off his head-piece lest its glitter should betray him,
stole forward through the trees to a high sandstone
bluff commanding the whole gorge. From this he
instantly discovered the approaching troops, who
had so nearly come upon him unawares. There
were at least five hundred horse in view, all cuirassiers
completely cased in steel, escorting, as it
seemed, a strong brigade of field artillery. When
first they had been seen by the vidette, they were
emerging from the forest-land alluded to before,
and had attempted, as he said, a cross-road visible
from the hill-side; but it had proved so miry, as he
judged from the slow progress of the guns, that
they had countermarched, and were advancing
steadily, as now beheld, under the guidance of a
countryman who rode beside their leader, toward
the sandy gorge by which they evidently hoped to
gain the practicable road. Earnestly did the wary
partisan gaze on the glittering columns, searching
their movements, and examining their dress and
arms with eager scrutiny, and ever and anon
sweeping the country in their rear with an inquiring
glance, that seemingly expected father indications
from that quarter. But it was all in vain!
The regiment in view wore neither scarfs, nor any
badge that might inform him of their politics or
party—their colours were all furled around the
staves and cased in oil-skin—and all, from which
he might in anywise conjecture of whether host
they formed a portion, was the exact and veteran
discipline their movements indicated—far too exact,
as he supposed from the reports prevailing
through the country, for the tumultuary levies of
the Puritans. The hollow way on which they
were advancing opened, at a mile's distance, on the
plain, and it appeared that the new-comers were
about to enter it unthinking of surprise, and confident,
perhaps, in their own power. “If they be
foes, we have them!” cried the partisan. “Back,
Anderton, back to the regiment—ride for your life!
—tell Major Armstrong to lead down three troops—
dismounted, with their arquebuses ready, and their
matches lighted—beneath the cover of yon dingle
on the hill-side till he shall reach this gorge, then
line it with his musketry! Let Anstruther wheel,
with three more, about yon round-topped hillock—
in half an hour he may debouche upon the plain—
or sooner, if he hear our shot—and charge upon the
rear of yon horse-regiment—they will be in the
trap ere then! Sir Edmund Winthrop will lead
down the rest by the same road we came—I tarry
him! Away! Be swift and silent! Away! for
more than life is on your speed!” and, with the
word, the subaltern dashed furiously away, spurning
the pebbles high into the air at every bound,
and instantly was lost to sight behind the angle of
the sandy banks, while he who had commanded,
after another wistful gaze toward the approaching
squadron, returned with leisurely and quiet steps
to his good charger. With his own hands he drew
the girths more tight, looked to each strap and
buckle of his rein and stirrups, patted her arched
crest with a fleeting smile, and mounting, rode,
with half a dozen followers, sharply along the
gorge, as if to meet the strangers, who now seemed
disposed to pause upon the plain, and reconnoitre,
ere they should enter a defile so perilous and narrow.
Just at this moment—while a score or two
of troopers rode out from the advanced guard of
the horse, which had now halted, and warily dispersing
themselves among the broken ground, began
to beat the thickets with deliberate and jealous
scrutiny—a low, stern hum arose from the dark
corps of cuirassiers—increasing still and swelling
on the ear, till it was clearly audible for a full mile
around, a burst of deep-toned, manly voices—harsh
perhaps in themselves, and tuneless, but harmonized
by distance and the elastic atmosphere on which
they floated, till they were blended at least into
a solemn and melodious sound. Louder they rose,
and louder on the breeze, and now were answered
by a faint and dream-like echo from out the dim
aisles of the forest in their rear, among the leafy
screens of which the arms and standards of another
and another band might fitfully be seen to glitter.
It was the soul-inspiring crash of sacred music,
the peal of choral voices untaught and undirected,
save by the impulse of a thousand hearts attuned
to one high key of patriotic piety—unmixed with
instruments of wind or string—a deep, sonorous
diapason—the soldier's anthem to the God of battles
and the Lord of Hosts!

“Arise! arise!” the mighty sound went forth,
its every syllable distinctly audible to the excited
listener—

Scarce had the first sounds reached the leader's
ear, before he checked his mare abruptly—“Walters,”
he cried at once, “away with you, and overtake
him ere he gain the regiment! These be no
enemies, but friends! Let not a troop descend
from the hill-side—bid them await me, as they be,
in order! Spare not your spurs, nor fear to spoil
your horseflesh—we have no time to lose! I well
had deemed,” he added, muttering to himself, after
the orderly had galloped off with his commands—
`I well had deemed their rear was many a mile
advanced past this ere now. Pray Heaven that
Essex lack not men to hold the king in check, as
he is like to do, if that this news be sooth how he

hath gathered head toward Keinton and Edgehill!”
and, without farther words, he hastened down the
road, to be, as soon as he had cleared the first projection
of the broken banks, discovered by the reconnoitering
party in advance. A dozen carbines
were presented on the instant at a short range—
“Stand—ho!”

“Friends! friends!” he shouted, in reply, but
without altering his pace—“can you not see our
colours?” waving his orange scarf abroad, as he
closed with the foremost trooper.

“Stand, friend, then!—if that friend you be—
stand, friend, and give the word!” returned the
other, gruffly—“stand! or I do profess that I will
shoot—yea! shoot thee to the death!”

“How now, thou peevish knave,” replied the
officer, in high and ireful tones. “Recover instantly
thy carbine—marshal me straight unto the
leader of you horse! Who is he that commands
them?”

For a moment's space the grim parliamentarian
stubbornly gazed upon the features of the gallant
who addressed him, as if reluctant to obey his
mandate; but then a gleam of recognition flashed
across his sunburnt features—“I crave your pardon,”
he said, half abashed; “it is, an' I mistake
not, Lieutenant-colonel Ardenne, of the parliament's—”

“Lead on, then, sirrah! since thou knowest me,”
interrupted Edgar, shortly—“lead on, an' thou
wouldst not repent it—and tell me who commands
yon horse brigade!”

“Stout Colonel Cromwell,” answered the soldier,
more respectfully—“stout and courageous
Colonel Cromwell! He will, I do believe, rejoice
at this encounter. This way, good sir. Yonder
he sits on the black horse beside the standard,

awaiting our return. Lo you! he sees us, and the
files move onward!”

And he spoke truly; for, as the cavalry perceived
the videttes moving orderly and slowly
back, they filed off, troop succeeding troop, toward
the entrance of the lane, advancing on a gentle trot
in regular and beautiful array. As they passed
Ardenne, many a scrutinizing eye perused his figure
and equipments, and in most instances a sanctified
and solemn sneer disturbed the dark repose
of their grave features—called up, as it would
seem, by the rich dress and courtly air of the
young officer, which, in their wonted parlance,
were denounced as “fleshly lusts that war against
the soul,” devices of the Evil One, fringes, phylacteries,
and trappings of the beast. Nor, in meanwhile,
did Edgar turn a heedless or incurious glance
toward those with whom, discarding friends and
kindred, birthright, and rank, and chivalrous association
as things of small avail compared to the
great common weal, he had now cast his lot for
ever. The first emotion of his mind was deep
anxiety—the second wonder—and the third unqualified
and unmixed admiration. Never, he
thought, in Germany or France—never, among the
veteran legions of the Lion of the North, the Protestant
Gustavus, had he beheld superior discipline,
or men more soldier-like and promising. Mounted
on strong black chargers of full sixteen hands in
height, their furniture of the most simple kind, but
well designed and in the best condition—their iron
panoply, corslet, and helm, and taslets, stainless
and brilliant—and, above all, their bearing and
demeanour—their seats upon their horses, firm yet
easy—their muscular and well-developed limbs—
their countenances full of resolution, and breathing
all—despite the difference of individual character,

and the various operations of the same affection
on minds of different bias—a strange expression
of religious sentiment—solemn in some, and
stern, or even sullen—in others wild, fanatical, exalted,
and triumphant—yet in all more or less apparent,
as evidently forming the great spring and
motive of their action. Still, though attentive in
the first degree to the essential rules of military
discipline, keeping an accurate and well-dressed
front, and managing their heavy chargers with precision,
there was not any of that deep, respectful
silence among these military saints which Edgar
had been used to look for in the strictly-ordered
service of the Netherlands, and to esteem a requisite
of soldiership—but, on the contrary, as every
troop rode past him, there was a constant hum of
conversation, suppressed, indeed, and low, but still
distinctly audible; and he might mark the knotted
brows and clinched hands of the vehement disputers,
arguing—as it would seem from the decided
gestures, and the texts which he occasionally
caught lending an elevated savour to their homely
language, and, more than all, from the continual
appeal to the well-worn and greasy Bibles which
each of these stern controversialists bore at his girdle—on
questions of religious discipline or points
of abstruse doctrine. Although this mixture of the
soldier and religionist, this unduc, and, as it seemed
to him, irreverent blending of things good and holy
with the dreadful trade of blood, jarred painfully on
his correct and feeling mind, he could not but acknowledge
that this dark spirit of religious zeal,
this confidence in their own overweening righteousness,
this fixed, unwavering belief that they were
the elected and predestined instruments of the Most
High—“to execute,” as he could hear them cry
aloud, “vengeance upon the heathen and punishment
upon the people!—to bind their kings in
chains and their nobles in fetters of iron!” was indeed
a mighty and effective agent to oppose that
chivalrous, enthusiastic bravery, that loyal, self-devoting
valour which inflamed the highborn army of
the cavaliers to deeds of noble daring. Nor did he
entertain a doubt, when he perceived the extraordinary
person who commanded them, occupied himself
in preaching, or expounding rather, the mysterious
prophecies of the Old Testament—to which
especially the puritans inclined their ear—to an attentive
knot of officers, grouped, some upon their
horses, and yet more dismounted, around the regimental
standard, but that he had some reason far
more cogent than mere feelings of devotion for thus
encouraging a spirit so unusual in the breasts of his
stout followers. The colonel—for to such rank
had Cromwell recently been elevated, more even
in consideration of the powerful and trusty regiment
which he had levied from the freeholders and
yeomanry of Huntingdon by his own personal and
private influence, than of his services performed already,
not either few or inconsiderable, keeping the
cavaliers in check, surprising many of their leaders,
anticipating all their meditated risings, and cutting
off all convoys, whether of money or munitions,
throughout the counties of the Eastern Association—the
colonel, as he met the eye of Ardenne,
was seated on his powerful black war-horse,
bestriding him, as it would seem, with giant
strength, and perfect mastery of leg and hand, but
with an air wholly unmilitary and devoid of ease or
grace—sheathed nearly cap-a-piè in armour of
bright steel, heavy and exquisitely finished, but utterly
without relief or ornament of any kind. A
band or collar of plain linen, with a broad hem, fastened
about his short Herculean neck, varied alone
the stern simplicity of his attire; no feather waved
above his low and graceless casque—no shoulder-knot
or scarf bedecked his weapon, which was girt
about his middle by a belt of buff three inches at
the least in width, and balanced on the right side
by a formidable dudgeon and the brass-bound case
of the familiar Bible, which he now held extended
in his left hand, while with the finger of his right
he vehemently smote the open pages at each emphatic
pause of his discourse. His features showed
not now so sanguine or so kindled as when Ardenne
last beheld them; but, on the contrary, there
was a mild, half-veiled expression about the heavy
eye; and, though the lines were strong and marked
as ever, there was more of deliberate and quiet
resolution than of imperiousness denoted by the
firmness of his mouth. It was the countenance,
he thought, of a calm visionary, pensive and meditative
in his mood, and rather steady in the maintenance
of his own fixed opinions than zealous to
proscribe or controvert the fancies or the rights of
others. But he had little time for noting the expression,
changed as he fancied it to be, of his superior,
much less for marking the diverse features
of the martial auditors—for, as he drew nigh to
the spot whereon they stood, Cromwell had ended
his discourse, and, with a word or two of military
precept, was dismissing his attendants to their several
stations. Several dashed past him as he rode
up to the little eminence on which the colours were
erected, and but two were waiting near the colonel
when he reached him—one a bull-necked, coarse-featured,
and ungainly-looking person, with a gay
feather in his morion, a showy tassel on his rapier's
hilt, and a falling collar of some low-priced lace
hanging above his gorget—the other an erect and
well-made man, not past the prime of youth, with
features singularly noble and expressive, though of
an almost Spanish swarthiness, and tinctured with
a deep and melancholy gravity.

“Ha! Master Ardenne!” exclaimed Oliver, his
eye joyfully flashing as he recognised him—“right
glad am I to see you—not carnally, nor with a
worldly-minded and a selfish pleasure, but in that
there will be work to do anon, in which the righteous
cause shall need all arms of its supporters!
Have you a power at hand?—where be they?—in
what force?—not travel-worn, I trust me!”

“Three hundred horse,” Edgar replied, “on the
height yonder—but for those trees you might behold
them where we stand! I left them but just
now, to reconnoitre your advance, under Sir Edmund
Winthrop, my lieutenant.”

“Good! good!” cried Cromwell, eagerly; “and
how far have you marched to-day—be your men
travel-toiled—your steeds leg-weary?—for verily
we have a march before us.”

“We have but travelled six brief miles this fore-noon,
and barely sixteen yesterday—my men are
in right spirits, and my horses fresh! I could accomplish
twenty miles ere nightfall, and that without
fatigue!”

“Surely the Lord is gracious,” was the answer
—“and of his grace, too, shall we right soon make
trial. My Lord of Essex hath, ere now, his post
at Keinton—and the man Charles of Stuart hath
at length mustered head to face him. 'Tis marvel
that they be not at it even now. I fear me the
lord general shall lack both horse and cannon; but
we have marched already a sore distance with our
ponderous guns and heavy armature, nor may I
now adventure to press on more hastily without
dispersing my command. Ride with me to your
regiment, good sir; I trow you were best speedily

move forward. Keinton is barely twelve miles
distant, and the roads, they tell me, sound and passable;”
and, as he spoke, touching his charger
lightly with the spur, he broke into a managed canter.
“Cornet, advance your colours,” he exclaimed,
in short, keen accents, strangely at variance
with the monotonous and inexpressive tones
of his discourse when unexcited—“sound kettledrums,
and march!” and, riding briskly forward,
easily passed the troops while filing through the
lane. “Halt them here, Ireton,” he said to the
dark-favoured officer who had accompanied him, as
he turned into the main road, having outstripped
the forces—“halt them in column here, within
the lane, till I return—and, Desborough, do thou
ride back to Hampden's regiment of foot—it is a
mile or so in the rear—and bid him bring it up as
rapidly as may be. Now, Master Ardenne, I attend
you!”

