University of Virginia Library

CROMWELL.
BOOK II. CONTINUED.

6. CHAPTER VI.

Measure for Measure.

Scott's Rokeby.

It was already past the middle of the night
which followed the tremendous conflict upon Marston
Moor, yet many a light was glancing through
the casements of the adjoining village, in which
the cavalry of the victorious army had taken up its
quarters. Strange and discordant noises echoed
among the low-browed cottages—the stamp and
scream of vicious chargers, the clash of arms, the
din of the artillery wagons groaning and creaking
over the ill-made roads, the moans and outcries of
the wounded wretches, waked to fresh agonies by
the rough motion of the carts which bore them
from the field, watering the dust beneath their
wheels with human gore—and yet, though every
house and shed was occupied by the rude soldiery,
there mingled not one tone of riot or debauchery

with the accustomed sounds that indicate the presence
of an armed multitude. All grave and stern
the sentinels stalked their appointed rounds, or, if
they broke the silence of their watch, it was but
by the humming of some pious canticle; while
ever and anon the louder accents of some military
preacher rose upon the ear, or the deep chorus of
a distant hymn. No wassailings prevailed about
the watchfires—no songs of profane triumph were
bellowed from the hostelries wherein the men were
billeted—no yells of savage laughter nor female
shrieks broke forth to tell of warlike license; in
short, the aspect of the hamlet was rather that of
some immense conventicle of armed enthusiasts,
than of the nightly quarter of a triumphant host
fresh from the shock, the rapture, and the glory of
the battle.

Before one dwelling, of pretensions somewhat
greater than its neighbours, having a little courtyard
with a low stone wall before it, and a grotesquely
sculptured porch of native sandstone,
there sat two mounted privates of the ironsides,
one on each side the gate, so still and motionless
that, but for the occasional tossing of their chargers'
heads or whisk of their long tails, they might
have passed for lifeless statues. The pale beams
of the moon slept placidly upon their morions and
breastplates, while the bright scarlet of their doublets
was mellowed by the partial light into a dimmer
and more sober hue. Within the court two
more of the same sturdy corps walked to and fro,
with ported carbines, crossing each other at brief
intervals, the red sparks of their lighted matches
showing their readiness for instant service. Within
the house all were at rest save in one chamber,
opening directly from the narrow hall or passage,
whence might be heard, even without the walls, a

heavy and irregular footstep clanging with military
spurs upon the flagstones which composed the cottage
floor, and now and then the suppressed murmur
of a voice communing, as it seemed, with the
deep thoughts of the speaker. It was a large, low-roofed,
and stone-paved room, with heavy rafters,
and a huge open chimney of black oak, dingy and
mantled with the smoke of ages. A wide low window,
divided into many lattices by massive free-stone
mullions, with a long settle of carved wainscoting
beneath it, occupied the whole of one side,
while opposite to it, and at right angles to the
hearth, another seat, of similar materials but superior
workmanship, with a high panelled back and
elbows, was disposed so as to shield the occupants
from the keen blasts that found their way in winter
through many a crevice of the time-shaken walls.
Over this antique piece of furniture a scarlet dragoon
cloak was flung at random, with a broad-brimmed
and high-crowned hat of dark gray felt
hooked on one of the knobs which decorated its
extremities, while from the other hung a buff belt
with a long iron-hilted tuck. Upon a table close
before the hearth, on which a dozen fast-decaying
brands silently smouldered, stood, with its wick
tall and unsnuffed, a solitary lamp, casting a feeble
and uncertain light about the room, which served,
however, to display a brace of horseman's heavy
pistols, an open map, a telescope, a worn and
greasy Bible, and a leader's truncheon lying beside
it on the board, as well as a confused assemblage
of steel armour piled in a large armed chair, and
glancing with obscure reflections from the shadow
of a distant corner. It was, however, the inmate
of the chamber that lent its chief attraction to the
scene—a strong-built and stern-featured man, clad
in a military suit of buff, such as was then worn
under the corslet and thigh-pieces of the cavalry;
his cumbersome jackboots were still about his legs,
garnished with spurs as when he left the saddle,
though all his other armour had been doffed in
consequence of recent wounds, as it would seem
from many a speck and splash of dingy crimson
on the leathern cassock, and from his left arm
bound up by a silken sling. It was the leader of
the ironsides. There was a wild, unnatural expression
on his grim features as he passed and repassed
the light, and a strange glare in his deep-set
eye almost like that of the insane. He muttered,
at times, in audible and articulate sounds, but
mostly in a half-uttered, inward key, striding the
while with heavy but uneven steps, now fast, now
slow, across the echoing floor; his hands were now
crossed firmly on his breast, now tossed aloft as if
they brandished the war-weapon, and now they
griped each other with so stern a pressure that the
blood started from beneath his nails. It might be
that the fever of his wounds had terminated for the
moment on his brain; it might be that a darker fit
than common of his fanatic hypochondriasm had
occupied his mind; but on this night the wise and
crafty conqueror of Rupert resembled rather the
mysterious energumenos, the possessed, fiend-tortured
maniac of holy writ, than the cool, self-controlling,
scientific leader he had that day approved
himself.

“King?—king?” at last he exclaimed, audibly,
pausing from his uneasy walk, with an expression
of uncertainty and even terror distinctly marked in
every feature; “didst thou say king? No, no!
not king! Avaunt, Baalzebul! Get thee behind
me, Sathanas! It said not `king!' that solemn
and tremendous shape, that drew the curtains of
my boyish couch at the unhallowed hour of mid

night—`The greatest one in England, but not
king!'[1] Ho! have I foiled thee there? Ha—ha!
well art thou called the prince of liars—get thee
behind me! tempt me no more! Away, foul
slave! By the Lord's help, I spit at and defy
thee!” He took two or three turns across the
room more quickly than before, and, again pausing,
cried, “A trick of fantasy? Who saith it was
unreal—have we not ears to hear and eyes to see?
and shall we not believe what we do hear and see?
Did not a spirit pass before the face of Job, that
the hair of his flesh stood up? Stood it not still,
yet he could not discern the form thereof? Was
there not silence, and he heard a voice? And
came it not to pass so likewise unto me, and much
more also? Again—Did not the evil-minded Saul
call up, through her at Endor, the living spirit of
the departed prophet, that it did prophecy to him?
And yet again—Did not the Roman Brutus, idolater
although he was and heathen, hold converse
with the shadow of his kingly victim, that was his
evil genius at Philippi? And may not I—I, that
was written down before the world began—I, that
have been predestinate of old to execute the wrath
of the Most Highest, and press the wine-press of
his vengeance—may not I, too, commune with disimbodied
ministers that walk in the night-season?
Go to! go to! I heard its mighty accents as I
started from my slumber, and they yet tingle in my
fleshly ears—`Arouse thee, thou that shalt be first
in England!' But not—it said not—king!”
Again he took a short and hurried turn through the
apartment—“And if it had,” he cried, in higher
tones—“and if it had said king! Be there not
lying spirits—be there not tempters—be there not
false prophets? Had it said king, then had I
roused myself indeed! Then had I striven with
the Evil One that he had fled me! for to the putting
down, not to the raising up of tyrants was I called—
not that to me men should bow down the knee, and
wallow in the dust, and cry `Hail, monarch!' but
that, throughout this goodly realm of England, there
should be innocence, and righteousness, and peace,
and liberty, and truth for ever!” He paused again
in his soliloquy, and, as he paused, the challenge
of a distant sentinel rang sharp and clear through
the still night—the clatter of a horse's hoofs—another
challenge—and another—a bustle in the
courtyard, and the sound of several feet hurrying
toward the door. With the first faint alarm the
general was himself again; he passed his hand
across his eyes, and drew a deep sigh, as if to
ease his breast; then, turning to the table hastily,
he trimmed the waning lamp, and, seating himself,
instantly resumed the studies whence he had probably
been hurried by the ferment of his distempered
spirits.

The outer door was opened, and several persons,
after a moment's parley with the sentinel on duty,
entered the house. A heavy hand rapped quickly
on the door, followed by a blunt voice—“The captain
of the watch to speak with General Cromwell.”

“Enter the captain of the watch,” cried Oliver;
and as the well-known face of an approved and
trusty comrade met his eye—“What now, good
Kingsland,” he exclaimed; “how goes it with the
host?”