As they rode up to Edgar's quarters, Cromwell
informed him briefly, and with none of those prolix
and verbose sentences with which he was at times
accustomed to confuse the senses of his hearers,
that he, as senior officer, and therefore in command
of the brigade forming Lord Essex's rear
guard, was marching up, at his best pace, with his
own trusty cavalry, and two—the stoutest—of the
parliament's foot-regiments, besides a strong division
of field-guns—that, by want of intelligence, the
general—as he had learned himself but yesterday
—was hastening right upon the king, and, he was
fearful, would fall, unawares and unprepared for
battle, upon his very outposts! “These tidings I
received of a sure hand,” he added, “though whence
it needeth not to advertise you. Whom the Lord
listeth to enlighten, surely at his own time shall he
inform him. But so it is—and it may be that Essex

knoweth not his peril! Wherefore I pray you
—ha! be these your men? I do profess to you I
hold them stout and soldierly—not like the drunken
tapsters and vile turncoat serving-men who—fy on
it! that I should say so—do compose the bulk of
our array! Truly these fellows shall do credit to
the cause—so that the spirit—the right leaven be
toward—and the Lord strike on our side! Wherefore
I pray you lead them, as swiftly as you find
consist with order, upon Keinton. If that they
have not yet joined battle, say thus to the lord general,
that I beseech him hold off from them so long
as he may; I shall be with him by nine of tomorrow's
clock. Ha! heard you nothing?” he
broke off abruptly, as a deep, distant sound rolled
heavily upon the air; and, before Ardenne might
reply the sullen rumbling was again repeated, like
the faint muttering of a rising thunder-storm, or
the premonitory growling of an earthquake. “It
was not thunder!” answered Edgar, in the voice of
one asserting rather than questioning; “there are
no clouds aloft, nor yet on the horizon!”

“Ordnance!” exclaimed the other—“ordnance,
and heavier, too, than ours! Listen, now listen!”
And again the heavy rolling sound came surging
down the wind, which freshened slightly from the
westward—again it came after a momentary pause,
yet loader than before, and more distinct; and then
continued without interval the deep, unquestionable
voice of a hot cannonade.

“Away, sir—God go with you!” cried the stern
puritan, excited now beyond the bounds of self-restraint
“Tarry not on the way, nor loiter! Gird
up your loins, I say. Ride on! ride on, and conquer!
Verily, but that it is the Lord's own doing,
verily, Edgar Ardenne, I would have envied thee

thy fortune. Ride on—thou shalt be yet in time
—ride on—amen! Selah!”

While he yet spoke, the officers and men, stirred
up already by the near sound of battle, and almost
maddened with excitement by the exulting and prophetic
cries of Cromwell, were vying with each
other, these to give forth, those to obey, and almost
to anticipate, the needful orders—and, as he uttered
the last words at the full pitch of his piercing voice,
the trumpets rang a wild and thrilling flourish—the
squadron, with a single shout, unbidden and unanimous,
that spoke the burning feelings of the troopers,
swept on at a hard trot; and, in an instant, not
a sound was to be heard save the thick-beating
clatter of the hoofs, mixed with the clang of spur
and scabbard, and now and then a boom of the
deep kettle-drum timing the pace of the advance.

Onward! onward they hurried at the utmost
speed which prudence would admit, which nothing
but the admirable quality and high condition of
their chargers enabled them to prosecute. Mile
after mile was passed, and still the dull and awful
roar—the knell of many a gallant spirit—waxed
clearer and more clear. Having accomplished
seven miles within the hour, they halted for ten
minutes in a small hamlet to water and to breathe
their horses; and there—when the confused and
constant noise of their own rapid march was silent
—they might distinguish the first sharp explosion
of the leading gun in every rolling volley—and ever
and anon, between the deep-mouthed cannon, the
grinding rattle of the musketry was audible, though
faintly. Onward! onward again, and, ere another
hour elapsed, Ardenne had marked the clouds of
smoke surging and eddying above the distant hills.
The squadron cleared the verge of a low eminence;
a gentle valley slept below them in the still misty radiance

of a rich autumnal sunset; a tranquil stream
wound through it, crossed by a lofty one-arched
bridge—built, as was evident from the bright ripples
of the ford beside it, merely for use in times
of wintry flood—and to the left, at a short mile
above the bridge, nestled the white washed cottages
of a neat country village. The ridge which bounded
this fair dale toward the west, though cultivated
at the base, and checkered with dark woods and
golden stubbles, lay bare toward the rounded summits
in unenclosed and open sheep-walks. Above
these summits the volumed smoke rose white as
fleeces of the purest wool, and scarce less solid to
the eye, relieving every object on the brow as
plainly as though it had stood out against a clear
horizon; while all the mingled din of battle rolled
up, a near and fearful contrast to the sweet peace
of that secluded spot. Just as they gained a fair
view of the valley and the heights beyond, a single
figure crossed the opposite swell, dark and distinctly
seen; a horseman on a furious gallop! As he
descended, a slant sunbeam glanced upon his iron
headpiece—he was a trooper—flying! Another
rushed across the ridge—another, and another—a
confused and panic-stricken group. “Forward!—
secure the passage of the stream! Forward! ho!
forword!” and at a yet more rapid pace they
plunged down the descent; they reached the
causeway of the bridge—they lined the banks with
their arquebusiers, and waited the arrival of the fugitives.
On came the first, urging his jaded steed,
but urging him in vain; his sword was gone—his
holsters empty—his buff-coat soiled and splashed
with many a miry stain. His spurs alone were
bloody! Long ere he reached the bridge Ardenne's
quick eye had caught the orange scarf, and
he rode forth alone to meet him. At first the fugitive
drew up his horse as though he would have
turned, but a fresh roar of cannon from behind decided
him. “All's lost! all's lost!” he cried—
“all's lost! Fly! fly! Rupert is close behind!”

“Silence, for shame!” shouted the partisan—
“coward and slave, be silent, or I cleave thee to
the earth! If all be lost, why rages you hot cannonade!
How far from this to the field?”

“A short three miles,” replied the other, trembling,
and fearful no less of new acquaintance than
of the foes he fled. Meanwhile on came the rest
—all panic-stricken, travel-soiled, and weaponless;
but not one man was wounded.

“The cowards!” Edgar muttered, as if carelessly,
when he rejoined his men, fearful lest they
might be disheartened—“the vile, dastard hounds!
that fled without blow stricken or blood drawn!
But that 'twere loss of time, I would draw out a
file for execution. We will advance, and win more
casily, that none are left to cumber us with heartless
counsels! Fly on, ye dogs,” he cried, more
loudly, as he wheeled his men once more into their
column—“fly on, and pray the while ye fly that ye
meet not with Cromwell on your route, else shall
ye but repent that the cavaliers made not an end of
ye before your race began; for, an' I know him,
he will cut it right short with a halter or a volley!”
And, with a scornful laugh, he cantered on, eager
to gain the vantage of the hill, and seeing at a
glance that no more runaways poured over it. “It
cannot be,” he said to his lieutenant—“it cannot
be the day goes utterly against us, else how should
these have fled three miles from the encounter, and
still the firing on both sides continue—continue,
said I—nay, but it waxes warmer!”

They reached the summit of the ridge, and at
first sight Edgar indeed believed that all was over-A

long broad valley lay outstretched beneath him,
that might almost be called a plain—the foreground
scattered thick with groups of roundheads, flying
—here singly, here in bodies—to the south, toward
the town of Keinton, in a line nearly parallel to the
range of heights on which he stood; while in the
middle distance he might see a torrent of dispersed
pursuing cavalry, with flaunting plumes and fluttering
scarfs, swords brandished to the sun, and
pistol-shots all redly flashing out through the dense
smoke, as unrelentingly they urged the massacre.
But, as he looked more steadfastly upon the scene,
he could distinguish, at some two or three miles'
distance toward the northern verge of the unbroken
valley, two dark, uninterrupted lines, whence rose
the smoke and burst the vivid flashes of artillery
with undiminished vigour—he could discern, between
the cloudy screens, the wavering and wheeling
masses that still waged the balanced fight, and
he could hear the rattling volleys of the musketry
sharp and incessant. “'Tis but our cavalry,” he
said—“'tis but our cavalry that fly, and their horse-general
has lost a golden opportunity; had he but
wheeled upon our flank when the dog-troopers fled,
he might have gained the battle! But it is now
too late, and, an' he look not out the sharper, we
may yet give him a rebuff he dreams not of. Sound
trumpets—ha! sound merrily a rally and a charge!
Advance, brave hearts, we will redeem the day.
For lo!” he added, with rare tact, as he perceived
the royal horse relaxing their pursuit, and heard
their bugles winding a recall—“for lo! they have
perceived us, and retreat already!”

And down the slope he moved in admirable order,
interposing a small wood between his force and the
retiring cavalry of the victorious royalists—whom,
notwithstanding his most politic vaunt, he little

wished at that time to encounter. Just ere he sank
upon the level ground he carefully reviewed the
scene before him, and was even more convinced
than ever that the battle was indeed still undetermined—and,
farther yet, that the royalist horse
were at the last aware of their mistake in urging
the pursuit too far; for he might see them straining
every nerve now to repair their error, as they
swept back toward the left-hand rear of the contending
parties, leaving thereby the access to the
right wing of Lord Essex, whom Ardenne justly
deemed to lie between himself and the king's forces,
easy and unobstructed. Instantly he perceived,
and profited as instantly by this advantage; marching
at a sharp trot across the field strewed with the
mangled carcasses of those who, by their dastard
flight, had lost the wretched lives they sacrificed
their honour to preserve, and forfeited all claim to
that precarious boon, a soldier's pity. Once on the
level ground, he could discover nothing farther, and
the suspense was fearful; and now the cannonading
ceased—the musketry fell thicker and more constant—then
that ceased likewise, and was followed
by the faintly-heard hurrah of charging horse, and
the wild chorus of a psalm. “The day is ours,”
he shouted, as he recognised the sounds—“on!
on! to share the glory!” Faster they hurried, and
but little time elapsed ere he brought up his squadron,
without the slightest opposition, or indeed notice,
on the king's part, to the extreme right of the
position occupied in the commencement of the action
by the army of the parliament. The moment
was indeed most critical, and Edgar could not but
perceive, as, having left his squadron for the moment
in command of his lieutenant, he rode up and
reported to the general, that his arrival was deemed
singularly opportune. Never, perhaps, had been a
field more nearly lost—never a victory more madly
cast away—never a battle poised more equally.
The base desertion of Sir Faithful Fortescue, the
terror-stricken flight of Waller's horse on the left
wing before the fiery charge of Rupert, and the
defeat of the right wing by Wilmot and Sir Arthur
Aston, had left both flanks of the parlimentarians
utterly naked and unguarded; so that a single
charge by either of the royalist commanders upon
the flank or rear which they had turned, must
have annihilated all of their array which yet stood
firm—the foot under the earl in person, and a reserve
of horse under Sir William Balfour. But
with that desperate and selfish fury which neutralized,
in every instance, the effects of his undaunted
valour, Rupert drove past the left, as Wilmot passed
the right, of Essex, trampling and cutting down
their unresisting countrymen for several miles' distance
from the field, the former suffering his men
to sack the town of Keinton, and to disperse among
the baggage of the enemy; while his desertion had
not only robbed the king of all his hopes of victory,
but actually placed him in a more evil plight, and
peril far more imminent, than had defeat the foe.
For Balfour, with his squadron of reserve, seeing
the plain entirely clear of horse, had charged the
royal foot with such a steadiness of persevering
courage, that he had cut the Earl of Lindsay's
regiment to pieces, taking that nobleman, with
his brave son Lord Willoughby, both desperately
wounded, prisoners—winning the king's own standard—throwing
the centre into perilous confusion
—and hewing his way almost to the person of the
monarch. Just at this moment, when a bold advance
of his whole line must have completed the
king's ruin, Lord Essex was compelled, by Rupert's
reappearance on his left with his fast rallying
cavalry—who, though in disarray, and tired both
horse and man, were flushed with their success and
high in spirit—to recall Balfour to make head
against him; and that bold leader's trumpets were
calling off his troopers from their half-achieved success
when Ardenne reached the field, and was directed
instantly to move his fresh men forward to protect
the left wing of the infantry till Balfour should
draw off and relieve him. His troops, though new
to service, were admirably disciplined and full of
daring confidence in their tried leader; and with
such promptitude and regularity did they manœuvre
and deploy in face of a superior body, that he
almost regretted that there was no better opportunity
to prove their mettle and to flesh their maiden
swords. His duty quietly performed, and the reserve
of Balfour being reformed in haste and fronting
Rupert, he was commanded once again to occupy
his first position on the right; and now instinctively
he saw that either army might be
deemed half conquered—that a single charge—
nay, but a single demonstration—would suffice to
win an absolute and undisputed victory. Each
host was spiritless and disarrayed—the leaders on
each side confused and doubtful—the troops exhausted,
slack, and heartless. Vainly he prayed
the general-in-chief to suffer him to risk his single
regiment in but one charge on Rupert's half-collected
squadrons; pointing out to him clearly, but
without effect, the strong presumption that his fresh
men and vigorous horses must sweep away, like
dust, the cavaliers, worn out with the lassitude for
ever consequent on over-fierce excitement, and
troubled farther at finding themselves assailed from
having of late been assailants—and the certainty
that, if such should be the case, undoubted conquest
must ensue. The earl was cold and dubious.
“We may not hope,” he said—“we may not
hope for victory to-night. It is a mercy from on
high—I had right nearly said a miracle—that we
stand here as now, at vantage, holding the better
of a doubtful day! An hour ago methought that
all was lost. Moreover, it has gone tenfold more
fatally with them than us. We have lost privates
—men neither high of heart nor strong of hand,
much less of eminence or wisdom—they the first
flowers of England. Oh! I could wellnigh weep,
but that 'twere treason to our cause, for the pure
blood that has been shed like water—Lindsay, and
Aubigney, and Stewart, and Edmund Verney, the
bravest and the best of the array, all lost—all lost
in this accursed quarrel! Two more such fields
as this were fatal to the king, while ten such would
but leave us, at the worst, where now we are!”
Slowly and unconvinced Edgar rode back to his
command; and as he watched the movements of
the enemy, now holding the precise position they
had occupied three hours before, whatever doubt he
might have entertained till then vanished at once—
for he beheld the hapless Charles—armed as becomes
a king to battle for his crown, all steel from
spur to helinet, a mantle of black velvet, with the
star and George of diamonds, floating above his armour—reining
his snow-white charger gallantly
among his wavering lines, beseeching them “once
more,” with energetic gestures—“once more to
charge the rebels!”—and he beheld the faint and
false-hearted denial; for not by any prayer or
promise could those to whom he spoke with words
of fire be wrought upon a second time to dare the
onset.

Meanwhile the sun set gloomily in a dense bank
of clouds—the night, “that common friend to wearied
and dismantled armies,” sank darkly down

upon the plain so thickly set with sights and sounds
of agony and horror that it was but one mighty
charnel-house; and the two hosts, each on the
ground whereon they fought, slept anxious and uneasy
on their arms—uncertain of their present
safety, and unresolved of their proceedings for the
morrow.

2. CHAPTER II.

The morning was yet gray and gloomy after a
night of frost—felt the more bitterly by those who
bivouacked upon the field, since there was neither
tree, nor hedge, nor any other covert nigh to fence
them from the piercing wind—when Ardenne started
from the disturbed and unrefreshing slumbers
which had crept upon him, beneath the partial shelter
of an ammunition tumbrel overturned and broken,
uproused by the loud trumpets of the powerful
re-enforcement brought up before the promised
hour by Cromwell, consisting of two thousand foot,
Hampden's and Grantham's regiments, and his own
ironsides, whose presence might, on the preceding
day, have turned the doubtful scale, and ended, at
a single stroke, the war unfortunately destined to
no such speedy termination. It was a strange and

melancholy, though exciting scene, that met his
gaze as he arose; the dark skies scarcely dappled
in the east by the first paly streaks of dawn—the
faint stars waning one by one as the cold light increased—the
black brows of the neighbouring hills
cutting distinct and sharp against the wan horizon
—the white and ghostly mist creeping in wreaths
along their bases, and curtaining the plain with a
dense veil, through which the watchfires of the
royal host, at scantly a mile's distance, burnt with
a dull and lurid redness, like to the glimmering of
a witch's caldron—the foreground heaped with the
carriages of the artillery, horses picquetted in their
ranks, and companies of men outstretched on the
dank soil, sleeping upon no better couches than
their dripping cloaks, beneath no warmer canopy
than the o'ercast and gusty firmament. Nor were
the sounds that rose at intervals from the opposing
camps, and the deserted battle field between them,
less wild and mournful than the images which
crowded their nocturnal area—the measured tramp
of the unwearied sentinel, now mingled with the
clash of armour, and close beside the ear, now gradually
sinking into silence as he visited his farther
beat—the clang and clatter of the horse patrol,
sweeping at wider distances around the guarded
limits, and the deep, melancholy cadence of his occasional
“All's well”—the neigh and stamp of restless
chargers—the howling of forsaken dogs—and,
sadder and more terrible than all beside, the feeble
wailing, the half-heard, distant groan, or the long-drawn,
but unavailing cry for succour, of maimed
and miserable wretches, battling and wrestling with
their mortal pangs throughout the livelong night,
and cursing the unnatural strength that nerved their
fainting and reluctant flesh to strive with that inevitable
angel, whom their more willing spirit would
have welcomed as a rescuer and friend. While he
was yet, with a sick heart and tortured ear, listening
to these too numerous witnesses of human agony,
and pondering upon the dread responsibility
of him who, to indulge a lawless thirst after a little
brief authority, had let loose on a happy land that
most abhorred curse of nations, domestic war, an
orderly rode up in haste to crave his presence at
the quarters of the general. After a short and
rapid walk toward the rear, he reached the spot
where Essex, like the meanest of his men, had
passed the night, beneath no other roof than the inclement
sky. A dozen pikes, irregularly pitched
into the ground, and draped with horse-blankets
and watch-cloaks, offered a shelter rather nominal
than real against the night air on the north and east,
while a huge pile of logs sparkled and blazed in
front, casting a wavering glare of crimson upon a
group of tall and martial-looking officers, collected
round the person of their leader, and glittering
more obscurely on the arms and figures of a score
or two of troopers, who sat motionless on their tall
chargers at some short distance in the rear. The
council, as it seemed to Edgar on his first approach,
were absolutely silent; but, as he drew more near,
he found that Essex was addressing them, although
in tones so low and so subdued that they
scarce reached the ears of those for whom they
were intended. Nor, as he judged from the expression
painted on every countenance—for the lord
general ceased from speaking just as he joined the
circle—were his words calculated to inspire his listeners
with confidence or warlike spirit. A blank,
desponding gloom sat darkling on the brows of all,
and every eye save those of the new-comers, who
stood together and apart a little from the rest,
dwelt gloomily upon the ground. It seemed a
meeting rather of defeated and despairing fugitives,
than of the bold and dauntless spirits who had but
yestereven maintained a more than equal strife
against the flower of England's nobles—till, suddenly,
with his harsh features kindling into passionate
and fiery animation, and his eye glancing
wildfire, Cromwell, whom Edgar had not hitherto
observed, upstarted from a pile of housings and
horse-furniture on which he had been seated—“As
the Lord liveth,” he exclaimed—“as the Lord liveth,
we can smite them hip and thigh, if so be that
your excellency will give me but command to
charge upon them now, while they yet lie, with
faint hearts and with heavy eyes, about their
watch-fires. I ask but for my own stout troop of
ironsides and Master Ardenne's horse here, if he
list to join me—I ask but these, and, verily, I do
profess to you, they shall not bide the changing of
a buffet; nay, but we may destroy them utterly,
smiting them with the sword, as Joshua smote
them beside the waters, even the waters of Merom,
what time he did to them as the Lord bade him;
he houghed their horses and burnt their chariots
with fire!”

“It is too late, sir!” returned Essex, coldly—
“it is too late! The morning will have broken ere
you can get your men to horse!”

“Nay, but not so, lord general,” anxiously interrupted
Cromwell; “my troopers be not yet dismounted;
and, of a truth, I do assure you that their
spirits are athirst, ay, and their souls an hungered,
to do this battle for the Lord!”

“We will not have it so, sir,” replied the earl,
shortly, and scarcely courteously—“we will not
have it so. It might endanger our whole host. I
pray you, Colonel Cromwell, draw out your horse
upon our farthest left, facing thereby Prince Rupert

on the king's right wing. And you, fair gentlemen”—turning
to Hampden and to Grantham—
“move up your gallant foot to re-enforce our centre.
Had ye been here but yesterday, I had not
feared to gain a complete victory; but now I hold
it rash to offer or commence, though, by God's
help, we will not shun encounter. Sirs, to your
posts. The council is at end. The day is breaking—lo,
there sounds the reveillèe!”

“Cold council!” muttered Cromwell in the ear
of Ardenne, as he left the presence; “cold council,
if not traitorous! and, at the best, false argument!—for
an he could half beat Charles Stuart
without us yesterday, sure, with three thousands
of fresh men, and those the best of his array, he
might now trample him beneath his feet! Besides,
with Verney slain outright, and Lindsey captive,
and half their officers cut down or grievously en
treated, stands it not certain that they must need
be faint of heart? Verily! verily! I say to you,
there shall be no good thing befall the righteous
cause while such a leader marshalls us.”

As he concluded he turned off abruptly, mounted
his horse, and rode away toward his troopers,
who awaited their stout colonel in the rear; and,
ere ten minutes had elapsed, Edgar might hear
them chanting, in subdued and sullen tones, the
melancholy psalm, “Save me, O God, for the
waters are come in unto my soul,” as they marched
gloomily away to occupy the post to which
they were assigned. At the same time the regiments,
which, for the last half hour, had been getting
under arms, fell in, and faced the army of the
king, now clearly to be seen, as the mists gradually
rolled away before the growing daylight, resuming
the position it had held before the action
of the previous day. The instruments of music

sounded, indeed, and cheerily, and the bright colours
fluttered gayly in the freshening breeze; but
other sign of spirit or alacrity along the serried
ranks Edgar saw none before he reached his own
brave troopers, already mounted and in accurate
array, under Sir Edmund Winthrop, his lieutenant,
and eager—as the heart-stirring shout with which
they greeted their commander spoke them—for
the onset, of which they deemed his presence the
immediate harbinger.

The sun rose broad and bright, kindling the
whole expanse of heaven with his fair lustre; the
mist-wreaths floated upward, and dispersed themselves
into the delicate and scale-like clouds, flecking
the azure skies, which promise glorious days;
the morning gradually passed away, and noon drew
nigh, and still each army held its ground, facing
the other in the stern array of warfare, both, as it
seemed, prepared and resolute to meet, but neither
willing to commence, the onset. At times, the
trumpets on one side would breathe forth a wild
flourish of defiance, and a shout or psalm would go
up to the peaceful heaven from the other, intended,
it might be, to challenge or to irritate the foe into
some movement that should lay him open to attack;
but the sun now rode high in heaven, and hour by
hour the chances of a general action became less
imminent. Suddenly—at a moment when all those
leaders of the parliament, who deemed it no less
for their interest than honour to give battle, almost
despaired of any opportunity for sealing their adherence
to the cause—there was a movement on
the right wing of the royal host. Directly in the
centre of the field, midway between the lines of
either army, four light field-pieces, sakers and culverins,
had been abandoned, on the previous day,
by the king's infantry, when shattered and disordered,

though still fighting with their faces to the
foe, by the repeated charge of Balfour's horse. So
rapidly had night set in upon the wearied hosts,
and perhaps so fearful were both parties of then
doing aught which might provoke renewal of the
conflict, that these, the proof and prizes of the victory,
had been permitted to remain unmoved, either
by rescuer or captor, through the long hours of
darkness; and, until midday was at hand, no disposition
was exhibited to bring them off, whether
by cavalier or puritan. But now—either disposed
to fight, if needful, with courage gathered from the
weak policy of Essex, or convinced by their inactivity
that he should meet with no resistance from
the despised and hated roundheads—Rupert dashed
forth in person from the right, with a detachment
of the king's horseguard, that gallant troop of
nobles whose impetuous and headlong daring,
though at the first it had passed, like a torrent,
sheer through the reeling ranks and weaker cavalry
of its opponents, had yet done more against
the final gaining of the day than had the fiercest
struggles of the adversary. Forward they came,
mounted on horses that might each have borne a
king to battle, rending the air with their repeated
cheers, and with the joyous clangour of their defying
trumpets, a flood of waving plumes and fluttering
scarfs—the bravest and the best-born of the
land. Midway between the hosts they galloped
on, exposing, as it would seem, in very wantonness
of bold bravade, the flank of their advance to the
stern ironsides of Cromwell, who showed like a
dark storm-cloud ready to burst upon their heads
with all the crash and ruin of a tempest. Already
were those gloomy martialists exchanging their
dull scowls of rigid and abstracted sanctity for the
fierce flashings of enthusiastic joy, with which they
never failed to clothe their features when rushing
down like eagles to the banquet of the sword!
Already were they brandishing their heavy blades
aloft in savage exultation. Already were they lifting
up their voices in the triumphant psalm which
should preface their thundering charge, and, rising
high above the din of battle, strike terror and confusion
to the hearts of those whom, as they sung,
“The Lord—even the Lord of Hosts—shall hunt,
to overthrow them!” But, ere the word was given
by their colonel, whose sword was in his hand
outstretched toward the flaunting cavaliers, on
whose destruction he securely counted, an officer
came, at the full speed of his spur-galled and foaming
charger, bearing the mandates of the general.

“Ha! Major Winton,” Cromwell exclaimed,
with a raised voice and joyous intonation, “you
bring us right glad tidings—tidings which my soul
comprehendeth ere mine ear hath caught their import.
Tarry thou but a little space, and call me
coward then, an thou see them not performed unto
the letter—ay! and those gay malignants yonder
scattered like chaff before the wind of heaven!
Sound trumpets, and—”

“Hold! Colonel Cromwell; in the Lord's name,
hold!” the other interrupted him, with a half frightened
energy of zeal; “you do misapprehend!
'Tis the lord general's command that you stir not
a foot! He would avoid an action.”

“Tush, man, it cannot be!” Oliver fiercely cried;
“nay, stay me not!—forego thy grasp upon my
rein! Let me not now, I say, or truly I will—”

“Nay, sir,” returned the officer, cutting again
into his speech, as much chagrined by the impetuous
gesture and half uttered threat, “you shall do
as you list for me; but I do warn you, 'tis against
express commandment of my Lord of Essex if you

shall charge these horse. See how they muster
yonder to the front of the main host, dragoons and
cavalry, for the support of this detachment. One
charge must need bring on a general action.”

“The better!” answered Cromwell, with a
gloomy frown; “the better—an we had aught of
faith in the good cause, or spirit in our carnal calling.
But on his own head be it! Surely the
Lord hath deadened his understanding, causing his
heart to fail with terror and with fainting! On his
own head be it!” and, as he spoke, he sheathed his
rapier, driving it home so furiously that the hilt
rang against the iron scabbard with a sharp, angry
clatter; “on his own head be the shame, the ruin,
and confusion!” and, turning his charger's rein, he
rode away toward the rear, in a dark, sullen revery,
determined not to look upon the capture of
the guns since he could not prevent it. Nor did
he check in anywise, or reprimand the deep and
bitter murmurs of reviling which the fierce zealots
he commanded launched against the cold and cautious
policy that thus forbid them “to arise, and
slay the enemy at Karkar, even as Gideon arose
when he slew Zebah and Zalmunnah!”

And, in the sight of the whole host, the chivalry
of Rupert dashed along, with brandished weapons
and bright banners, unharmed at least, if not unheeded.
They pounced upon the cannon, and not
a sword was drawn or a shot fired. Six powerful
horses, led for the purpose, and already harnessed,
were, on the instant, linked to every gun; and
away they went, bounding and clattering over the
frozen soil at a hard gallop, while the fearless cavaliers
formed front toward the host of Essex to
cover their retreat, patiently waiting till they reached
the royal lines. Then, with three regular cheers
of triumph and derision, they filed off at a foot's

pace, as if unwilling to return without exchanging
shot of carbine or stroke of sword, even although
victorious. Another hour elapsed, and yet another,
and still the armies held their stations steadily, face
to face, neither advancing to attack, neither disposed
to quit the field in presence of the other.
Noon was already past, when a fresh movement
was observed among the royalists near to the
centre of the army. But this time, as it seemed,
no hostile measures were intended; for a white
flag was suddenly advanced beyond the outposts of
the army, and then, preceded by his trumpet, and
followed by a glittering train of pursuivants, attired
in their quartered tabards, Clarencieux, king-at-arms,
refulgent in the blazoned pomp of heraldry,
caracoled forth upon a snow-white palfrey, whose
embroidered housings literally swept the ground.
When it had almost reached the advanced guards
of the parliament, the gay procession halted, while
its trumpets stirred the echoes of the slumbering
hills with a long-flourished blast, calling the leaders
of the host to a pacific parle. But, be their errand
what it might, their summons called forth no emotion
from the stern puritans. No officer rode down
to meet them—no peaceful symbol corresponding
to their own was raised to greet them—no trumpet
answered theirs, though thrice it brayed aloud, with
notes of evident impatience. Wearied, at length,
by the contemptuous silence which alone answered
to his overtures, leaving his train where it had
halted, the king-at-arms rode slowly, with a dubious
air, as if but ill assured of safety, toward the nearest
guard of horsemen, one pursuivant alone attending,
and demanded to be led forthwith to the lord
general; after brief ceremonial, the subaltern, detaching
half a dozen men, escorted him along the
line, requiring him emphatically, and with a glance
toward the carbines of the guard, which rested
upon their thighs, in readiness for instant service, to
speak no word an he would reach the general in
life. Nor was his greeting much more cordial
when, after hurrying him, with small respect, along
the serried ranks, the subaltern resigned him to an
officer of Essex's lifeguard, who, with the same
stern discipline, conducted him toward the quarters
of the brave though over-cautious nobleman
who held the chief command. The general was
mounted on his charger, with his leading-staff in
hand, attired in a suit of beautiful half armour, with
a broad scarf of orange crossing his cuirass, and a
feather of the like colour drooping from his morion.
The Earl of Bedford and Sir William Balfour were
beside him, likewise on horseback; and some half
dozen of his staff, with Colonels Hazlerig and
Hampden, stood around, dismounted. Essex, with
whom he had no personal acquaintance, looked full
upon him without a word or sign of salutation; but
Balfour, whom he knew, bowed slightly.