“All thanks be to the Giver of all mercies,
well!” replied the officer; “but here is one without—yea,

even one from the stronghold of the malignants—seeking
to parley with you.”

“One from the town of York—ha?” answered
Cromwell, with the speed of thought; “admit him
speedily—”

“Nay, not from York,” returned, the other,
“nor is it any he. Of verity it is a damsel, yea,
and a damsel decked with the comeliness—truly, I
say, with the loveliness of the flesh!”

“Tush! tell not me of comeliness!” cried Oliver,
very sharply; “of God's truth, Ahaziah Kingsland,
thou art a fool thus to disturb my meditations
for a most frail and painted potsherd—a Delilah. I
warrant me—a Rechab—yea, and a painted Jezabel—a
harlot from the camp of the Egyptians.
Cast her forth straightway! leave me, I say—begone!”

“It is not so,” replied the other, sturdily—“it is
not so, an you will hear me out. It is maiden of
repute; she rode up to our outpost on the western
road with three stout serving-men, seeking the
captain of the night, and, verily, when I was brought
to her, she claimed to speak with General Cromwell
touching the young man Edgar Ardenne—”

“Whom, of a truth, my spirit loveth. Admit
her, and that, too, without tarrying; and bid them
fetch in fuel, for lo! the fire hath burnt low while
I did watch and pray, and the night air is chill,
though it be summer—and lights and wine, I say,
and creature comforts, such as may fit the tender
and the delicate of women!”

The words were yet upon the lips of Cromwell
when a tall female figure, marked by that indescribable
yet not to be mistaken air of grace which is
seen rarely but in persons conscious of the possession
of high station and pre-eminent endowments,
was ushered into the dim-lighted chamber. The

coarse, dark-coloured riding-cloak, wrapped closely
round her form, could not entirely conceal the elegant
proportions which it was evidently intended
to disguise; and still less could the wide-leafed
hat of country straw, tied closely down upon the
cheeks by a silk kerchief, mask the aristocratic
mould of the fair features, or hide the rich luxuriance
of the light-brown hair, which hung, uncurled
and damp with the night-dews, far down upon her
shoulders. A slight bustle occurred while the general,
with his attendant officers, tendered her in
dumb show the courlesies demanded by her apparent
rank, and yet more by her isolated and defenceless
situation; but, with an air of quiet dignity,
she waved off their civilities, and expressed,
more by her manner than her words, a wish to be
left alone with the far-dreaded leader of the Independents.
Meanwhile more logs had been heaped
on the hearth, and now threw up a flickering and
lively glow, which, added to the lustre of some
three or four fresh lights, diffused itself into the
farthest angles of the room. The serving-men and
his subordinates withdrew, Oliver sternly ordering
them to hold themselves aloof, and pray to be delivered
from the sin of eavesdropping. Then, without
any affectation, or display of fear or of embarrassment,
the lady dropped her mantle, and stood
forth revealed in all the bright and beautiful proportions
of Sibyl Ardenne. Her face was pale as
death, yet it was firm and perfectly composed;
there was no flutter of her pulse, no tremour of
her frame, no doubt or hesitation in the clear cold
glance of her expressive eye—all was calm, self-confiding,
resolute, and fearless.

“I have come hither,” she said, without waiting
to be first addressed, in a voice slow and passionless,
yet exquisitely musical, “I have come hither,

General Cromwell, in a fashion men will deem
unmaidenly, and women bold unto effrontery. I
have come hither under the shade of night, alone,
save with the company of menials, unto the foeman
of my family, my king, my country! yet
dare not, even in your most inward soul, to deem
me light or frail. I have come, I say, hither, casting
aside all prejudice, all fear, and all reserve—
detying the opinion of the world—incurring the
contempt, the hatred, and, perhaps, the curse of
those I hold most dear. Yet have I come, upheld
by mine own conscience, and firm in the resolve
to hinder a foul crime. All other means have
failed—tears, arguments, entreaties! All—all! I
say, save this. Get you, then, instantly,” she went
on, rising as she spoke into strong energy, “to
horse! To horse! to horse! if you would save
your friend, your fellow-soldier, your preserver—
alas! that he was such—if you would save Edgar
Ardenne! He is a captive to the cavaliers, sentenced
to die at daybreak.”

“To die!” vehemently interrupted Cromwell—
“to die! they dare not—no, for their souls they
dare not! Did they but harm one hair of him, I
would hang fifty of their best and noblest higher
than ever Haman swung in the free airs of heaven!”

“Sentenced,” she continued, quietly, and without
heeding the interruption, “to die to-morrow!
Yet he may still be rescued if you will it so.
Prisoner to a small body of the retreating cavaliers,
he will be shot at daybreak if not released this
night; nor can he be released save by your strict
obedience to my bidding! Obey me, and to-night
you rescue him who would have died to save you!
Despise my warning, and to-morrow you may, perchance—avenge
him.”

With a fixed, scrutinizing glance, the general

gazed upon her features while she spoke as though
he would peruse her soul. “And who,” he said,
at length, “and who are you that speak thus resolutely,
act thus boldly, in behalf of him who is the
foeman of your tribe—even the stout and valiant
Ardenne?”

“It matters not,” she answered, steadily, “it
matters not who I may be, or what. It matters
only that you subscribe to my conditions, and get
you straight to horse.”

“Thus far it matters only,” answered Cromwell,
“that, an I know you not, yea, and, moreover,
know your motives likewise, I stir not, horse nor
man! There be enow of dames and damoiselles
among you who would deem falsehood very righteous
truth, if so ye might entrap one who—although
himself he saith it—hath been and will be
a keen instrument, yea, a two-edged sword, to
work destruction on the sons of Belial!”

“Not so, not so!” she broke upon his speech
with striking energy, “not so, by all my hopes of
Heaven! Such may be thy creed, to do ill that
good may come of it; but I—I would not stoop to
falsehood were it to buy the lives of thousands such
as thou art. My aim, my only aim, is to preserve
the young from a most cruel and heart-rending
doom—to save the aged from a most deadly crime.
I am—know it, and use the knowledge as you list
—I am the niece of your friend's sire.”

“Ha! Mistress Sibyl Ardenne—is it so?” muttered
the general, musingly. “The brother's
daughter of that perverse and bloody-minded old
malignant, whose right hand is crimson—crimson
with the persecution of the saints! Verily this is
a sure and trusty witness! And so you would
preserve the youth—a valiant youth he is, and I
do say it—stout of heart, strong of hand, tender of

conscience—yea, a burning and a shining light to
men. And so thou wouldst preserve him, and
wouldst wed with him—ha! is it not so?—and
win him to the faction of the man Charles Stuart!
—preserve his life so to destroy his soul! Is it
not so? Ha! have I read your heart?”

“You have not,” she answered, with calm dignity,
“you have not read it; nor can you so much
as conjecture or imagine the motives or the thoughts
of such as I, more than you can comprehend the
sacred truths which you misquote, perverting them
to your own ruin. Know, General Cromwell, that,
not to be the empress of the universe—not to restore
my sovereign to his lawful throne—my country
to its ancient peace, would I espouse the man
who, whether from misapprehended duty or from
wilful wrong, can band himself with persons like
to thee—lending himself a willing tool to be played
off by rebels to their monarch—traitors to their
country, and—alas! that I should live to say it—
vile hypocrites before their God! It is for this—
for this that I would have him live, that he may
not lack season for repentance; and that his miserable
father may be spared the sin of slaying his
own son!”

“His father!” shouted Cromwell, excited now
beyond all self-restraint, “his father! In God's
name, speak out, maiden! His father! Merciful
Lord! what meanest thou?”

“He is a captive to Sir Henry Ardenne,” she
replied; “made captive in the very action of defending
him, and doomed by him to perish, as a rebel
and a traitor, with the first break of dawn!”

“Where lie these cavaliers? What be their
numbers? Speak!”

“Promise me, then,” she said, with infinite
composure, “promise me, as you are a gentleman,

a soldier, and a Christian, that, save to rescue Edgar
Ardenne, you will not turn the tidings I shall
give you to your own gain or to King Charles's
detriment. Promise before the Lord, and by your
hopes of an hereafter, that you will shed no drop
of blood which is not absolutely needful to his
safety; and more, that, he once safe, you will strike
no blow farther, but return straightway to this spot,
molesting no man, nor taking any note of their position
or proceedings against whom I shall lead you,
for twelve hours' space.”