“I bear, so please you, my good Lord of Essex,”
the king-at-arms began, in nowise daunted by his
cold reception, “I bear a gracious proclamation of
his majesty, Charles, by the grace of God—”

“Hold, sir,” cried Essex, in a sharp and angry
tone, “hold, sir—to whom bear you this message?
Speak out, sir—and fall back, you loitering knaves!
back with you all! back out of earshot!” as he
perceived the troopers of his body-guard crowding
a little forward, as if to mark what passed.

“Charles, by the grace of God—” continued the
bold speaker, resuming, even where he had been
before cut short, the thread of his discourse.

“To whom—to whom, I say, bear you this
message?” exclaimed Essex, in tones of fierce excitement,
the blood rushing in crimson to his brow.
“To whom, save me, dare you bear any word?”

“To all,” he answered, calmly—“to all men
present here bear I his majesty's most merciful—”

“Silence, audacious!” thundered the general;
“silence, if thou beest not aweary of thy life!
Knowest thou not, William le Neve, knowest thou
not that for this breach of every law of war and
nations I might cause thee hang?—hang like a
dog upon the nearest tree, for all thy painted mummery!
Away with him, sir,” he continued, after
a short pause, as if ashamed of his display of violence,
addressing the officer who had escorted him,
“away with him!—see him a hundred yards beyond
our outposts; and if he do but breathe too
loudly, shoot him upon the instant. I do profess,”
he added, turning again to the abashed and silent
messenger, “I do profess to you, you have incurred
a very fearful risk; but, that you may not lack
an answer, say to your master that we have drawn
our swords at bidding of the parliament, and in behalf
of those ancestral liberties, which we will either
transmit free and unfettered to our children,
or lose together with our lives!—thou hast thine
answer.”

And with even more precaution than he had
been admitted was he led back to join his followers
by a stout squadron of the general's lifeguard,
who, halting at some twenty yards from the confused
and trembling pursuivants, deliberately blew
their matches and levelled their short arquebuses!
Startled at this manœuvre, it needed little, when
the officer informed them, “That, an they were
not a full flight-shot on their route before three
minutes, he should fire a volley on them,” to send
them at a furious gallop scattering towards the
king's array.

This was the last attempt; and, ere an hour
had elapsed, the guns and carriages of the king's

host were drawn off by the road to Edgecot, his
late quarters; and Essex, on beholding their retreat,
was no less willing to lead away toward
Warwick his wearied and disheartened army,
abandoning thereby to Charles the access to the
capital—which he had marched, and even risked a
battle, to defend—whenever he should choose to
profit by the errors of his enemy. Scarce had the
orders for this movement been delivered before a
trooper galloped up to Ardenne's post, gave him a
packet, and, without waiting a reply, dashed spurs
into his horse, and was already out of sight ere
Edgar had discerned its purport. It was a mandate
from the general in council, directing him to
join his force to that of Colonel Cromwell, and
place himself at once at his disposal; and he had
hardly read it through when Oliver himself rode
up. “You have received,” he said—“you have
received already, as I see, those tidings which,
trusting that they may not be displeasing, and that
so you be not rendered an unwilling instrument in
this great cause, I have come hither to communicate.
I am detached forthwith to march with mine
own ironsides and with your gallant horse for
Cambridge—thence to protect the safety of the
eastern counties—and verily I do rejoice, for my
soul sickeneth at coward councils; and, so long as
we tarry here, we be not like, I trow, to meet with
brave ones! Come with me, Edgar Ardenne, and
I tell thee that we can achieve great things for the
deliverance of this groaning land—yea! and work
more for its regeneration, with our poor hundreds
and the Lord's hand, which of a very deed shall
smite on our side—frail vessels though we be and
faithless—more to advance the liberties of England,
than Essex with his tens of thousands!”

3. CHAPTER III.

It was a sharp clear evening, some two months
later than the undecided action of Edgehill, while
both the armies were lying in their winter quarters
—that of the king at Oxford, whither he had immediately
retired after his treacherous violation of
the truce at Brentford, and consequent repulse
from London; that of the parliament in the metropolis
and its vicinity—when a small group, composed
of individuals the most discordant both in
character and outward show, was gathered in the
oriel parlour of the old manor-house of Woodleigh,
affording to the eye a combination singular and
picturesque. Sir Henry Ardenne stood in the centre
at the oaken table, on which a standish was
displayed of massy silver, with implements for
writing, and a long scroll of parchment, carefully
engrossed, and decked with several broad seals, to
which, as it would seem, he was preparing to affix
his signature. His figure, still erect and stately,
was clad in a rich military suit of buff, splendidly
laced with gold, booted, and spurred, and girt with
the long rapier of the day; his snow-white locks
hung down on either cheek, uncovered, for an attendant
held in readiness for instant use his high-crowned
beaver, with its drooping feather, and his

sad-coloured riding cloak. His noble features were
knit firmly with an evident expression of resolve,
although a teardrop might be seen to twinkle in his
dark eye as he looked down upon his niece, grovelling
in the dust before him, prostrate, and clinging
to his knees, with her rich hair in its dishevelled
volumes half covering her lovely form—with
her hands clasped, her eyes uplifted to his face,
her lips apart but motionless, in agony of tearless
supplication. A hoary-headed servant watched, at
an easy distance, the development of the sad scene,
with every wrinkled feature telling of his affectionate
concern; while a stout, stolid-looking yeoman,
summoned, it might be, to attest a signature,
lounged at his elbow, staring in rude indifference
on the display of passions with which his boorish
nature vainly sought to sympathize; a small man,
meanly clad in a black buckram doublet, with an
inkhorn and a penknife in lieu of weapons at his
girdle, of an expression impudently sly and knavish,
was the last person of the group within the
manor; but without, plainly to be discovered from
the casements, there was assembled a fair company
of horsemen, gayly equipped in the bright fluttering
garb affected by the cavaliers, with the old
banner of the house of Ardenne unfurled and
streaming to the wintry wind, and a groom leading
to and fro the favourite charger of the head of that
high name.

“No! no!” cried Sibyl, in tones that quivered
with excitement till they were barely audible, resisting
the slight force which the old man put forth
to raise her—“no! no! I will not rise. Here!
here at your feet will I remain till I prevail in my
entreaty! Oh, you were wont to be wise, generous,
and just! Temperate in your youth, as I
have heard them tell, and calm—be then yourself,

my noble uncle, be then once more yourself, nor
sully, by this deed of unconsidered rashness, a
whole long life of wisdom and of honour.”

“It may not be,” he answered, quietly, though
not without an effort, as he compelled her to arise
—“it may not be. The time allotted to our race
hath now run out!—the house of Ardenne is extinct
with the old miserable man who stands before
you!—the lands that have been subject to my
name for centuries shall never know it more!
The Lord gave—the Lord hath taken away—blessed
be the name of the Lord! But would—oh,
would to Heaven that his corpse had mouldered on
some foreign battle-field—that his bones had been
entombed deep in the caverns of the sea—that he
had died by any death, how terrible soever—that
he had dragged out any life, however wretched and
intolerable! Better, far better had it been so to
have mourned for him, than to have seen him thus
—a blot—a single blot!—on an unblemished name!
a traitor to his king—a foeman to his country—a
curse to him from whom he drew his being! No!
plead to me no more; for never, never shall a traitor—a
fanatic and hypocrite traitor—inherit aught
from me save the high name he hath disgraced.
I have—and I bless Heaven that I have it—through
his own act of treason, the right to sunder this entail,
and sundered shall it be ere sunset! He hath
no corner of my heart—no jot of mine affections;
himself he hath cut out his path, and—rue it as he
may—by that path must he travel now unto the end
—dishonoured—outcast—disinherited—accur—”

“Oh, no, no, no!” she shrieked, in frantic tones,
drowning his utterance of a word so terrible when
coming from a parent's lips; “curse him not!—
curse him not! or never shall you taste of peace
again. Father, curse not your son—you firstborn,

and your only! Sinner, curse not your fellow!
Christian, curse not a soul, whose hopes are thy
hopes also! Curse not, but pray!—pray—not for
your erring child—but for your rash and sinful
self! Pray, uncle, pray for penitence and pardon!”

Affected somewhat by her words, but yet more
by the fearful energy of her demeanour than by
the tenour of her speech, Sir Henry paused—but
not to doubt, much less to bend from his revengeful
policy.

“In so far, at the least, fair niece—in so far, at
the least,” he said, with a smile evidently forced
and painful, “you have the right of it. 'Tis neither
Christianlike to curse, nor manly. But to
this gear, good Master Sexby,” he continued, turning
to the lawyer, who had gazed with hardened
coldness on the affecting scene; “this deed, you
tell me, is complete and firm in all the technicalities?”

“As strong as law can render it, Sir Henry,”
returned the mean attorney, “else know I nothing
of mine own profession. Since Master Ardenne,
being last of the entail, and now declared a traitor
by proclamation of his majesty at Oxford, could
scarce inherit, even without this deed of settlement
on Mistress Sibyl and her heirs—”

“Never!” she answered, in a calm, low voice,
the more peculiar from its contrast to the fiery vehemence
she had before displayed; “never would
I receive the smallest share, the least particular of
that which is another's—that other Edgar Ardenne,
too!—though I should perish of starvation
—never! And heirs—what tell ye me of heirs?
Think ye that I—I, the affianced bride of such a
man—would deign to cast myself away on his inferior?
No, no! your testament is nothing worth.

Heirless will I die, or die the wife of Ardenne!
What, then, avail your crafts and subtleties of law?
I spurn their false and fickle toils before me, as
the free hawk would rive asunder with his unfettered
wing the trammels of the spider's web!”

“Peace! for your fame's sake, peace! degenerate
girl,” the old man sternly answered; “would
you disclose to these your miserable weakness—”

“To these? To every dweller of the universal
earth would I avow the strength—the constancy—
the immortality of my legitimate and hallowed
love! Affianced in my youth, by thee affianced,
to one whom both my reason and my heart prefer,
why should I shrink to own it! Weakness?—I
tell you, uncle, that I am no whit less strong—nay,
ten times stronger than yourself—in faith, in loyalty,
in conscience, in resolve. If I may not approve
his actions—and of a truth I do not—I may
not but revere his motives! and if those actions
must half sever the strong links that join us, and
render me for very conscience' sake a widowed
maiden, his motives, pure, and sincere, and fervent
as an angel's faith, shall at the least forbid me to
misjudge, much more to wrong him. Weakness?
—I tell you I adore him—adore him even more
for this his constancy to what he deems the better
cause, when every fibre of his heart is tugging him
to the other—when loss of name, and fame, and
fortune must be the guerdon of his unflinching and
severe devotion to a mistaken creed! Yet, deeply,
singly as I love him, never will I wed Edgar Ardenne
while he unsheaths a rebel blade or prompts
a rebel council. I tell you I adore him, yet will I
die a maiden! unless—” and she paused, for a
space, in her most eloquent appeal, as if to mark
what influence it might have had upon the mind of
her stern relative—“unless, by this your madness,

you drive me to do that my conscience shrinks from.
Suffer your broad lands to descend to him who
justly heirs them, and rest assured that sooner will
I die than marry with a rebel! Leave them to me
—as in the madness of your passion you propose
—leave them to me, and instantly will I make restitution
to the rightful owner, if by no other means,
at least by sacrifice of mine own conscience—
mine own person!”

“Go to!—you will not, Sibyl!” exclaimed the
old man, vehemently; “I know you better than
you know yourself—you would not do so, were
things a thousand times more precious than these
miserable lands dependant on your action!”

“And wherefore not?” she cried; “have I not,
at the dictates of my conscience, cast from me the
affections of the warmest and the highest heart that
ever beat for woman? Have I not sacrificed unto
my sense of loyalty—a sense, perchance, fantastic
or mistaken—my every hope of happiness on earth?
And wherefore shall I not obey the voice of the
same counsellor, and to a sacrifice less grievous?
Think you the love of a justice is a less eloquent
or weaker advocate than the mere love of kings?
But, since you may not be convinced by argument,
nor won by any pleading, hear me then swear, and
hear me Thou,” she added, solemnly turning upward
her bright eyes, flashing with strong excitement,
and dilated far beyond their wonted size—
“that sittest on the wings of cherubim—Thou that
hast no regard for kings, nor any trust in princes,
receive my vow!” She paused an instant as if to
recollect her energies, and as she paused a deep
voice broke the silence—

“Swear not, my gentle cousin,” said the slow,
harmonious voice; “and, above all, swear not for
me!”

Instantly every eye was turned in the direction
whence sounded those unusual accents; and in the
sight of all, upon the threshold of the open door,
there stood a tall and stately figure, wrapped in a
horseman's cloak of some dark colour, and wearing
a slouched hat and falling plume, which veiled effectually,
in that dim, uncertain light, the features of the
speaker; but their concealment mattered not, for
every heart at once, and, as it were, instinctively,
knew Edgar Ardenne, whose arrival, with the
slight bustle that accompanied it, had passed unnoticed
during the all-engrossing interest of the
scene in which those present were engaged.
“Swear not in my behalf, dear Sibyl,” he continued,
doffing his high-crowned beaver, and displaying
his fine lineaments, haggard and pale from
violent emotion, “nor, if you love me, thwart my
father's will. In good time, I perceive, have I
come hither, since something of your purpose
reached my ears ere you beheld my presence—”

“And wherefore,” his father fiercely interrupted
him, laying his hand upon his rapier's hilt—
“wherefore have you presumed, traitor and villain,
thus to defile these honourable halls with the pollution
of your footstep? Have you come sword in
hand, leading your canting and psalm-singing hypocrites,
to spoil, and slay, and lead into captivity?
or have you come, forsooth, with oily words and a
God-fearing countenance, to preach to the old man
the error of his ways, that he too may unsheath the
sword of Gideon, and go down with the chosen of
the Lord to strive against the Philistines in Gilgal!
Such is the style of your new comrades, and thou
canst mouth it with the best of them, I warrant
me! Canst thou not preach and pray? canst
thou not quote the Scriptures of the Lord to justify
the doings of the devil?”

“For none of these things have I come, my
father,” he replied, in sad and humble tones, sinking
upon his knee, “nor yet for anything that may
offend or grieve you. Hear me, I do beseech
you;” for, by the angry gesture of Sir Henry, he
perceived that his speech was like to be cut short
—“hear me but for a short while, and I will cease
to pain you with my presence.”

“Be it, then, for a short while,” answered the
other, nothing mollified by the calm patience of his
son, “if be it must at all—as I suppose it must, for
I can well believe that you have some five hundred
fighting men of the saints to back you, else had
you never ventured hither. Let it be for a short
while, sirrah, for even now I look to see the roof-tree
of my father's house topple and crush the
wretch that has brought infamy on all it shelters!”

“Not a soldier—not a follower—not a groom,”
said Edgar, sorrowfully rising—“though I look
not that you will credit me, is with me, nor yet
within ten miles of Woodleigh. Alone I have
come hither, once more to say adieu, and crave—
what I have nothing done to forfeit—a father's
blessing!”

“'Tis well,” Sir Henry interrupted him in a
cold strain of the most cutting irony ere he had fully
ended, “excellent well, indeed! So get you on with
what you have to say, as I in turn will presently
do somewhat. Anthony, get you hence and fetch
us lights; it hath grown dark betimes; and you,
good Master Hughson,” he continued, turning toward
the yeoman, “will wait our leisure in the buttery.
Now!—get you on, son Edgar.”

“I did hope,” sadly replied the partisan, “that
your resentment, sir, had in so far abated that you
might have endured without disgust my passing
visit. To offer you the reasons for my conduct

were, in your present mood, I fear, of no avail:
suffice it, therefore, to inform you that, though I
may lose much, I can gain nothing by the part I
have espoused—that neither power, nor place, nor
bribe of woman's love, nor proffered rank, nor yet
the baser meed of gold, hath tempted me—that neither
gift nor guerdon will recompense my service,
nor aught else save the inward quiet of an innocent
heart, and the most high approval of Him who can
alone interpret it. But of this enough. This deed,
if I mistake not, which now but waits your signature,
is destined to deprive me of my heritage.
My father, as the last save me in the entail, and I
proclaimed a traitor,” he continued, turning toward
the lawyer, “hath, as you deem it, the power to
alienate this property. Hold! interrupt me not;
it may be that he hath—provided always that the
party which proclaimed me traitor shall come off
victorious in the end, and masters! If not, your
deed is nothing. But think not”—and he turned
again toward his father—“think not, I do beseech
you, sir, that I would for one moment condescend
so to inherit what you would not that I should possess.
Annul this futile deed, and I, the last in tail,
will join with you to sever that entail for ever!
Let this man execute the papers, and, whensoever
needed, my signature shall be forthcoming! So,
whether king or commons win the day, shall you
be sole disposer of your broad possessions. The
son whom you abhor would freely barter all for one
short word of kindness—for one last blessing from
a father, at whose command how gladly would he
sacrifice all save his conscience and his honour!”

“I take you at your proffer,” rejoined the baronet,
without one symptom of relenting in his hard eye
—without one sign of soft or kind emotion at the
devoted generosity of his discarded son; “base

knaves although they be with whom you have descended
to consort, I can rejoice you have not lost
all your nobility of soul. I take you at your proffer.
Affix your signature and seal to this blank
parchment—for it may well be we shall never
meet again—and here I pledge to you my knightly
word of honour that it shall be applied as you
have said, and to no other end.”

A large tear stood on either cheek of Edgar as,
with a steady hand, and firm though darkened
countenance, he signed his name in bold, free characters,
and so surrendered for himself and for his
heirs the title to that noble patrimony which for
so many ages had been graced by the high virtues
of his ancestry. But the tear flowed not, nor was
the brow o'ercast for any selfish thought—by any
sorrow for the wealth thus forfeited—by any fond regret
for the old home of happier days thus lost for
ever. At other times such feelings would have,
perhaps, been busy at his heart—would have, perhaps,
excluded every other sentiment; but now it
was the coldness of the father's tone, the stern and
firm resolve of hatred which had possessed the father's
heart, that clouded the broad forehead of the
son and dimmed his eye. Quietly he replaced the
pen upon the standish, and once more sinking on
his knee, “Father,” he said, in faltering and husky
tones, “I never yet, save in this one respect, have
disobeyed or grieved you; your blessing, oh my
father!”

“My blessing to a rebel—to a hypocrite—a
traitor!—not though my life should pay for my refusal!”
thundered the pitiless old cavalier. “Be
grateful that I curse you not—be grateful, not to
me, but to yon pale and suffering angel, whom
your false villany hath blighted, for she alone with-holds
it. Begone!—why tarry you? Begone, and

never let me look upon you more! Begone, an
outcast from my heart for ever!”

For a minute's space he stood, fixed as the eldest-born
of Niobe, pierced by the arrow of the
vengeful god—pale, motionless, and voiceless!—
the wretched girl had sunk, at the last fearful words,
mercifully deprived, for a short space, of sentiment
and reason; his father stood between them, with
flashing eyes and arms extended, as if he wanted
but a pretext to launch upon his head the awful
terrors of a paternal curse. It was but for a minute
that he stood doubtful and unresolved; his
pulse beat hurriedly, his sinews quivered, his lip
paled with anguish—yet in one little minute was
the paroxysm ended. “Bless you, my father, bless
you!” he exclaimed, in piteous and heartrending
tones; “may the great Ruler of the universe protect
and bless you! Oh, may you never know the
anguish you have this day heaped, fiercer than the
coals of fire, on the heart of a despairing child!
Farewell—farewell!”

He turned, and, ere a word could be pronounced
—a motion made to intercept him, vanished into
the darkness of the hall. Then, and not till then,
did the hot anger of the old man's heart relent;
“Edgar,” he gasped, in faint and faltering tones,
“my boy—my boy!” but so low was the intonation
of his voice that it reached not the ears of
him who would have welcomed those half-uttered
words even as a voice from heaven. The aged
servant, who had watched the scene in silent agony,
sprang forth as to recall him—but again it
was too late! The angry clatter of his horse's hoofs
upon the pavement of the court alone announced
the keenness of the goad that rankled in the bosom
of the rider; and ere an effort could be made to
overtake his flight, the demon pride had once more

gained ascendency, and with a darker frown and
colder accents than before, Sir Henry now forbade
all further care—consigned his hapless niece
to her attendants—gave brief directions to the lawyer
for the fulfilment of his cruel policy—mounted
his horse, and rode away, self-satisfied and stern,
through the chill darkness of the wintry night, to
join the king at Oxford ere he should raise the
standard for his second sad campaign.

4. CHAPTER IV.

Scott's Rokeby.

The winter had already passed away, and with
it every hope of present reconciliation between the
monarch and his parliament. Early in March the
royal hosts were in the field, one in the western
counties, commanded by the king in person, and
the most dashing of his generals, impetuous Rupert—another
in the north, under the gallant Newcastle,
the noblest gentleman and most accomplished
soldier who fought beneath the banners of
his sovereign. During the first months of the year
the tide of fortune had flowed constantly in favour
of the cavaliers. In March, a desperate action,
fought upon Hopton Heath, near Stafford, had made

small compensation to the parliament, by the death
of brave Northampton, for the defeat of Gell and
Brereton. Rupert had taken Cirencester, treating
his captives with unmanly and relentless cruelty;
and, shortly afterward, in the same sort had captured
and half burnt the flourishing and wealthy
town of Birmingham. Nor had the occupation of
Reading by the Earl of Essex brought anything
except disaster and disease upon its captors. A
dangerous conspiracy had broken out among the
puritans, and, though suppressed and punished by
the deaths of the two Hothams, Challoner, and
Tompkins, had yet led many to believe that seeds
of discord were already sown among the democratic
party, which would ere long destroy their unanimity
for ever. A heavier and more fatal loss
befell—not his own party merely, but the whole
realm of England, in the untimely death of Hampden,
mortally wounded in a trivial skirmish upon
Chalgrove field in Buckingham; he died, as he
had lived, a patriot—a martyr to the cause of freedom—his
last breath, ere he rendered up his spirit
to his Maker, expended in a prayer for his oppressed
and bleeding country. Nor had the partisans
of liberty fared much more hopefully in the
North; Sir Thomas Fairfax, after a short but unsuccessful
stand against the Marquis of Newcastle
on Atherton Moor, was compelled to retreat before
his victors, who pressed on with much energy and
vigour to recover Gainsborough, which had been
stormed and garrisoned by the Lord Willoughby
upon the parliament's behalf. In this important
aim they scarcely could have failed, had not the
leader of the ironsides with his brave cavalry, augmented
in their numbers to full two thousand men
by Ardenne's junction—having already greatly signalized
himself by the defeat of a superior force of
royalists before the walls of Grantham, and by the
storm of Burleigh house and Stamford—gallantly
interposed between the town and Newcastle's advance.
The enemy, amounting to above three
times his number, under Lieutenant-general Cavendish,
the brother of the marquis, flushed with
their late success—composed of picked men for
the most, and officered by gentlemen of equal gallantry
and rank — and animated by the highest
spirit of loyal bravery — had occupied a station
so commanding that they could only be assailed
by passing through a gateway, and charging up a
steep acclivity. Yet not for this did Cromwell
hesitate an instant; but, personally leading on his
troopers, he resolutely rushed upon them, and, after
a brisk conflict, routed them utterly, forcing them
from their position into a deep morass, and killing
Cavendish, with most of their superior officers.
Burning for vengeance, the main body of the royalists,
neglecting Gainsborough, pushed on, and
with such overwhelming numbers that Cromwell
was compelled to fall back first on Lincoln, and
thence immediately on Boston, uniting there his
forces with the army of the Earl of Manchester,
whom he had been appointed with all speed to re-enforce,
as second in command to that stanch nobleman.
Upon this point Newcastle marched,
eager for battle, and desirous to engage, before the
host of Manchester should be increased by new accessions,
which, as he learned, were swelling day
by day his ranks; having detached Sir John Henderson,
an old and well-proved soldier, in advance, with
eighty-seven troops, horse and dragoons, to seek
out Cromwell, and bring him, ere the earl could
aid him with his infantry, to action at a disadvantage.

It was a glorious morning in the latter part of

June, and at an hour so early that the heavy dews
of summer were yet hanging unexhaled on wold
and woodland, although the sun had lifted his broad
disk above the horizon, when the two armies
came in view on Winsley field, near Horncastle.
It was a gallant and a graceful spectacle as ever
met the eye of man. The scene a broad and
waving tract of moorish meadow land, checkered
with many a patch of feathery coppice—birch, ash,
and alder—tufts of furze full of its golden bloom,
and waving fern—and here and there a bare gray
rock peering above the soil, or a clear pool of
water reflecting the white clouds that hung aloft
all motionless in the blue firmament—and over
this romantic champaign a magnificent array of
horse, four thousand at the least in numbers, contracting
or extending their bright squadrons, now
falling into column and now deploying into line,
as best they might among the obstacles of this
their battle-ground — their polished armour and
their many-coloured scarfs now flashing out superbly
as the sunshine kissed their masses with its
golden light, now sobered into mellower hues as
some great cloud would flit across the sky and
cast its sweeping shadow over them—their trumpets
ever and anon waking the echoes of the woodlands
that surrounded them on every side with
their exulting notes, and their gay standards fluttering
in the breeze—their gallant chargers, arching
their necks against the curb, bounding and curvetting
along as if they panted for the onset—while
toward the eastern limits of the plain, upon a gentle
elevation, flanked on the one side by the gully
of a deep and stony brook, and on the other by a
coppice, tangled with ancient thorns, and matted
with wild rose briers, which protected likewise the
whole rear of his position, Cromwell had formed
his line. Nor, though inferior far in numbers, and
lacking all that chivalrous and splendid decoration
which their floating plumes and gorgeous dresses
lent to the cavaliers, could his dark squadrons have
been looked upon without attention—ay, and admiration
also, by the most unromantic of observers.
The admirable discipline and perfect armature of
the stern zealots who composed the ranks—the
plain, but soldierly and bright accoutrements—the
horses, superior even to the chargers of the royalists
in blood, and bone, and beauty, and, above all,
in that precise and jealous grooming, without which
all the rest are little worth—the grim and stubborn
countenances of the riders—some animated with a
fiery zeal that would have smiled exultingly upon
the stake of martyrdom, some lowering with a dark
and sullen scowl, but all severe, and resolute, and
dauntless! A single glance sufficed to tell that
every battle-field to them must be a triumph or a
grave!

Silent they stood and motionless—their long array
drawn up, two deep, by squadrons at brief intervals—solemn
and voiceless, presenting a strange
contrast to the shifting movements and the intricate
manœuvres of their approaching enemy. Not a
man moved in his saddle, not a sound broke the
quiet of their discipline, save now and then the
stamp and neigh of an unruly charger, or the sharp
clatter of his steel caparison. And now the cavaliers,
within a short mile's distance, having already
cleared the broken ground, might be seen halting
on the farther verge of the smooth space which
swept away toward them in a gentle slope, unmarred
by bush, or brake, or obstacle of any kind
to the career of the most timid rider; when, with
some three or four of his most trusty captains,
Cromwell advanced before his lines. Of stout,

ungainly stature when dismounted, none showed
to more advantage on his warhorse, and in full caparison
of battle, than did the colonel of the ironsides.
It was not that his seat was graceful, or
that he ruled his charger with the ease of the man
êge, but that he swayed him with an absolute dominion,
which seemed to arise rather from his mere
volition than from the exercise of strength or skill.
His whole soul seemed engrossed by the approaching
conflict—careless of self, exalted, and enthusiastical.
His eyes flashed with a brightness almost
supernatural from the dark shadow of his
morion, and his whole visage wore an aspect so irradiate
with energy and mind, that Edgar wondered
how he ever could have deemed him ill-favoured
or ungraceful. His horse, a superb black, bore
him as if he too were conscious of Divine authority;
and such was the commanding greatness of
his whole appearance, that no human eye could
have descended to remark the plainness of his war-array!
Of the small group of officers who rode
beside the bridle of their leader, the most were ordinary
looking men, burghers of Huntingdon, or
small esquires of the surrounding country, selected
for the stations which they occupied, by the wise
politician who had levied them, on account of those
morose and gloomy tenets which, with an early
prescience, he discovered to be the only power that
might cope with the high spirit of the gentlemen
who formed the bulk of their antagonists—men
who affected, or imagined visions and transports—
who believed themselves predestined instruments,
and deemed that in the slaying of malignants they
were doing an especial service to the God whose
chosen servants they declared themselves, with a
faith in the truth of the assertion which rendered
them almost invincible. Among these plain and
heavy-looking soldiers, the form of Ardenne, highborn,
and full of the intuitive and untaught grace
of noble blood, gallantly armed and handsomely attired—for
he was not one of those who fancied that
the approbation of Heaven could be won by a rusty
corslet or an ill-blacked boot—mounted on a dark
chestnut, thoroughbred, yet powerful enough to bear
a man-at-arms fully accoutred through the longest
day, showed like a glorious falcon among a tribe of
buzzards; yet even he, handsome, and young, and
fairly clad, filled not the eye like the majestic person
of his colonel. At a quick trot they swept
along the lines, inspecting their array, with now a
word of commendation, and now a short reproof, to
the dark fanatics who had been chosen lance-pesades
or sergeants for their savage and enthusiastic
humour. Just as they finished their career, a long
and cheery shout, accompanied and blended with
the clang of kettle-drums and the shrill flourish of
their trumpets, burst from the columns of the cavaliers,
now wheeling into line and eager for the onset.
No shout or burst of instruments replied from the
parliamentarians; but their leader, at the sound,
checking his charger from his speed till he reared
bolt upright, threw forth his arm with a proud gesture
of defiance; “Brethren,” he called aloud, in
accents harsh but clearly audible, and thrilling to
the heart—“Brethren and fellow-soldiers in the
Lord, the men of Belial are before you—the persecutors
of the saints—the spillers of the innocent
blood—godless and desperate!—slayers of babes
and sucklings—ravishers of maids and matrons—
revilers of the prophets and the law—accursed of
the Lord Jehovah! Wherefore, faint not, nor be
of feeble heart, for surely on this day shall the
Lord yield them up into your hands, that ye may
work his vengeance on their heads, and execute his
judgments. For said he not of old, `Lo! I will
tread them in my anger, and trample them in my
fury; and their blood shall be sprinkled upon my
garments, and I will stain all my raiment. For the
day of vengeance is in my heart, and the year of
my redeemed is come!' So saith the Lord of
Hosts. Amen! amen! Selah!”