“Tush—tush! it may not be. Say quickly
where they lie, and what their numbers, so shall we
save your lover; but dally not, I pray you, lest we
may be too late to rescue.”

“Promise!” she answered, steadily.

“Dally not, maiden—I say dally not,” Cromwell
repeated, very sternly, “else shall the blood
of him thou lovest, and not this only, but the guilt
of that insane old homicide rest on your head, who
mightst have saved them, but wouldst not.”

“Promise, or not a word from me. Promise, or
I go hence, and Heaven befriend whom thou desertest
to destruction.”

“It may not be, I say—it may not be!” he cried,
gnashing his teeth, and stamping violently on the
floor, in a fierce paroxysm of unbridled rage.
“Speak quickly, girl, and truly, or instantly I cast
thee into bonds. Without there, ho! a guard and
fetters!”

“Promise, or you may tear me limb from limb
—ay, draw me with wild horses, yet shalt thou
nothing learn. Promise, and I tell all.”

The guard rushed in—grim, gloomy-looking fanatics,
to whom their leader's merest nod was law
—yet she was silent as the grave; and the dark
zealot paused in deep perplexity. His brow was

stormy as a winter's midnight; his eye cold, hard,
and pitiless; his teeth compressed so firmly that
his very lips were white as ashes; and his hands
clinched, yet quivering with emotion. While he
yet doubted, a slow solemn sound came floating
down the night wind to his excited ears; it was
the village clock striking the second hour past midnight.

“Three hours more,” she said, in a low, mournful
voice, “three hours more, and nothing will remain
of him you call your friend except a little
blood-stained clay, which you may—or may not—
avenge!”

The muscles of the general's mouth worked violently,
his clinched hand gradually opened, the expression
of his eye grew softer.

“Noble heart—noble heart!” he muttered;
“well hath the prophet spoken, `a virtuous woman
is beyond the price of rubies.”' Then, raising his
voice, he said, distinctly and aloud, “Before the
Lord, my Judge and my Redeemer, and by my
hopes of grace, I promise thee. It shall be done
as thou wouldst have it. How many, and where
lie they?”

“Three hundred horse—in the small town of
Wetherby on Wharfe.”

“Sound trumpets—boot and saddle! Mine own
first ironsides to horse; let them all carry petronels.
Despatch! despatch! Saddle me Thunder for the
field; I will myself to horse! Find me three
trusty guides, that know each yard of country for
ten miles around! For life! for life! no tarrying!”

Forth rushed the subalterns; the trumpets flourished,
piercingly shrill and stirring; then came the
clash of arms, the trampling of quick feet, the
glare of torches, the din of confused voices, the

pawing and the snort of chargers, and all the thrilling
sounds and sights of an alarum at the dead of
night.

“One more word, maiden,” he exclaimed, while
fastening the rivets of his corslet with an impatient
hand; “where hold they him in ward?”

“In the courthouse,” she answered, “hard by
the market-place, and nigh the river-bank. And
now forget you have beheld me—forget it, and
farewell!”

“Nay—nay,” he said, “not so. You go not
hence save with our escort. Too much risk have
you run to-night already.”

“No,” she replied, “I must be home before you.
I lodge not in the town, and I may well be missed.
I must be home before you, else will all fail.”

“Nay, thou art right in all things,” Cromwell
answered, “and as thou willest it shall be. Kingsland,
conduct the maiden in all honour to her own
attendants. Lady,” he added, taking her by the
hand, with a benevolent expression lighting his
gloomy features, “lady, thou art a goodly and a
glorious creature, and this night hast thou done a
deed worthy the noblest of earth's daughters. A
soldier's blessing, although he be not of thy faith
nor of thy faction, cannot disgrace or harm thee.
The God of Israel bless thee, then, and guide thy
feet aright, and give thee peace, and happiness, and
understanding. Farewell, and doubt not that I
will deal with thee righteously; for if I fail thee to
transgress my promise, may He whom I profess
to serve—with frailty, it is true, and fainting, yet
with sincere heart-zeal—do unto me so likewise
at mine utmost need, and much more also!”

He let fall her hand as suddenly as he had taken
it, and, as if half ashamed of the emotion he
had shown, abruptly turned away and scanned the

map which lay upon the table with intense scrutiny;
while Sibyl, wondering at the singular emotion
and unexpected conduct of the hated Independent,
silently left the house, to hurry homeward
with an easier heart than she had carried to the
quarters of the Puritans.

Before half an hour had elapsed, five hundred
chosen horsemen were under arms and in the saddle—the
very flower of Cromwell's finest cavalry
—and he himself, despite his wounds, his arm yet
hanging in a sling, mounted and at their head.
After a short and hurried conversation with the
guides, he gave the word to march, and led them
at a rapid trot along the moonlight roads, none
knowing, save himself, the object or direction of
their route. When they had ridden some six miles
upon their way, he halted suddenly; “Is there not
hereabout,” he said, looking toward the guide, who
rode beside his rein, “a path whereby to reach the
Wharfe, and ford it here, some mile or so below
the town?”

“A half mile farther,” answered the countryman,
“a lane turns off to the left down to the Flint-mill
ford, two miles below the bridge.”

“Ho! Captain Goodenough,” cried Oliver,
“take thou this fellow to the rear, and, as we pass
the lane, turn down it with the last troop; tarry
not on thy way, but cross the river, and keep the
right bank up until thou be within two gunshots
of the bridge; there halt till that thou hear my
trumpets, and then charge! over the bridge—into
the town—and strike straight for the market-place!
If that ye be discovered ere ye hear me, delay not,
but dash straightway in. If that your guide deceive
you, shoot him upon the instant. Be cautious
and be quick—away!”

On they went, quickening still their pace, and,

as they passed the lane, the troop appointed to the
duty wheeled off, steadily, but without slackening
its pace, and hurried on its route.

Another mile was passed, and once again the
general halted; “Kingsland and Pearson,” he
cried, “move to the front; I would hold counsel
with ye; and bring the other guides;” then, as his
officers arrived, “there be,” he said, “two other
roads, besides this which we follow, that enter
Wetherby this side the river — the great North
road from Boroughbridge, and one from Knaresborough
yet farther to the west. Goodenough
holds the bridge, and I will keep this route. You
two must ride across the country till that ye reach
these roads. Feel your way down them, each one
as nearly as he may unto their outposts; and, when
ye hear my trumpets, charge, as I said before, and
cut your way straight for the market-place. Kill
no more than ye must, and make no prisoners.
Keep your men well together, and be steady.
Send back your guides to me, each with an orderly,
when ye have reached the roads. Ye have
but a scant hour to do it, but that is time enow an
ye employ it diligently. By then the moon will
set, and we shall have it dark and misty. Be
wary, and success is certain. God speed ye, gentlemen.
Away!”

And off they rode across the open fields, which
stretched, at that time, without fences or enclosures,
except a few small drains, for many miles over that
fertile district. An hour passed slowly over, and
the moon sank, as Cromwell had predicted, into a
heavy bed of clouds, yet he moved not. His men
were drawn up, all dismounted—but each trooper
by his horse—in a small piece of marshy woodland,
open to the road, where they could not have been
discovered by a chance passenger. The morning

grew not lighter yet, for a small drizzling rain began
to fall, with a dense fog, rendering objects
scarcely visible at ten feet distant. Another half
hour passed, and yet no tidings.

“Mount, ho! and blow your matches,” exclaimed
Cromwell, breaking the silence, which had so long
remained uninterrupted by any human sound or
whisper. “We must fall on, else shall we be too
late—trusting to fortune and the favour of the Lord
that our friends be at their posts. Wheel to the
left, ho! Forward—trot!” and he put his horse at
once into his swiftest pace. Just as he moved his
men the clang of hoofs came rattling up the stony
road; it was the guide from Pearson, with an orderly.
“All's well,” he cried; “stout Captain
Pearson hath gained the farther road; Kingsland
must needs be at his post; and lo! here comes his
messenger.”