And, with a deep and sullen hum, the puritans
took up the words—“So saith the Lord of Hosts.
Amen! amen! Selah!”

“And are not we,” continued the fierce zealot,
with increasing energy—“and are not we—blinded
although we be, and ignorant and sinful—I ask ye,
brethren, are not we the chosen of the Lord, and
shall we not obey his bidding? Smite them, then
—smite the idolatrous, besotted followers of the
old Antichrist, even as just Elijah slew the priests
of Baal down at the brook of Kishon. Be strong,
and fear ye not! For lo! the Lord hath said, `Ye
shall not suffer one of them to live!' and who are
we that we should now gainsay the bidding of the
Lord, even the Lord of Hosts? Lift up your
voices, then, that yon malignants may perceive in
whom we put our trust.”

Again, and in a sterner and more heartfelt shout,
the approbation of the puritans greeted their
leader's ears; and as he ceased, with brandished
blades and inflamed features, and with voices that
drowned utterly the feebler music of the cavaliers,
already confident of victory and maddened with religious
zeal, they thundered forth their favourite
hymn.

The fierce strains ceased, and a loud acclamation
followed them, solemnly breathing a sublime, yet
savage spirit of defiance, and was responded to immediately
by the huzzahs of the advancing cavaliers,
and the rich symphonies of horn and kettledrum.
A small reserve of some five hundred men
was posted in the rear, and, in one mighty line, the
rest swept forward at a brisk trot, the front rank
with their carbines all unslung and matches lighted.
Cromwell gazed steadfastly upon them for an
instant—then his eye lightened and his lip curled
scornfully as he addressed his second in command.
“Lieutenant-colonel Ardenne,” he exclaimed, “dismount
two hundred of our best dragooners, and,
under Fight-the-good-fight Egerton, let them file
down that gulley to our left, and fire constantly on
the advance of these misproud malignants.” Without
a moment's pause the order was transmitted
and obeyed, and, ere five minutes had elapsed, the
party was detached and scrambling down the rocky
bed of the ravine, unnoted by the royalists, under
the guidance of as morose and bold a puritan as
ever levelled musket or misquoted holy writ. “Sir
Edmund Winthrop,” Oliver continued, “your stout
lieutenant, shall hold your regiment, as our reserve,

here on this ground of vantage—but shall not stir
from it unless at your command or mine. We will
not tarry for their charge, but meet them horse to
horse—in onset of alternate squadrons. I lead the
first division, you shall support me with the second.
When you shall hear my bugle sound a recall and
rally, then strike in, and the Lord strike with you.
`Truth' is our word and `Peace.' Amen! Selah!”

Even as he spoke, the royalists gave fire from
their first rank, but at too great a distance to do
execution, and halted to reload. “Steady, men!”
shouted Cromwell, whose sword was not yet drawn,
from the extreme left, as he perceived a demonstration
of anxiety to charge among his troopers—
“steady, men; let them come nigher, and when
they fire again, shoot also ye, upon their flash,
through your whole line; and instantly, alternate
squadrons from the left, charge on them ere they
may reload!”

Scarce had he ended ere the line again advanced
on a hard trot; a single shot rang from the gulley,
broken and fringed with thorns and alder-bushes—
another, and another—a rapid and continuous fire of
skirmishers, picking off half a score of officers, and
throwing the right wing of the royalists into some
slight confusion; on, however, they still came, their
banners rustling, and their gay plumes and baldrics
fluttering in the wind, while, trusting to make such
impression on the main host of the puritans as
should cause their ambuscade to be of no effect,
they hurried to the onset. On they came, resolute
and dauntless! Their bugle sounded, for the gallop
—for the charge! and, at the latter call, again the
levelled carbines rose to the riders' cheeks—a
bright flash ran along their line, and a dense veil
of smoke covered their orderly and brilliant front.
Before it cleared away, the shattering volley of the

puritans, poured in with a deliberate aim, made
fearful havoc in their ranks, and on the instant,
casting aside their matchlocks and whirling their
long rapiers from the scabbards, one half the squadrons
of the parliament hurled themselves furiously
upon the advancing foe. Eagerly, anxiously did
Edgar gaze upon the charge. On went the colonel
of the ironsides, six horses' lengths in front of
his division, and all as gallantly out dashed a leader
of the king's to meet him—they met, and it was but
an instant ere the charger of the royalist ran masterless,
and its unhappy owner rolled, weltering in
his blood, beneath the trampling hoofs of the fierce
puritans. There was no faltering—no doubt in
either line—forward they rushed, all straining to
the charge, their horses foaming and struggling
against the bit, and their swords flashing in the sunlight.
Edgar unsheathed his rapier, for now a
horse's length scarce intervened; yet neither host
had paused or turned aside. And now they were
encountering, when the rear rank of the cavaliers
threw in with desperate execution their reserved
volley, shaking the line of the parliamentarians like
an earthquake, emptying scores of saddles, and
hurling riders and horses headlong to the earth.
The smoky curtain once again swept over them;
it cleared away, and Ardenne saw his fellow-troopers,
unbroken and in close array, so orderly had
they closed in above the falling, now mingled hand
to hand, and fighting with the cavaliers, whose
front was bending like a bow—the points, on which
the troops of Oliver had charged, beat backward a
full pistol-shot, and the alternate squadrons which
had met no foe wavering and undecided what to
do. Sword cuts were glancing through the air on
helm and corslet—pistol-shots flashed among the
melèe; and the shouts, “God and the church”—
“God and the king,” blended with groans, and
yells, and curses, and the clash of blades, and the
wild blast of trumpets, pealed dissonantly to the
sky. Still Cromwell's bugle sounded not, nor
were his men drawn off; and Ardenne paused in
doubt. His eye fell suddenly upon the form of
Oliver fighting among the foremost; another volley
from a small knot of cavaliers, and he fell—horse
and man—and the strife closed more fiercely round
him; at the same instant the reserve of Henderson
moved up to re-enforce his battle. Then Edgar
paused no longer—“Forward!” he shouted, in a
voice of thunder—“forward—charge home!” and
dashing down the grassy slope, before a minute
passed burst like a thunderbolt upon the unengaged
divisions of the enemy, and, killing two men
with his own hand, drove them in terrible confusion,
by the fury of his onset, back on their own reserve.
Turning his eye, now he had gained a moment's
leisure, toward the spot where he had seen
his colonel fall, he caught a glimpse of him on foot,
fighting with desperate courage against some six or
seven horsemen, who were hewing at him all together
with their long broadswords, and hindering
each other by their own impetuosity. Three strokes
of his good sword, and the superb exertions of his
charger, placed him at Cromwell's side just as he
fell to the earth, stunned but unwounded by a heavy
blow. One of the cavaliers received the point of
Edgar's rapier in his throat before he checked his
horse; the others were engaged and beaten backward
by the foremost of his troopers. Hastily
springing to the ground as Oliver regained his feet,
“Mount,” he exclaimed, “mount, Colonel Cromwell,
on my horse, and finish what so well you have
begun!”

Without a word the zealot leaped to the saddle,

cast his eyes with a quick comprehensive glance
around him, and read the fortunes of the day upon
the instant.

“They are half beaten now,” he shouted, in exulting
tones; “one charge more, and we sweep
them like dust before the winds of heaven! Away,
sir—down with the reserve, and fall upon their left
flank. I will draw off my men, and, ere you be
in action, will be prepared to give it them again in
front. Ho! bugler,” he continued, as Ardenne,
mounting his brown mare, which his equerry had
led up, galloped off swiftly to the rear—“ho! bugler,
sound me a recall and rally!” The shrill
notes of the instrument rang aloud above the din
of battle; and with that strict obedience for which
they had already gained repute, the ironsides drew
off from the encounter orderly, and beautifully
formed again, before the shattered and disordered
masses of the cavaliers had fallen into any semblance
of array. In the mean time Ardenne had
reached his regiment, the men burning to emulate
the glory half achieved by their companions, the
horses pawing the turf, and snorting with impatience.
A loud shout greeted him as he addressed
them, in a few words terse and full of fire, formed
them by troops in open column, and advanced between
the coppice on his right and the extreme
left of the enemy, now near a quarter of a mile
pushed forward beyond their right and centre,
which had been most disordered by the fire of the
skirmishers and Cromwell's furious charge. So
great, indeed, was the confusion of the royalists,
their officers toiling along the ranks, labouring with
oaths, and menaces, and exhortations to rally and
reform the men, that they perceived not Ardenne's
movement till he was wheeling into line to the left
previous to charging them. Then, when it was

too late, they struggled to redeem their error nobly
but fruitlessly; for, ere they could show front
against him, the trumpets sounded—Oliver's in
front, and Edgar's on the flank—and simultaneously
they were charged, broken, and dispersed. The
action was already over—but the rout, the flight,
the havoc, the despair, the hideous, indiscriminating
massacre, urged to the utmost by religious
fury and political rancour, ceased not till noon;
when Cromwell's bugles, slowly and most reluctantly
obeyed, called back the men, their weapons
blunted and their arms aweary, but their hearts insatiate
of carnage, from the hard-pressed pursuit.

5. CHAPTER V.

Scott's Rokeby.

Though but of brief duration and trifling magnitude
as to the number of the troops engaged on
either hand, yet was the victory of Cromwell upon
Winsley field of vast importance, when considered
in its bearings on the general aspect of the war;
since by it only was the Marquis of Newcastle
prevented from co-operating with the royal forces
in the West, when, elevated as they were in spirit

by the defeat of Waller upon Roundway Down,
and the disgraceful fall of Bristol, they might too
probably have marched triumphantly to the metropolis,
had they been re-enforced, as they expected,
by the northern chivalry. In consequence of this
repulse, then, Newcastle sat down before the walls
of Hull, while Charles, thus disappointed in his
schemes, as fatally laid siege to Gloucester, which
he was soon compelled to raise by the activity of
Essex. The desperate drawn battle before Newbury
ensued, signal for nothing but the death of the
good Falkland, the only counsellor that now remained
about the king who could be deemed a
patriot or a true lover of the English constitution.
The Hampden of the royalists, this gallant nobleman
fell with his country's name the last sound on
his lips; but fell not till he had become aweary of
a life which was imbittered so by the disasters of
his native land, that he was wont to sink, even
when circled by the gayest of his friends, into desponding
apathy, and “to ingeminate, after deep silence
and continual sighs, with a shrill sad accent,
the words `Peace—peace!”' The winter
which succeeded was by the cavaliers spun out in
feuds, dissensions, and intrigues among themselves,
the king remaining obstinately bent on prostrating
all opposition to his will, and countenancing
such alone of his advisers as urged the fiercest and
most downright measures. Not so the parliament
at Westminster, in which the independent party
were, by the death of Hampden first, and afterward
of Pym, gaining an ascendency which was increasing
daily through the abilities of Cromwell, St.
John, and the younger Vane, the leading politicians
and debaters of the lower house. The energy
and deep-laid shrewdness of these men suffered
not one false step, however trivial, on the
part of Charles, to pass unnoted or unimproved to
their advantage; and, ere the spring was far enough
advanced for the commencement of a third campaign,
they had so thoroughly aroused the spirit of
the land, inflamed already by the king's impolitic
and shameful treaty with the rebellious Catholics
of Ireland, that, early in the month of March, five
several armies were on foot! Essex preparing to
oppose the king in person—Waller commanding in
the West—the Scotch, who had invaded England
in accordance with the solemn league and covenant,
and Fairfax, with his Yorkshire levies, shutting
up Newcastle in York—and Manchester, with
Cromwell's cavalry, hurrying from the associated
counties of the East toward the same important
point.

And now, for the first time since the commencement
of the war, did fortune show herself in favour
of the liberal party; the total and complete annihilation
of Lord Hopton's force at Alresford by
Waller, was in itself sufficient to compel even
Charles to give up all attempt at a campaign on
the offensive. Nor was this all; for Newcastle's
express advised him that he must surrender unless
succoured in the brief space of three weeks. It
was on this intelligence that Rupert, having
achieved much reputation and some eminent successes
in that large county, marched out of Lancashire
with all the flower of the royalists—drawn
from the midland counties, burning with gallant
ardour, confident in their successful leader, appointed
with a noble train of ordnance, and re-enforced
by Goring's excellent brigade of horse
from Lincolnshire—hastening ably, and no less fortunately,
to the relief of York, reduced already to
extremity, and on the point of yielding to the parliament.
During the dark and melancholy winter