“Forward, then! forward!” shouted Cromwell,
“for lo! there breaks the morning. Forward, and
when the outposts challenge us, sound trumpets and
shout cheerily!” And on they went, clattering at a
furious pace along the broken roads; and now they
almost reached the town, the lights of which they
might see feebly twinkling through the mistwreaths.
An awful sound broke on their ears,
heard fearfully distinct above the din of hoofs and
clash of spur and scabbard—it was the first note
of the death-bell!

“Gallop! ho! gallop!” Cromwell shrieked out,
in piercing tones, that thrilled to every heart, plunging
his spurs up to the rowel-heads into his charger's
side; but his command reached other ears
than those of his stout followers.

“Stand, ho!” challenged a drowsy sentinel,
whom they had wellnigh passed unnoticed, despite
the clatter of their march; “stand, or I shoot!”
and, at the selfsame point of time, his musket was

discharged; but its report was drowned by the
heart-thrilling flourish of the trumpets and the repeated
warery of the charging zealots. On every
side the trumpets of the general were answered
by the simultaneous shouts of the three bands he
had detached, by the quick clatter of their horses'
hoofs, and the sharp ringing volleys of their carbines.
On every side the outposts were cut down,
and the town entered sword in hand. The death-bell
ceased to toll—the ringers had deserted it in
terror. The bugles pealed, and the drums beat to
arms, but it was all too late. The few who were
on foot were instantly cut down; others came rushing
from their quarters half attired, with lighted
torches and unbelted brands, only to gaze in mute
and unresisting terror on the complete success of
the assailants—only to see four gallant troops of
horse, wheeling from opposite directions and in resistless
numbers into the market-place!—to hear
the clang of axe and hammer upon the prison-gates,
mixed with the deafening huzzas of the triumphant
Puritans!—to mark, by the red glare of many a
flambeau suddenly kindled by the troopers, their
captive borne in triumph from the cell—which he
had never dreamed of quitting but for the place of
execution—mounted upon a ready charger, and
girt round by a ring of swords that set the very
hope of rescue at defiance! One short note of the
bugle, and every torch expired as suddenly as it
had been illumed. Another, and the strangers fell
into column with the speed of thought, and, filing
off at a hard trot, were out of sight so rapidly, that,
but for the dismantled gates, the empty dungeon,
the decaying brands that smouldered on the ground,
and the few scattered bodies outstretched upon the
miry pavement never to rise again, all that had
passed might have been almost deemed a wild and
baseless dream.

7. CHAPTER VII.

Troilus and Cressida.

The terrible campaign of '44 had ended; not, indeed,
with that total overthrow of Charles and absolute
dispersion of his party which might well
have been looked for after the complete route of
the finest army he had ever been enabled to collect
upon Long Marston Moor, and which would
probably have followed had all the generals of the
commonwealth been equals—in spirit, energy, and
firm devotion to their cause—of the true victors on
that bloody day, Fairfax and Cromwell. But, in
truth, during the years which had elapsed since the
uplifting of the royal standard, the aspect of affairs
in England had been changed greatly for the worse,
and men's opinions had undergone, if possible, a
greater alteration. Each party, as is the natural
consequence of opposition, whether in argument or
armed strife, had but become more desperately
wedded to its own principles or prejudices. The
king, though he had gained no single step toward
a general result of conquest or pacification, was
more resolved than ever to come to no terms, save
such as he could never reasonably even hope to
gain, with his rebellious subjects. The people,
meanwhile, were becoming weary of the war, and
all the miseries that follow in its train; and seeing
that there was no hope that Charles would ever

listen either to prudence or to reason until reduced
to infinite extremities, were daily, hourly increasing
in their animosity to him, and in their readiness
to urge on and promote, by every method in
their power, the interest of his enemies. The nobles,
on the other hand, those even who had been
the first and the most zealous to proclaim themselves
adherents to the parliament and constitution
—the first to buckle on the arms of legalized and
just rebellion—perceived at length that, through
the self-destructive obstinacy of the king, the civil
strife could have no end save in the downfall of the
monarchy, and consequent suppression of all aristocratic
privilege. They relaxed then their efforts
—fought, if they fought at all, with feeble and uncertain
spirit, as doubtful whether conquest or defeat
to them would prove the greater evil; and
would, had they possessed the absolute control,
have suffered the war to go out, as it were, for very
lack of aliment. Among the royalists, immediately
upon the issue of that bloody field, the gallant
Newcastle, justly incensed at Rupert's furious and
unmannered rashness, by which, indeed, the whole
North had been set at stake and lost in one pitched
battle, had thrown aside his arms, and crossed the
seas to gratify, if it might be, in happier realms, his
taste for those accomplishments and arts of peace
which were far more congenial to his improved and
courtly intellect than the rude din of camps and
foughten fields. The prince, without so much as
an attempt to rally his dispersed and shattered
forces, fled with all speed toward Chester, while
York, relieved in vain, surrendered in a few days
to the conquerors of Marston. Better success,
however, than could have been expected, fell to the
cavaliers in other portions of the realm. Charles,
who, a few days previous to the defeat of his rash
nephew, had worsted Waller at Cropredy bridge,
now following up his slight advantage by a vigorous
and able movement into Cornwall, pressed
upon Essex with such skill and perseverance, that
the general of the parliament was forced to make
a most precipitate escape by sea. Hopeless of
bringing off his army, he went on board with a few
officers, having first sent away his horse, under command
of Balfour, to cut their way as best they might
to London—an end which, owing to the shameful
revelry of Goring, who suffered them, although forewarned
even of the hour when the sortie would be
made, to pass his lines unchallenged, he most successfully
accomplished—and leaving all his infantry,
artillery, and baggage, under Skippon, to take the
best terms of surrender they might gain from the
king's policy or mercy. A second desperate drawn
battle followed before Newbury, wherein, as they
had done in every action, Cromwell's undaunted
squadrons carried all before them in that part of the
field where they engaged; although at other points
the headlong valour of the cavaliers retrieved the
day, and gained the doubtful credit of a balanced
fight, owing, as it was said, to Manchester's uncertain
if not dishonest policy in absolutely prohibiting
the leader of the ironsides from making one more
charge on the retiring royalists, when, as that officer
asserted, a complete victory must have undoubtedly
been won by such a movement. After
this fruitless struggle, relieving the beleaguered
posts of Donnington and Basing House, the king
once more took up his quarters for the winter in
the loyal town of Oxford, with better hopes than
he had entertained since the complete subversion
of his party in the North; on news of which his
queen had instantly escaped to France, and he
himself had deemed it wise to send the Prince of
Wales to Bristol with a separate council and an
independent army, judging it hazardous to hold so
great a stake as their united safety embarked upon
a single venture.

Toward the dead of winter, the armies being
both laid up, the puritanic leaders returned to
Westminster, to take once more their part in the
proceedings of the houses, since they had no more
opportunity of active service in the field. Matters
in parliament looked wildly — parties ran
higher now than they had done at any time, even
before the royalists seceded from the councils of
the nation—the Presbyterians and the Independents
striving with rancorous and bitter energy to
gain the upper hand. Commissioners were indeed
sent from both sides to treat for peace, as during
the preceding winter, at Uxbridge, but rather to
preserve appearances than from the least belief
on either hand that they could prove successful in
their mission.

Such was the state of things when, on a keen
December's afternoon, Ardenne had strolled forth
from his lodging under the pressure of uneasy
thoughts, to try if exercise and change of scene
might banish the dull sense of rooted sorrow, almost
amounting to despair, which had possessed
his bosom. At first he wandered aimlessly about
the streets, until at length he found himself in the
long alleys of St James's Mall, the stage in former
days of so much gayety and pomp, but now all
gloomy and deserted by every living thing except
a few disconsolate and dingy sparrows, huddled together
on the leafless branches of the elms, or twittering
feebly in the wintry sunshine. The dull and
lonely scenery—the grassplots mantled partially
with crisp hoarfrost—the wide canals sheeted with
rotten and half-melted ice—the rustic benches

white with the slippery rime—the big drops plashing
down from off the southern branches of the
giant trees—and, above all, the utter solitude, the
absence of any human being, harmonized so well
with the dark and almost misanthropic mood which
had crept on the young soldier, that he continued
for above an hour to walk to and fro, almost unconscious
of the flight of time. He was at length,
however, awakened from his revery by the approach
of three men walking at a rapid pace toward
him, apparently engaged in conversation of
the strongest interest. A single glance sufficed to
let him recognise the persons of Ireton, Vane, and
Cromwell. So deeply were these gentlemen engrossed
in their discourse, that it was not till they
were on the very point of meeting that Cromwell
knew his favourite officer. They did not even then,
however, pause; but, with a courteous salutation,
passed him, still speaking rapidly in a low tone.
After a few steps Oliver quitted his companions,
and, turning short round, followed Edgar at so
swift a pace that he overtook him almost instantly.

“You are well met,” he said, entering without
preamble on his subject; “had I not thus—by
special favour, it should seem, of Providence—encountered
you, I should have sought you in your
lodging ere to-morrow morning. There is a great
change working—yea! a great change in Israel!
And truly it is needed; for, verily, the tares have
multiplied among the harvest of the Lord—they
have increased fourfold—they have grown up all
green, and rank, and flourishing, that they shall
overtop the goodly wheat, and choke it down, and
triumph over it. But lo! the time is now at hand.
The Lord hath borne it in upon our hearts, that
we shall purge the field—that we shall purify the
threshing-floor, setting apart the good grain from

the sinful weeds—that so we may not die, but
live!”

“Of what change speak you, general?” returned
Ardenne, somewhat coldly; “for, to say truth,
I may not comprehend you while you speak thus
in parables.”

“May not or will not—whether?” Oliver inquired,
with a solemn sneer curling his lip; and he
fixed his piercing eye upon the face of Ardenne so
sternly and so searchingly withal, that few men
could have brooked his gaze without confusion;
then, seeing that the countenance of Edgar, though
firm and fixed, was frank and open as the day, he
deigned to speak directly to the point. “Why,
see you not,” he said, “that an these generals,
these lords continue—self-seekers as they be, not
holding their eyes steady and their hearts aright
toward the public weal, but turning to the right
hand and the left, struggling ever for their own advancement,
backsliding, wavering, and fainting at
the push of need—see you not that this war shall
vex the realm long years, and that the man Charles
Stuart must in the end prevail? For, lo you! even
now these covenanting, crafty Scots, whom may
the Lord confound, are hankering, as the Israelites
of old, after the fleshpots of the heathen. I tell
you, of a verity, if they might cast the net of their
deceptions over this groaning land—even the foul
abomination of an established Presbyterian church,
sterner than prelacy, yea, more intolerant than papistry
itself—they would desert us straightway, and
unsheath the sword, edgeless although it be, and
wielded by most weak and coward hands, to raise
the king unto his former place, and stablish him in
all the might, as he is steady in the will, to work
upon our heads his ancient tyranny.”

“Something of this I have perceived,” Ardenne

replied, “and Ioath am I to own it even to mine inmost
thoughts. But, on my conscience, I believe
that Manchester and Essex wish not to see the
parliament prevail too fully. Nay, more, I grievously
suspect the Scottish leaders, and have done
so from the beginning. It may be that I wrong
them, but I do hold that their only object from the
first hath been to force the bigoted and iron discipline
of their presbytery upon this kingdom, intolerant,
inquisitorial, meddling, vexatious, and fanatical.
Nor do I think that they would strike one
blow for liberty, save in this rooted hope.”

“You do not, Edgar Ardenne, you do not wrong
them,” exclaimed Cromwell, joyously. “I do rejoice
that you have read them rightly. And would
not you do somewhat—somewhat to free our necks
from this most bitter yoke of spiritual bondage—
to cast this burden from our consciences—would
you not venture somewhat?”

“Much, much!” cried Ardenne; “I would both
do and venture deeply, an I could see the method
and the time.”

“Verily, I will show thee,” answered the other;
“to-morrow do we hold a solemn fast and a soul-searching
self-inquiry to the Lord in all our congregations,
and all our preachers shall exhort us—
truly the Lord hath put one leaven and the same
into the hearts of all, and with it shall we all be
leavened—showing us how unjust and scandalous
a thing it is that we, the members of the houses,
should engross all offices, both of the army and
the state; giving a cause to backbiters and to malignants
that they should scoff and cry, `Ha—ha!
lovers of gain rather than lovers of the Lord! self-seekers,
striving for the soft and elevated places!
belly-gods hungering and thirsting for the fat things
and the sweet things of the land!' Then shall we

move before the commons, Sir Harry Vane and I,
a self-denying ordinance, whereby no member shall
hold, any more, any commission in the armies of
the land. So shall these stiff-necked nobles be
forced to yield the sway they have so misemployed,
and Fairfax, honest and trusty Fairfax, shall take
the place of doubting Essex.”

For a moment Ardenne pondered deeply, and it
was now his turn to strive to read the countenance
of his companion, but all was dark, mysterious,
and inscrutable. “Your scheme,” he said at length,
“your scheme is naught, for by this ordinance you
must yourself resign your truncheon; and, I care
not although I say it, I hold you the main pillar of
our armies in the field. Your scheme is therefore
naught—nor could it pass the lords.”

“The lords!” said Oliver, with a grim sneer;
“trouble yourself not for the lords! Truly the
time hath come when they must do even as the
commons bid them. And for the rest, surely there
is a way—”

“An honest way?” asked Edgar, sharply, “for,
to say truth, General Cromwell, I like not these
by-paths of counsel; still less like I this calling
upon holy names, this feigning inspiration and for
ging miracles, this quoting and interpreting the
word of God to justify things politic and worldly.”

“Go to! go to!” cried Oliver, but with a dark
and subtle smile; “thou talkest as a babe—yea, as
a very suckling, that knoweth not the hearts of men.
Know this—all things are honest that are wrought
for honest ends. Moreover, many pious souls
there be—yea, conscientious, tender, and God-fearing
souls—that will not lend themselves to any
work, how honest in itself soever, without they
seek the Lord and learn his pleasure. I say there
is a way, ay, and a righteous way, whereby we

may retain our leading of the new-modelled host,
and marshal it to glory.”

“How so? I see it not,” said Edgar, wholly unconvinced
by Cromwell's specious sophistry. “It
must be most gross practice.”

“Surely we may resign our sittings in the
house,” answered Oliver, very slowly, watching
the effect of every word upon the face of Ardenne,
“if it be better for the people of the Lord that we
continue with the army.”

“And wherefore not they also?”

“Wherefore not—” interrupted Cromwell—
“wherefore, but because they, being peers of England,
their seats hereditary, their privileges indefeasible—”

“Well, sir,” Edgar broke in upon him before
his speech was half concluded, “I see your plan,
and I believe that you mean honestly; nevertheless,
I like it not, and I will none of it. I love
not devious counsels.”

“And will you then fall off?” inquired the other,
evidently much annoyed; “will you, that have
performed such mighty deeds for the good cause,
fighting the faithful fight for Israel, will you fall
off to those whom you know wavering and fickle,
if that they be not absolutely traitorous and false?”

“I will do nothing, Master Cromwell, on that
you may rely, I will do nothing,” Edgar replied, in
quiet but stern tones, “that both my head and heart
approve not. I may not in my conscience vote for
this your measure; for though I quarrel not with
the effects, but deem them most desirable, I do abhor
the means. I may not vote against you, for I
yet more dislike the course of your opponents.
Neutral I will not be; therefore to-morrow I resign
my seat. There be not any measures in debate
in which I care to mingle. In matters of religion

my voice is still for universal liberty; all
systems of exclusion, whether they be Presbyterian
or papistical, I hold alike despotic, bigoted, and
Jesuitical, and I will vote for none of them. I will
devote my parts where most they may avail—to
the ordering of my soldiery.”

“Be it so,” answered Cromwell, somewhat relieved;
“be it so, since it may not be as I should
deem for the better. But not the less shall we
prevail in this thing, only hold thou my counsels
secret.”

“I am not wont,” said Ardenne, not a little ruffled,
“to fetch and carry; and, as I said before, I
do believe that you mean honestly; to-morrow,
then, I shall resign my seat, and straight go down
to the army.”