which had thus elapsed, Ardenne, in close attendance
on his duties, whether civil in the house at
Westminster, or active in the field, had struggled,
with more of steadiness than of success, to banish
from his heart the recollection of his own depressed
and wellnigh hopeless circumstances. Of his implacable
and stubborn father he had heard but little
since their last interview at Woodleigh, save that a
copy of the document for the securing the estates
to Sibyl and breaking the entail had been transmitted
to him for inspection; and that a rumour,
as it proved well founded, had reached London
that the old baronet, having been strenuous and incessant
in stimulating warlike measures, had left
Oxford in the dead of winter, dismantled his fine
residence, and thrown himself, together with his
niece, into the capital of Yorkshire, some short
time only ere it was invested by the united troops
of Fairfax and the Earl of Leven. Such was the
state of matters when, on a lovely evening of July,
some few days after the strong succours under
Manchester and Cromwell had joined the northern
army, Edgar returned from a reconnaissance which
he had been sent, in consequence of rumours that
the cavaliers had been observed in force toward the
neighbouring towns of Wetherby and Bramham,
to execute, with his whole regiment, in that direction.
During the two days which had been consumed
in scouring thoroughly that district of the
country, he had discovered nothing to justify, in
any sort, the vague reports which had prevailed
ere his departure from the camp; and it was therefore
much to his amazement that he perceived the
forces of the parliament drawing off from the siege
in no small hurry and confusion, and forming line
of battle upon Marston Moor, some eight miles to
the westward of the city. It was not without
strenuous exertion that Ardenne found at length
the post assigned to his immediate superior, now
lieutenant-general of the horse, who was intently
occupied with Leslie, Fairfax, Manchester, and
others of the chief commanders, in ordering their
array so as to intercept the gallant host of royalists,
some twenty thousand strong, with which
Prince Rupert had wellnigh surprised them in their
trenches. Night fell upon them ere the task was
well completed; yet such was the determination
and the spirit of the leaders, such the quick apprehension
and obedience of the soldiery, that, by the
aid of torches and the long summer twilight, their
position was made good; and that, too, on the
strongest ground that could be chosen from the extensive,
low, and somewhat marshy meadows lying
between the Ouse and the great Northern road.
Provisions were served out, with liquor, in abundance
to the troops, who, for the most part, passed
the night upon their arms, though some were quartered
in the neighbouring villages, commanding the
anticipated line of Rupert's march. Patrols of
horse and foot swept the surrounding roads; the
officers, with jealous zeal, made constant circuits
of the host, their progress being clearly indicated
by the acclamations of the men, and the loud
psalms of exultation and defiance which usually
answered their inspiriting addresses. Yet was
their active energy on this occasion destined to be
wasted; for scarcely was their host arrayed, ere
the discharge of ordnance from the town, and the
tremendous cheering, which was distinctly borne
to the ears of the now disappointed puritans, announced
that Rupert—who, by the aid of better information
and the exertion of great military skill,
had executed a detour far to the right of their position—was
actually entering the beleaguered city
from the eastward side, whence they had drawn
their troops in the vain hope to intercept him.
Great was the consternation and dismay which this
discovery created in the breast, not of the privates
only, but of the best and boldest leaders of the parliament;
and in no less degree did merriment and
wild triumphant revelry possess the citizens, relieved
beyond their utmost expectation. Throughout
the livelong night the eastern sky was reddened,
wellnigh to the zenith, by the crimson glare
of bonfires blazing in every street and court within
the walls; while the square towers of the minster,
illuminated by the fierce discoloured light, were
visible distinctly at some miles' distance, their huge
bells swinging to and fro, a deafening peal of shortlived
exultation. Upon the moor a council was
called instantly, and sentries posted round the quarters
of the Scottish general, with the avowed intention
of maintaining an inviolable secrecy concerning
the debates of the stern martialists assembled
there. Such was, however, the tumultuous and
noisy character of the discussion between the English
officers and the fanatical enthusiastic Presbyterian
clergy, whom the Scotch brought habitually
into their warlike councils, that no precaution could
have hindered the entire army from perceiving
that dissensions, fired by their religious differences,
and fed to wilder heat by prejudice and
national disgusts, had fallen, with a perilous and
most pernicious influence, upon their leaders. It
was now nearly dawn, when, breaking up their
long-protracted session, they at length came forth.
Despondency and gloom sat heavy on the resolute
and manly brow of Fairfax as he strode forth and
leaped into his saddle, without altering his garb,
though in immediate prospect of a general action.
He was not, indeed, utterly unarmed, for he had
entered the court-martial with but brief time for
ceremony, after toiling from the preceding day-break
at the evacuation of the trenches; yet did
he lack much of the heavy armature which was
still worn by officers in high command. A buff
coat, richly laced with silver, its open sleeves displaying
the white satin of its lining; stout breeches
of the same material, fringed at the knee with costly
Flanders lace; and boots of russet leather, formed
the chief part of his defensive dress, although he
wore a short but highly polished breastplate, half
covered by his falling collar from the looms of Valenciennes,
and by the sash of crimson silk and
gold which was wound many times about his waist,
supporting his long silver-hilted broadsword. He
bore his truncheon in his hand, and, ere he mounted,
buckled on his head the open bacinet of steel
peculier to the day, which an attendant held in
readiness. Upon the faces of the other generals
anger, irresolution, and disgust were variously but
strongly written; and in the features of the Scottish
tords especially, Ardenne imagined he could
trace a settled disaffection for the service they had
bound themselves to execute. No time was lost,
however, and, by a series of manœuvres, not less
judiciously than rapidly effected, the whole position
of the army was reformed and taken up anew; so
that its front, which had originally faced toward
the west, as to oppose an enemy advancing against
York from that direction, was now turned easterly,
in readiness to meet the sally, which they hoped,
rather than expected, to be made on them from
that same city. Sir Thomas Fairfax, with his
new-levied Yorkshire cavalry and three Scotch
regiments of horse, held the extreme right wing,
and next to him the infantry of his brave father,
with two brigades of Scottish horse in readiness
for his support. In the main body and reserve
were all the regiments of Scottish foot, appointed
well and officered by their own covenanting lords,
and two of Manchester's brigades; while the left
wing was occupied by Cromwell, with all his iron
cavalry, and three good regiments of Northern
cuirassiers under Lieutenant-general Leslie, and
Colonel Frizell's regiment of Berwickshire dragoons,
who did good service in the action, posted
yet farther to the left, by a cross ditch intersecting
the main dike, which ran along the whole front of
the puritans, excepting a brief space before the
Earl of Manchester's pike-regiments. The plain,
upon the western side of which the army was
drawn up, was, on the whole, well suited for a general
action, being of considerable extent, entirely
open, and untraversed by any hedge or fence save
on the left, where a long narrow lane between high
banks and bushes of old thorn debouched upon the
field, forming the only pass by which Fairfax could
cross the drain and bring his horsemen into action.
The rear of the parliamentarians was covered by
the thickly-planted orchards, each with its quickset
fence, the narrow garths and gardens surrounded
by stout walls of limestone, and the young plantations
round the straggling village of Long Marston;
which, with its solid cottages of masonry,
would form an excellent and easily-defended point
whereon to fall back if repulsed from their original
position; while on both wings the strong enclosures
of the pasture fields, studded with hedgerow
timber, would present most serious obstacles to
any movement of the enemy to overflank them.
Of all the generals, it seemed to Edgar that Cromwell
was the least disturbed in mind or aspect;
yet even he, as he addressed his ironsides, spoke
not with the short, terse, and energetic style which
he was wont to use when he chose to be understood,
but in interminable and confused harangues,
resembling more the doctrinal discourses of a fanatical
and visionary preacher than the heart-stirring
oratory of a dauntless captain; nor did he
hesitate to declare openly to Ardenne, when at a
little distance from the troopers, that—“Of a truth,
there is sore need of prayer and supplication—
not of lip-service or knee-bending—but of soul-searching
cries, of earnest and continual wrestling
with the Lord; for verily, unless he work great
things this day in Israel's behalf, verily, Edgar
Ardenne, you shall behold this host melting away
like now before the April sunshine. Unless the
God, even the God of Battles—harden the hearts
and blind the understanding of yon perverse and
fiery Rupert, even as of yore he hardened the heart
of Pharaoh, that he might bring him to destruction,
with his captains, and his chariots, and his horsemen—unless
he do all this, and more, I tell thee,
we shall fall into the pit ourselves have digged!
If the prince have but wisdom to abide in yon
fenced city which he has won from us, then shall
you see the carnal-minded and the feeble-witted of
the host—those who, like babes and sucklings, may
not endure the rich meats and strong waters of the
Word—those who are ill-assured, self-seekers, and
backsliders—then shall you see all these, and they
outnumber half our army, falling away by tens, by
hundreds, and by thousands! But lo!” he added,
in a quick, clear voice, strangely at variance with
the drawling snuffle he had thus far adopted,
“whom have we here? Tidings, I trow, from my
lord general;” for, as he spoke, a youthful officer
dashed at a hasty gallop up to his side, and checking,
for a moment's space, his fiery horse, “The
earl,” he cried, “lieutenant-general, prays you
will hold yourself in readiness for instant action!
Rupert and Newcastle are even now without the
gates, and marching hitherward to fight us!”

“Said I not,” shouted Oliver, so loudly that
every one of his own cavalry might catch the import
of his words—“said I not that the Lord would
harden the heart of our foe and blind his understanding?
The Lord he is on our side; blessed
be the name of the Lord!” and instantly he raised,
with his own tongue, the first notes of a hymn, in
which he was accompanied at once by full five
thousand deep and manly voices.

The fierce sounds rolled along the front, from
corps to corps, till one half of the host had kindled
with the same enthusiastic confidence and swelled
the same high chorus! It was one of those bright
flashes of that brightest talent in a leader, the talent
of inspiring trust, of awakening energy and zeal,
of lighting into sudden flame the hearts of thousands
by a single word—a talent, by-the-way, in
which no captain ever has excelled, and probably
but two[1] have ever in the least degree approached
the wondrous man who was that very day about
to make himself a reputation with the mightiest.
As the thunders of that glorious psalm rolled onward,
gaining strength at every pause, and echoing
for miles around, doubt and despondency passed
instantly away—pulses, that but an hour before
had throbbed with cold and feeble beatings, now
leaped exultingly—eyes, that had rested sullenly

upon the earth, flashed cheerfully and vividly to
the new-risen sun—and tongues, that had half
uttered words of evil omen, and almost of fear,
now swelled the warlike anthem to the skies.
Before the psalm had yet well ceased, and while
its echoes were still alive and ringing in the air,
the pikeheads of the royal foot might be seen
twinkling in the level sunbeams above the coppices
and furze-brakes that fringed the east side
of the plain. And now a massive column burst
into open view, their bright steel sallets and their
coats of plate reflecting in broad sheets the light,
which flashed in long and dazzling streaks from
their tall weapons as they wheeled up into line
—and now a strong brigade of field artillery, its
caissons and its tumbrils following, came rumbling
up at a full trot—and now, with many a
blazoned standard streaming, and a white sea of
plumes floating above them, squadron after squadron
of that superb and highborn cavalry, to which
the king owed all his previous victories, rounded a
distant wood, and formed in accurate array upon
the royal left. Then, as these formed, the heads
of column after column debouched upon the plain,
their mounted leaders darting along their flanks
and fronts, their music sounding joyously, and the
thick trampling of their march shaking the very
ground beneath them—as these fell in, another
train of field-pieces and a yet more magnificent
array of horse wheeled up at the full gallop, and
fronted Cromwell's ironsides at a mile's distance
on the open plain. By seven of the clock both
armies were in full array of battle, facing each
other, when a gallant group of mounted officers
advanced a little from the centre of the cavaliers,
and instantly, amid the blare of trumpets and the
exulting shouts “God save the king” of the brave
gentlemen who mustered under it, the royal standard,
with its gorgeous quarterings, was displayed
to the light breeze, which bore its folds to their
full length, and shook them toward the squadrons
of its unrelenting foes. At the same moment,
from the midst of the dark masses of the puritans,
coldly arrayed in buff and plain gray steel, with
neither scarf, nor plume, nor lace of silver or of
gold to break the dull monotony of their appearance,
was hoisted the blue banner of the covenant, bearing St. George's cross of red, but not yet intersected
by the white diagonals of Scotland's
patron saint. The elevation of this broad dark-coloured
sheet was greeted by a stern and solemn
acclamation, as different from the wild and animated
clamour of the cavaliers as is the deep incessant
booming of the ocean-surf from the sharp
keen explosions of a thunder-storm. Then followed
a short pause—a fel and appalling interval
of quiet, like the brief space that often intervenes
between the mustering of the storm-clouds and
the outbreaking of the hurricane. The faces of
the bravest paled, and their pulses beat with a
quickened and irregular motion, not from the slightest
touch of fear, but from the intense violence of
their excitement. Prayers were recited in this
interval at the head of every regiment among the
parliamentarians, and many of the officers—and
not a few even of the private troopers—men whom
the spirit of the Lord had blessed with the high
gift of expounding mysteries—held forth in their
wild jargon, savouring to the ears of Edgar rather
of blasphemous and profane phrensy than of devotion
or well-ordered piety. It was at this conjuncture—just
as Cromwell had concluded a long
and fervent prayer, tinctured at times with true
heartfelt religion, bursting occasionally into gleams
of real eloquence, and throughout fixing the attention
of the zealots, who applauded him from time
to time with voice and gesture—that the same
group of officers which had displayed the royal
standard galloped in full career along the whole
front of the cavaliers midway between the armies.
The leading officer, as Edgar gazed upon him
through his perspective-glass, was a tall, strongly-built,
and splendidly-accoutred man, superbly
mounted on a jet-black barb of the tall breed of
Dongola—his cuirass literally blazed with stars
and decorations of a dozen military orders; his
mantle of dark purple velvet, fringed and laid down
with lace of gold three inches broad, displayed the
diamond insignia of the garter, and his high-crowned
Spanish hat was overshadowed by an
ostrich plume nearly two feet in height. Yet were
his features coarse and ill-favoured, marked with a
supercilious sneer, and an expression ill-humoured,
haughty, and imperious; his hair, which flowed
far down his shoulders, was harsh and quite
uncurled; his figure, too, though tall and powerful,
was graceless; his body corpulent and gross,
betraying symptoms of debauchery and license,
as plainly as his countenance reflected a mind despotic,
brutal, and self-willed. The most profound
respect attended his swift passage through the
lines, and ever and anon some change of station
or some delicate manœuvre was executed on his
bidding; but, when he reached the extreme right
of the royalists, he paused some time in deep and
earnest contemplation of the post occupied by
Cromwell with his cavalry, which were even then
engaged in chanting one of their vengeful and
prophetic hymns. Then sending off a dozen officers
on the full spur in different directions, he
cantered coolly forward with but two attendants,
and these private troopers, till he was distant scarce
three musket shots from the grim ironsides. Here
he again drew in his horse, leaped to the ground,
and, levelling his glass upon the pommel of his
demipique, swept the array of Oliver with careful
scrutiny. Edward had from the first concluded that
this leader was no other than the impetuous and
daring Rupert; had he, however, doubted it, the
bitter imprecations and fierce shouts of the excited
puritans, to whom his cruelty and his successes
had rendered him an object of especial hatred,
must have at once convinced him. But he had
little time for observation; for Rupert, in his
audacious reconnaissance, had, as it seemed, miscalculated
his own distance from Frizell's Scotch
dragoons, or overlooked the ditch that ran obliquely
from their station to a point within a few yards of
the elevation he had chosen, as commanding much
of the parliament's position—an oversight which
escaped not that experienced officer. A dozen of
his men, as the prince halted, had dismounted
from their horses, and, with their arquebuses
ready and their matches lighted, stole on from
bush to bush, behind the bank, unseen and unsuspected
by the engrossed and anxious leader, till
within short carbine distance—then, flash after
flash, their scattering fire burst from the willow-bushes
and the tufts of flags that lined the water-course—and,
ere the sharp reports had reached the
ears of Ardenne, one of the prince's followers
leaped up in his saddle, and fell dead at his general's
feet, while the perspective-glass dashed from
his fingers, and the white plume severed by another
bullet, showed how well-aimed and narrowly-escaped
had been the volley destined for Rupert's
person. The charger of the fallen trooper
dashed masterless across the field, followed
with nearly equal speed by the surviving soldier,
who halted not till he had reached his comrades—
but he whose life was aimed at more peculiarly
did not so much as look toward the enemy, whose
fire had so nigh slain him, till he had raised his
follower from the bloody sod, and ascertained that
aid was useless. Then, quietly remounting, he
shook his clinched hand in the air at the dragoons,
who had reloaded and were now in open view
preparing for a second shot, and trotted leisurely
away toward his chosen horsemen.

Scarce had this passed ere Edgar's notice was
attracted by the raised voice of Cromwell, on
whom he had been hitherto in close attendance,
but who had ridden a short space to the left to give
some orders to the colonel of one of his own regiments.
His words were lost to Ardenne from
the distance; but, by the short stern intonation of
his accents, he knew that something was amiss,
and galloped up to him at once. The officer whom
Cromwell had addressed was sitting motionless
before his regiment, his bridle loose upon his
charger's neck, his open hands raised upward, his
dull and heavy features lighted up by a phrensied
glare, and his voice rolling forth sentence after sentence
of unconnected texts, strung, as it were, together
by a running commentary of his own ill-digested
ravings.