“Farewell, then, till the springtide; and then,
then, Edgar Ardenne, under command of the right
gallant Fairfax, full early shalt thou see and own
the wisdom of my measures. The next campaign
—mark! mark, I say, my words, for they are of
the Lord—the next campaign shall be the last for
Charles.”

8. CHAPTER VIII.

Some months clapsed, as they had both surmised,
ere Ardenne again fell into contact with his superior
officer; and, in the interval, not one, but all of
those great changes which the latter had predicted
had indeed come to pass. After much fierce contention
the self-denying ordinance, although opposed
to the utmost by Hollis, Glin, and Stapleton,
and all the leaders of the Presbyterian faction,
passed both houses; Fairfax was named chief general
of the parliament, and, by a series of intricate
manœuvres, affairs were so arranged that Cromwell,
still retaining his commission of lieutenant-general,
was not required even to resign his seat
in the commons. It was an evil omen for the royal
party that Laud, after remaining in confinement during
four whole years in the tower, was now brought
to his trial, condemned, and put to death by ordinance
of parliament, having in vain produced a
regular and ample pardon, under the king's hand
and seal. None, therefore, were surprised that,
like all former efforts at a reconciliation, the treaty
entered on at Uxbridge utterly failed in its results,
the king on one side and the commissioners on the
other exhibiting so much of haughtiness and unaccommodating

spirit, that, unless by a miracle, no
peace could have been possibly concluded. So
much time had, however, elapsed in the debates at
Westminster, and so late was it in the session ere
the ordinance became a law, that the new model of
the army was not accomplished till the spring was
far advanced; and, ere the Independents were prepared
to take the field, Charles had already gained
some trivial but encouraging successes. The town
of Leicester had been taken by assault, and miserably
sacked by the wild cavaliers, who, as their
means decreased, fell more and more into those
desperate excesses which rendered, in the end,
their very name a byword for debauchery and
license; nor this important city only, but several
other garrisons had been stormed sword in hand;
while the new-modelled army had done nothing but
suffered a repulse from Borstall House, and made
a most unprofitable demonstration against the university
of Oxford. Having received false tidings
that Fairfax had sat down in form before that city,
which might be deemed the capital of loyal principles,
the king marched hastily with some eight
thousand men, hoping to raise the siege, and force
the general to a battle ere he should be joined by
Cromwell with his cavalry; but hearing, after he
had advanced as far as Daventry, that Fairfax was
so near him as Northampton, he the same day retreated
upon Harborough, intending to fall back on
Leicester, where he might draw more infantry from
Newark to his banner, and tarry the arrival of his
northern re-enforcements.

On the thirteenth of June the army of the parliament
took up its quarters for the night about a mile
to the south of the small town of Naseby, the ironsides,
with Ardenne's regiment of horse, being a little
in advance on the right wing of the position, and

occupying a commanding station on a range of
gentle eminences. It was a calm and lovely evening—so
still and breathless that the smallest rural
sounds—the lowing of the cattle from the rich pastures
in the vale below—the bay of mastiffs from
the scattered granges—the hooting of the owls from
many an ivy-mantled pollard—even the breezelike
murmur of the distant river—were clearly audible,
in singular but pleasing contrast to the ruder sounds
of the nocturnal camp. The moon, in unveiled gorgeousness,
was hanging in a sky so perfectly transparent
as is but rarely witnessed under the humid
atmosphere of England, and millions of bright stars
were flashing like diamond sparks in the unclouded
firmament. Edgar had only joined that afternoon,
and, taking orders from the general in person, had
not as yet fallen in with Cromwell; but now, when
he had seen his men duly provided with their rations,
his horses picketed and well supplied with forage,
and all precautions taken needful for a night to be
passed under arms, be made his way along the lines
toward Oliver's headquarters. Some two or three
tents, rudely pitched about the centre of the ridge,
with six or eight fieldpieces in battery before them,
and the red cross on the blue field of the Covenant
drooping around its staff, from which the gentle
air had not the power to move it, readily showed
him whither to direct his footsteps; but, somewhat
to his wonder, on reaching Cromwell's tent, the
sentinel on duty there informed him that the lieutenant-general
had gone forth alone, beyond the
outposts of the army, to wrestle with the Lord in
prayer, even as holy Samuel went forth “to cry
unto the Lord his God for Israel, that he might
save them our of the hands of the Philistines.”
Anxious, however, to see him before the morning,
Edgar, inquiring of the sentinels and of the scattered
groups of soldiers who were engaged cooking
their evening meal about the watchfires, easily followed
on his track, and at last, having proceeded
some few hundred yards beyond the farthest outpost,
discerned the figure of a man kneeling upon
the open plain in the full moonlight, with both his
arms outstretched toward heaven. The clear light
glanced upon the polished iron of his morion and
breastplate; and, even more than this, the harsh
tones of the speaker, as he sent up in vehement profusion
his wild supplications—or remonstrances,
for such they were in fact—to the throne of grace,
announced to him distinctly that he had found the
object of his search. Before he reached him Oliver's
prayer was ended; and, rising from his knees,
he stood—his feet a little way apart, and planted
with colossal strength upon the mossy sod—gazing
with an air of calm enthusiasm upon the glistering
heavens.

“And thou, bright ruler of my destinies,” thus
Ardenne, to his deep astonishment, heard him exclaim,
“thou that didst smile upon my natal hour
—thou that, through every change and chance of
this my mortal course, hast given evident and never-failing
tokens both of my weal and wo—thou
that, when through long years I wallowed unregenerate
and foul in the abyss of low and soul-debasing
sin, wen dim and clouded ever with thick
darkness—thou that, in after days, when, by the
gracious mercy of that long-suffering and beneficent
Lord—who willeth not the death of a sinner,
but rather that he should turn from his wickedness
and live—my soul was touched of grace,
and mine understanding enlightened to the sinfulness
of my ways, wert seen to shoot forth scintillations
pure as the seven living lamps that burn
before the throne, which are the seven spirits of

God—thou that, before the bloodred field of Marston,
whereon the Lord vouchsafed unto the humblest
of his servants to fight the great fight and to
win the crown—even the crown of victory, conjoined
with sanguine Mars didst shine pre-eminent
—beam on! beam on, with that serene and placid
gorgeousness, which fills my soul with the high
confidence of coming triumph! Ha! who goes
there?” he shouted, in a sharp, harsh key, strangely
at variance with the wild enthusiastic accents of
his previous meditations. “Stand, ho! and give
the word!”

“The sword of Levi!” answered Edgar, promptly;
“lieutenant-general, I greet you on the eve of
battle!”

“Ha! Colonel Ardenne, by the voice,” cried
Oliver; “right glad am I now to encounter you.
I heard of your arrival, and truly I rejoiced that
we should once more ride together into the strife
of men. Surely the gentle beauty of the night
hath tempted me to wander forth and commune
here alone with mine own spirit. I do profess it
is a most fair scene; saw you the stars at any time
shine forth more gloriously?”

“It is indeed a night of most unusual beauty for
this our English climate,” Ardenne replied, somewhat
surprised at the uncommon turn the conversation
had thus taken. “I have seen many such,
however, in Italy and Spain. But I knew not that
you were so deep an admirer of nature—methought
that men had rather been the subjects of your observation.”

“It is not that, it is not that,” said Cromwell,
“although all His creations must needs be worth
man's study. But have you no belief in the connexion
of those brilliant and mysterious twinklers

with the career of men — the course of great
events?”

“In truth not I,” answered the other; “nor do
I see how such belief can be consistent with the
Christian's faith in a supreme and all-commanding
Providence.”

“But I do,” Cromwell interrupted him; “I see
not wherefore the Eternal may not divulge a portion
of our fates by means of these, the most sublime
of his creations; nor wherefore the appointed
angel, who ministers to every one of mortals unto
righteousness, may not be likewise the presiding
spirit over some one of yonder glorious worlds. I
do believe it fully—yea, I have proved it. Lo!
see you not you large clear star, there to the east
of Lucifer, and higher toward the pole, brighter
than all the planets? It shone upon my birth, and
from my boyhood upward have I known and
marked the face of that far sparkler, and ever has
it varied with the varying of my fortunes—dim
and most melancholy in my benighted days of evil,
but glorious, as you see it now, when aught of
greatness or of glory was in prospect. See how
it shoots forth jets of most pure light. No other
star doth likewise. Verily, verily, the Lord shall
work great things for us to-morrow!”