“Heard you me not? Ho! Colonel Obadiah
Jepherson,” shouted the general close in his
ears, his features kindling and his voice quivering
with rage, “heard you me not command you
straightway to despatch troops to bring up the fascines,
that, when we list advance, we may have
wherewithal to cross the ditch! Heard you not,
or do you dare to disobey me?”

“Must I not, then,” replied the other, in a

drawling tone, “as Balak said to Balaam, `must I
not take heed to speak that which the Lord hath
put into my mouth?' ” and, turning toward the
troops, he again went on—“Wherefore be ye as
those, O brethren, whom the Lord set apart to
Gideon—”

But not for many words did he continue his
oration; for, plunging both his spurs up to the
rowel-heads into his mighty charger, and plucking
forth a pistol from his holster, Oliver dashed
against him. Leaving the rein at liberty, by the
mere pressure of his limbs he wheeled the horse,
as he was on the point of riding down his disobedient
officer, and, seizing with his left hand the
collar of his buff coat, with the right he pressed
the muzzle of his weapon to his temples; and with
such violence that, when the pistol was withdrawn,
a livid ring remained on the indented and discoloured
flesh.

“Now, by the Lord that liveth,” he hissed between
his set teeth, but in a whisper so emphatic
and distinct that all around him heard it—“if you
but wink an eyelid, much more speak, or move to
disobey me, it were better for thee thou hadst
ne'er been born! Away! and do my bidding, dog,
or you shall die the death”—and, as he spoke, he
shook him off so suddenly that he had wellnigh
lost his saddle as he turned hastily away to set
about his duty with as much alacrity as though
he did so of his own free will. At the same time
a loud sharp roar told that the action had commenced;
and, riding once more to his station, Edward
beheld a snow-white cloud surge slowly up
toward the royal left—a bright flash followed—
another burst of dense and solid smoke—another
sharp explosion—and then, each after each, they
woke the cannon of the cavaliers, till their whole

front was veiled in wreathed smoke, drifting toward
the parliament's array, and filling all the intermediate
space as with a palpable and massive
substance—while the continuous and deafening roar
precluded for a while the possibility of hearing, and
almost of thought. Anon the answering ordnance
of the puritans belched forth its flame and smoke,
and added its din to the awful uproar. At times,
when the clouds melted for a moment under the
freshening breeze, Edgar and his yet more observant
leader might catch glances of the royal pikemen
pouring in solid columns to the charge, the
long lines of their levelled weapons glittering
through the smoke—or, farther to their right, the
masses of their horse, wheeling like flights of
seabirds to and fro—now all in gorgeous sunshine,
and now all in gloom. Meanwhile the rattling
of the musketry was mingled with the deeper
bellowing of cannon; and, among all and over all,
the thundering accents of that most potent of all
vocal instruments, the voice of man, pealed upward
to the polluted heavens. A long half hour elapsed,
and they might hear the battle raging at every instant
fiercer toward their right, yet they remained
still unengaged themselves, and without tidings or
directions how to act.

“By Heaven,” cried Ardenne, as he caught the
distant glitter of the royal standard floating among
the smoke almost within the puritan position—“by
Heaven, our right must be repulsed;” and, as he
spoke, an aid-de-camp dashed in, wounded and
ghostly, from the right; and, as he reined his charger
up, the gallant brute fell lifeless under him.
“Fairfax is beaten back, and all our right wing
scattered,” he exclaimed as he arose.

“Silence, man,” Cromwell sternly interrupted
him. “Wouldst thou dismay all these? Say on—

but here apart, and not above your breath, an you
would live to speak it out! Say on!”

“Fairfax is beaten utterly, and all the right wing
broken—you may not find two score of it together.
As he charged through you accursed lane, the
musketry of Belial mowed his ranks like grass
before the scythe—and lo! the sons of Zeruïah—”

“Tush! tell me not of Belial and of Zeruïah!
or, by the life of the Eternal, I will smite thee with
my truncheon! Speak out in plain blunt English,”
again interrupted Oliver. “Fairfax was broken—
and what then?”

“His Yorkshire levies, flying all disorderly,” replied
the officer, confused and panting still from
the effects of his late fall, “trampled beneath their
feet and utterly dispersed Lord Ferdinando's foot;
Balgony's lancers only broke one royal regiment,
and stout Sir Thomas, with but six troops of all
our northern horse, has cut his passage through
the cavaliers. These are now struggling hitherward—the
rest are routed past redemption! Lucas,
and Porter, and the malignant Goring are playing
havoc on the flank of our best Scottish foot, and
Newcastle, with all his whitecoats, is winning way
in front at the pike's point.”

“What message from the general? Quick, sir,”
cried Cromwell—“quick!”

“That you draw out with all despatch, and
charge Prince Rupert!”

“Why said you not so sooner?” Oliver replied.
“Thou, Righteous Lambert, ride to Jepherson;
bid him advance with the fascines and fill you
ditch! Hulton and Barnaby, off with you to the
first and second regiments; we will advance and
cross the drain at a brisk trot, and—Ha! their
ordnance ceases on the left; Rupert will meet us
straightway! Forward!—advance! Ardenne, be

near me thou! Forward! Sound trumpets;” and at
a quick trot they advanced, but in the deepest silence,
save for the clashing of their armour and the
earth-shaking clatter of their hoofs. “Ha!” Oliver
exclaimed again, as a quick spattering volley
on their left was heard distinctly, though the smoke-wreaths
were too closely packed to suffer objects
to be seen above a spear's length distant—“there
goes the musketry of Frizell—and now we clear
the smoke!” and, even with the words, they passed
the ditch, which was filled level with the surface
just at the moment of their reaching it; and, as
they passed it, the dense clouds from the royal
cannon, which, after the discharge had ceased, sailed
sluggishly down wind and hung about the puritans
some minutes longer than around the cavaliers,
soared slowly upward, and disclosed the whole of
that eventful field. One glance showed Cromwell
that the whole right of their position was indeed
broken—scattered to the four winds of heaven
—and that their centre, though supported by the
whole reserve, could scarce maintain itself against
the desperate odds with which it was engaged;
though, by the fast and rattling volleys, and the
repeated charges of the pikemen, he saw that all
was not yet over!

The second glance showed him the prince in
person, with the whole gallant cavalry of his right
wing, advancing at full trot to charge him, with
scarce five hundred yards between them; while a
strong mass of pikemen, intent on turning the extreme
left of the Scottish centre, had advanced so
far beyond their horse as to expose a portion of
their own right flank. “Ardenne!” he shouted,
with a voice clear as a trumpet, “away! A flying
charge upon the flank of yon pike-regiment—ride
over them, wheel promptly, and fall in upon the

left flank of Prince Rupert! Buxton, ride thou to
Frizell, and tell him not to charge, but to deploy
and to maintain his fire! for life! for life! Now
for the work. Gallop! ho! Charge! Down with
the sons of Zeruïah! Ha! ha! the sword of the
Lord and of Gideon!”

An instant was enough; his messengers rode
like the wind; and with a mighty shout, that rose
above the thousand fearful sounds that mingled to
make up the thundrous voice of battle, the ironsides
plunged headlong on the advancing cavaliers. Five
thousand horse at least on either side, splendid in
all the vain equipments that cast a false and fleeting
light of glory over the ghastly face of havoc! On
they went—man to man, and horse to horse, panting
for bloodshed as for the breath of life—drunk
with excitement—thoughtless of all except the
present! The trumpets of the royalists were
scarcely audible among the yells and shouts of the
wild fanatics. “Ha! Zerubbabel! Down with
the cursed of God! Ho! Napthali; on, Benjamin!
Strike, and spare not! strike in his name—even
his own name, Jah!” The phrensy of their onset,
for they charged like madmen rather than cool and
steady veterans, together with the slight confusion
which always must be felt by an assailing party,
which in the very moment of attack is suddenly
assailed, would have gone hard against the cavaliers;
but when to this was added the continual
and well-aimed fire of Frizell's Scotch dragoons,
cutting down horse and man along their right by
hundreds; and when the fresh and gallant regiment
of Ardenne, which—having fallen at an oblique
tangent on the right flank of the pikemen,
and driven through them like a thunderbolt with
an unbroken front—had wheeled, without a second's
pause, above the dead and dying, as orderly as on

parade, and charged full on the naked left of Ruperts
cavalry—it was no wonder that they were
cast into complete and irretrievable disorder! For
some time all was close and deadly conflict—for
such was the ecstatic valour of the gentlemen who
battled for the crown, and such the rash and stubborn
daring of their leader, that they persisted still, rallying
in squadrons or in troops—when their whole
line was broken and confused—and still, when
these were routed, rushed on in desperate knots of
ten OF twelve against the victors, and dealt them
death on every hand, with pistol, carbine-but, and
broadsword! Five times, at least, did Rupert rally
his own regiment, and bring it up to be again repulsed;
and, in the last charge, singling Ardenne
out, whose prowess he had noticed in the melée,
he drove his horse against him, and smote him
such a blow as shivered the tried rapier which he
raised to guard it to the hilt, and, falling thence
with scarce abated violence upon his morion, cleft
it down to the hair, but, deadened by the trusty
steel, inflicted no wound on the wearer. It was
well for Edgar that at this moment a fresh charge
by Fairfax, Crawford, and Balgony, who had come
up from the right wing across the rear, was made
with equal skill and execution—while Cromwell
drew off and reformed his troops—bearing the
prince and all his bravest backward, pushing his
squadrons, utterly defeated, clear off the field, and
chasing them with fearful havoc to the very walls
of York.

A little interval ensued while they called off
their stragglers, eager for vengeance, and scattered
by the melée; but, ere ten minutes had elapsed,
the ironsides, though thinned in number and above
half of them wounded, were under their own colours
and in their regular ranks. Ten minutes more

flew by, and nothing was yet done—they held the
ground with not a foe before them—while on their
right the enemy's whole infantry, whose flank, by
the defeat of Rupert, was open to their charge, was
gradually pushing back their own foot, step by step,
at the pike's point, from their position. Amazed
at this delay, and fearing some mishap, Ardenne
intrusted his command to his lieutenant, and,
mounting a fresh horse, galloped off in search of
Cromwell, whom he found bleeding fast from two
wounds, both above his shoulders—one in the neck,
a graze, as it was said, by a chance pistol-shot from
his own men; the other a smart sword-cut on the
collar-bone—and evidently faint and failing from
the loss of blood.

“A surgeon, ho!” cried Edgar; “bear him away
to the rear!”

“Not for the world,” said Oliver, in a low voice,
but stern. “Shall I go while the Lord has need
of me? Form to the right, brave hearts, and follow
me! The sword of the Lord and of Gideon!”
and, making a last effort to lead them to the charge,
he tottered in his stirrups, and would have fallen
had not two subalterns supported him and borne
him to the rear.

“What now, lieutenant colonel?” exclaimed
Jepherson from the head of the next regiment as
Cromwell was conveyed away.

“Heard you not then the general's order?” answered
Ardenne. “Each regiment form open column
to the right by troops, and charge all on the
flank of yon dense mass of musketeers and pikemen!
Thou, Jepherson, wheel round upon the rear
of you brigade of whitecoats—thou, Desborough,
cut thy way through yonder pikemen. Sound trumpets!
forward all!”

And on they went, with nothing to oppose or

stand before them. Regiment after regiment, taken
in flank or rear, were cut down, trampled under
foot dashed out of the very shape and semblance
of array. But now they reached the whitecoats;
Newcastle's own brigade, of musketeers and pikemen
mingled, four thousand strong, picked men,
flushed with success and valiant. Well was it
then that Ardenne had wheeled Jepherson upon
their rear; for, as he came upon their flank, while
they were fighting hard in front with the Scotch
infantry, they formed a second face with admirable
skill, and opened on him such a fire from their
second and rear ranks as emptied wellnigh half
his saddles, while their pikes presented an impenetrable
rampart against his gallant horses.
With difficulty he rallied his own regiment and
again brought it to the charge; and, at the self-same
instant, Jepherson burst upon their rear. Assailed
upon three sides at once, they broke; but
fought it out even then, standing in small groups,
back to back, refusing quarter to the last, and lying
in their lines when dead as they had fought when
living! Oh, noble victims! thanklessly sacrificed
in the upholding of a tyrant against their country's
freedom! slain innocently in an evil cause! Alas!
alas for their free English blood, poured out like
water on their native soil, not to defend, but to
destroy its liberties!

With the destruction of the whitecoats the battle
in truth ended; for, though a greencoated brigade
still offered stout resistance, it was but a last
effort of despair. The parliament's whole centre,
now relieved from their assailants, moved steadily
and promptly up, pursuing the advantage gained
by the gallant ironsides, and pressing on the scattered
parties of the royalists with such relentless
zeal, that they could never rally till they had reached

the walls of York. Whole squadrons pushed
into the Ouse, were drowned in its deep waters, or
pitilessly slaughtered on its banks. The cavalry,
with Ardenne at their head, meanwhile still drove
right onward; and, wonderful to tell, traversed the
whole position of the enemy, from end to end, in
perfect and unbroken order, sweeping the relics
of that disastrous fight before them as the surf
drives the wreck which its own violence has made
before its foaming waters. Then, having reached
the farthest royal left, they wheeled once more to
the right, and actually occupied the ground which
Lucas, with his cavaliers, had held at the beginning
of the action. The only enemy now left upon the
field were these same victors; who, having conquered
Fairfax and his tumultuary levies, had
pressed with much success upon the flank of
Manchester's and Lindsay's regiments of foot, till
these stout squadrons, when relieved by Edgar's
overwhelming charge upon their enemies in front,
found leisure to concentrate all their efforts against
the cavalry which had so nigh defeated them, and
were in turn repulsing them; when, on the very
spot where they had first so roughly handled
Fairfax and his northern horse, Ardenne fell on
them unawares, and well avenged his comrades.
In this last conflict the ground was broken with
steep banks and scattered bushes, and the deep
channel of the drain alluded to above. Here, as
before, the fight was obstinate, and hand to hand,
among the troops—when, just as Edgar's men drove
Lucas back, killing his horse and making himself
prisoner, while all was smoke, and tumult, and
confusion, a small but well-appointed troop of cavaliers
wheeled round some alder-bushes and charged
home. These, for a moment, threw his force into
disorder, but unsupported and too weak in numbers,
they fell fast, and at the last drew off—their leader
fighting desperately to cover their retreat, till a
shot struck his charger; and, as he rolled upon
the gory and hoof-dinted sod, a savage fanatic
shortened his sword to stab the prostrate rider.
Edgar's eye caught a glimpse of the gray hairs
and noble features that were now disclosed, blood-stained
and ghastly, by the falling of his battered
monon. With a fierce cry he bounded from his
horse—he was—he was in time! He struck one
rapier up, received another, which he could not
parry in his own sword-arm; but he had saved
his father. It was not he alone, however, who
had perceived Sir Henry's peril—a desperate rally
of his followers was made to rescue him—the tide
of fight had rolled away after the flying cavaliers
of Lucas; and in an instant, ere he could strike a
blow or shout his war cry, Ardenne, second to
Cromwell only as the winner of that bloody day,
was made a captive, and borne off at a gallop by
the flyers from that very field on which his conduct
and his valour had retrieved the fortunes of
his party when on the very verge of absolute annihilation.