“I have heard tell of this before,” Ardenne replied—“of
this your superstition, for so I cannot
but consider it; and likewise, that you fancy how
you saw a vision years ago.”

“Fancy! fancy I saw a vision,” cried Oliver,
impatiently. “I tell you, Edgar Ardenne, as
plainly as mine eyes behold you now, I saw that
dusky form—as clearly as mine ears drink in your
doubting accents, so clearly did I feel the tones of
its immortal voice. How should I fancy such
things? I was then but a boy—a wayward, headstrong,

and most ill-conditioned schoolboy. It was
a Sabbath night, and I lay wide awake, plotting I
know not what of orchard-breaking or of henroost-robbing
for the morrow, when suddenly a strange
and thrilling fear crept over me. I knew that I
was not alone, though I saw nothing. I felt as
though a pair of mighty wings were spread above
me, chilling my very soul. I would have cried
aloud, but my voice choked within me. I would
have risen up and fled, but could not move a finger;
and yet, although I say it, I was then bolder than
my years betokened, and feared not man or devil.
It was a night of murky darkness, but suddenly a
faint and pallid light filled the whole chamber, not
emanating from one brighter point, but uniform as
daylight, though very dull and ghastly; my curtains
were drawn suddenly asunder, and a tall misty
shape stood in the opening. I tell you I did see it
perfectly and plainly, for I did not faint, though
my flesh quivered aguelike, and the cold sweat
stood in beads upon my brow, and my hair bristled,
as instinct with life. There stood it while I could
have reckoned twenty, and then a deep slow voice,
of strange and solemn harmony, rolled forth without
an effort—`Arise! arise,' it said, `thou that
shalt be the first in England!' It vanished, and
all again was darkness, but the voice was tingling
in mine ears when the next sun was high in
heaven.”

“And do you credit this?” asked Ardenne, fixing
his eyes with something of suspicion on the
face of the enthusiast. “Do you trust in this prophecy?
Does this dream actuate your waking movements?”

“And wherefore not?” said Cromwell; “the
elder Brutus, he who made Rome free, was called
the First in Rome, and Father of his Country.

A man may be the first, and yet not king nor tyrant.
Cannot you credit this?”

“I fear me,” Edgar answered, very gravely,
“that this vision was a spirit—the evil spirit of ambition!
Beware, I say, beware how you give heed
to it! Truly there is not much about me of the
antique Roman; but did I think—as half I doubt
even now — that this same vision were but the
working of an unholy thirst for power, which may
one day induce thee to lay violent hands upon thy
country's freedom, I have yet so much of the
Cassius in me that I would thrust this sword,
which I have buckled on to fight thy battles, into
thy very heart, ere thou shouldst live to find thy
vision truth!”

“We! wo is me, what have I said?” cried Oliver,
apparently much moved; “alack! alack! truly
the flesh is weak, but strong and sincere is the
soul. Well hast thou said, my friend, and rightly
wouldst thou do, should I be rendered subject to
the temptings of the Evil One. Wo! wo is me,
that I should be mistrusted; surely, if this heart be
not honest, then there is neither faith nor honesty
in man. But thou, Lord, knowest—thou beholdest
—yea, thou searchest the most inward thoughts of
this thy servant. Continue me, then, oh thou merciful
and mighty one, continue me thine instrument,
and shield me from the power of the Evil
One; and be thy word a lantern to my feet; and
keep me, even as I now am, thine, oh Lord, thy
servant, and thine only!” and with the words he
burst into a violent passion of tears, mingled with
sobs so choking and hysterical that Edgar was
alarmed, half for the intellect, half for the health
of the strange being in whom he felt so deep an
interest. Within five minutes, however, the ecstasy
had passed away, and, as if he had forgotten

all that had just occurred between them, Cromwell
addressed him now in the decided although quiet
accents of command. “Soh! Colonel Ardenne,
you will join your men forthwith. Go over once
again your roll-call. See all be in right state for
carly action. One hour hence report to me your
numbers at my tent.” And with a slight but courteous
inclination, he turned his back, and walked
away toward a watchfire round which some dozen
of the ironsides were grouped. Food was before
them—ammunition-bread, steaks of beef rudely
cooked upon the embers, and a black-jack or leathern
tankard of strong ale, while several pipes of
Trinidado were sending forth their powerful fumes
above the savoury odour of the viands.

“Ho! Hezekiah Sin-despise,” said Cromwell,
addressing a grim-looking trooper—for he knew
every one of his men personally and by name,
“how fare ye here? Have the knave commissaries
dealt with ye righteously? Surely ye must
not fast, else shalt the flesh be weak upon the morrow.”

“Yea! general,” returned the independent, “'tis
very righteous truth. Wilt not thou taste thyself,
so shalt thou judge how fares the sturdy but rough-coated
private, on whom doth fall the brunt and
burden of the service?”

“Take, eat!” exclaimed another of the soldiers,
tendering to him a wooden platter heaped with
beef and bread. “Eat, drink with us to-night, as
we shall fight with thee upon the morrow.”

“Will I not?” answered Cromwell, seating himself
beside the speaker, and helping himself heartily
to the plain but wholesome food. When he
had finished eating he filled a cup of ale, and, nodding
to the troopers, quaffed it until he nearly saw
the bottom; then, with a hoarse laugh, “'Twere

evil manners did I not share with thee, Born-again
Rumford,” he exclaimed, “since thou didst share
so courteously with me;” and, instantly suiting the
action to the word, he chucked the rinsings of the
cup full into the broad face and grizzly mustaches
of the man who had supplied him with the meat.

“Thou hast it there—thou hast it fairly, Born-again,”
shouted the soldiers, much delighted by the
practical jest of their stout leader.

“I know not truly,” Oliver continued, with a
grim smile, “whether indeed this Rumford hath
been born again, either in flesh or spirit; but this
I do know of a surety, that he is now Baptized-again—hey,
Rumford? Hand me a pipe of Trinidado,”
he continued, turning toward another of
the military saints, who sat near grinning heart
and soul at the rough witticism. “Think ye now,
men, that freton—he is your commissary of the
horse, I trow, and sees to these your rations—
think ye that Ireton, and Desborough, and Rossiter
fare any wise more daintily than ye?”

“Ay, marry!” answered Rumford, somewhat
sulkily, “the private and the officers be not alike
in aught. Saw we not Master Zedekiah, Desborough's
secretary, bear, not five minutes since, a
right fine haunch of grease, and store of flagons of
Bourdeaux into his master's tent. Lo! there go
Rossiter, and Jepherson, and Fight-the-good-fight
Egerton, to banquet even now upon the fat things
of the earth!”

“Ha! is it so?” cried Cromwell, his eye lighting
up; “verily, then, the kid shall be preserved
from out the spoiler's jaws, and given as a feast
unto the shepherds! yea! even unto those who
watch! See here, Baptized-again; I go hence
straightway to my quarters. Enter thou in to Desborough's
pavilion, and summon them all instantly

to meet me at my tent in council. When ye shall
hear three taps upon the kettledrum, then rush in,
all of ye, and fall to bravely—spare not to spoil the
haunch, nor yet to drain the flagons—I, even I
myself, will stand between ye and the fierce wrath
of your officers.”

“Cromwell! Live Cromwell!” shouted the delighted
soldiers; “now may the Lord preserve to
us valiant and trusty Cromwell!”

The object of their rude praises turned aside;
but, ere he went, another rugged jest displayed yet
farther the wild humour which at times possessed
him; for, as he passed behind the back of the tall
trooper whom he had addressed as Sin-despise, he
took the pipe out of his mouth when he had kindled
its contents by two or three quick puffs to a
red heat, and struck the bowl so sharply on the
rim of the man's corslet, that all the blazing ashes
fell down his neck, between the shirt and skin.

“Now may the Devil—” shouted the trooper,
springing to his feet.

“Ho! swearest thou? Fy! fy! for shame!”
cried Oliver. “Orderly officer, set Hezekiah Sindespise
down in thy book, five shillings for an
oath. Truly, thou shalt no more be known as
`Sin-despise,' but rather as `Overcome-by-Sin.”

Again the soldiers roared their merry approbation,
till Oliver, surveying with a mirthful aspect
the contortions of the scalded veteran, and moved
to some compassion by his rueful countenance,
drew forth his purse, and, taking out the fine, handed
it to the non-commissioned officer. “Our discipline
must be preserved,” he said, “and the foul
vice of swearing I do abhor—yea! utterly. But,
in that some share of the fault was mine, who
tempted the loud railing of this rash Rabshakeh,
verily I will pay the sum in which he standeth

mulcted. Tush! twist not thyself, man, to and fro,
nor grin as though it hurt thee. Methought my
ironsides were proof 'gainst fire as well as steel!”
and, without farther words, he hastened to his tent,
where he found Ardenne waiting with the list of
his returns. “When all the council shall have entered
in,” he whispered to the sentry at the door,
“strike three taps on the kettledrum, and suffer
none to come in or to go out after.” Scarce had
he spoken ere the officers made their appearance,
Desborough wearing a marked air of sullen discomposure,
and all save Ireton, whose spirit was
of a higher and a nobler mould, showing some
symptoms of vexation.

“Give you good evening, gentlemen; please you
draw nigh to the table,” Oliver exclaimed, “and
make me your reports—past doubt we shall engage
to-morrow.” And for wellnigh an hour's space
he kept them there engaged in various details of
military service, some, truly, of importance, some
trivial and almost unmeaning; when at length all
was finished, “Soh! we have done at last,” he
said; “have you supped, gentlemen? So far as
goes a crust of bread and cheese, and a good cup
of ale—campaigner's fare—I can supply you, if
you will tarry here and eat with me.”

“Thanks, worthy general,” said Rossiter; “but,
in good sooth, we were just at the sitting down
in Desborough's tent when that your summons
reached us. He hath, I know not how, wrung
forth a noble haunch of venison and store of Bourdeaux
wine from some misproud malignant here at
Naseby!”

“Soh! soh! right creature-comforts—trust Desborough
for that!” Cromwell replied; “why spoke
ye not of this beforehand? my business might have
tarried; but let me not detain you. Farewell until
the morrow.”

“Not so, fair sir,” Desborough answered, “please
you to walk with us and share our supper.”

“Nay, I have supped already,” he replied,
“with some good fellows of Jepherson's stout regiment.
Well, since you be so pressing, I will e'en
walk down and crush one cup of wine with ye;”
and, without farther words, they all proceeded, conversing
gayly as they went, toward the tent of
Desborough. They reached it, and how strange a
scene was there—the canvass flapping on all sides
open to the air—the lamps streaming and flaring
in the night wind—the seats around the table occupied
by a dozen or so of rough-looking cuirassiers,
quaffing the rich wines, hacking the now
dismantled viands with knife and dagger—laughing,
whooping, and shouting in their joyous revelry
—while a score, at the least, of others waited till
these had finished, to fall in and take their turns.

“Now shall you see,” said Ireton, who understood
the scene at half a glance, “our stout host,
Desborough, foam like a baited bull. This is, I
warrant me, one of the general's jests—somewhat
rude; yet do the soldiers prize him all the more
for them.”

“Damnation!” muttered Desborough, in violent
though smothered fury, “but this doth pass a
joke!”

“Yea! 'tis a passing good one!” answered Oliver,
with an attempt at wit which drew a laugh
from the carousers; “but surely thou didst swear;
a fine! a fine unto our treasury; look to it, Mr.
Commissary! So, now, these excellent good fellows
have watched with their lights burning, and
their loins girded up, and they have their reward.
Art thou an hungered, Desborough? Nay, then,
our worthy Ireton will find you rations; less delicate,
perchance, than yon fat haunch that was,

but savouring more justly of the camp, and more
proportionate to the hard messes of your fellow-soldiers
in the Lord. Fy! fy! but this was gluttony;
and the means, too, if I mistake not, won by
extortion! But enough of this! Off with ye to
your quarters, ye well-fed knaves, and snore off
this carousal; and ye, fair gentlemen, though supperless,
good rest to ye. Right bravely shall we
breakfast on the morrow, an Rupert keep his purpose.
The Lord save ye!”

9. CHAPTER IX.

Byron's Siege of Corinth.

At an early hour of the following morning,
while the east was yet gray with the lingering
shadows of the night, the army of the independents
drew out into line, and formed itself on ground of
the most advantageous nature. This was a long
range of low hillocks, dominating the whole plain
or valley that separates the towns of Harborough
and Naseby, the latter lying in the flat a little to
the northwest of the parliament's position. Their
centre, for the most part, was made up of musketeers
and pikemen, with a good park of field artillery,
and Fairfax's life-guard in the reserve, the

whole commanded personally by that true gentleman
and gallant soldier—the right wing was composed
of Cromwell's ironsides, with Rossiter's and
Ardenne's lighter regiments; while the left, consisting
likewise all of horse, was under Ireton's direction.
All their arrangements were completed
ere the first flush of daylight broke through the
leafy screens of woodland which fringed the eastern
verge of that wide champaign; but soon the
thin clouds that were scattered over the summer
sky assumed a rosy tinge; a flood of golden light
succeeded, and then the great disc of the sun himself
rushed up in living splendour from the low
horizon. The vapours gradually melted from the
lowlands, and disclosed a beautiful expanse of rural
scenery; deep velvet pastures studded with noble
trees, green hedges rich in the flowery garniture
of spring, masses of forest throwing their dark
blue shadows in long checkered lines across the
laughing meadows—all sparkling with the morning
dewdrops—all clothed, as with a radiant mantle,
in gay and gorgeous sunshine. The cattle
lowed in the abundant valleys, the lark sprang upward
from the pearly sod, the rooks sailed forth
upon their matin voyage, their harsh voices pleasingly
mellowed by the distance, the hares limped
through the young wheat, scattering the dew from
the thick herbage in lengthened mazes—but not
one sound or sight was there betokening aught
save happiness and peaceful quietude.

The royal host, meanwhile, was also in array
some six miles distant, on a height just south of
Harborough, and posted yet more strongly than
their enemies, could the mad impetuosity of those
whom Heaven had marked out for destruction have
tarried to avail itself of their advantage. But, as
the day drew on, Rupert, who led the cavalry of

the king's right—leaving the centre under Lord
Astley, and the left commanded by the noble
Langdale, still in position on the hills, with the life
and horse guards in reserve—dashed forth, two
thousand strong, to reconnoitre. About the same
time Ardenne's regiment had been detached for
a like purpose; but that wary partisan, feeling
his way with caution through the wood-roads and
defiles of the valley, easily detected the advance of
the royalists, himself unperceived. Placing three
troops in ambush, with instructions to check the
prince's march by one deliberate volley, and then
to fall back on the spur, he drew the rest off, and
in a short half hour had the satisfaction of collecting
his whole force under the guns of their position,
Rupert having been fairly staggered by the
fire of his skirmishers. Still, with his wonted obstinacy,
that rash leader porsisted in believing that
the Puritans were in retreat, and despatched message
after message, to order first, and then to hurry
the advance of the main army, which left its vantage
ground and fatally descended into the open
plain; so that, before three hours had elapsed, the
generals of the parliament might see the whole of
the king's host rushing like birds into the fowler's
net. With admirable foresight, Fairfax resolved
to suffer them to clear the broken country ere he
should attack them; seeing that, if defeated, the
enemy must be cut off among the lanes and passes,
which would be choked with fugitives the instant
that the battle should be turned into a rout. The
ground immediately below the hill was open, as
was the whole width of the slope, excepting two
or three stout timber fences and a group or two of
trees, which were at once pulled down or felled
by Ireton's pioneers, leaving as fair a field for the
encounter as ever was defaced and trampled into
gery mire by the death shock of thousands. A
little after ten on that bright summer morning, Rupert's
bold cavaliers had cleared the woodlands;
the heads of Astley's columns were seen slowly
taking up their ground, and wheeling into line to
form the centre, while Langdale with his northern
horse was toiling at a full mile's distance in the
rear to bring up their field-ordnance. Still no material
opposition was offered to the royalists, except
that now and then a solitary cannon belched
forth its snow-white cloud, and hurled its shot with
terrible precision into the crowded files as they
debouched upon the plain. But now the trumpets
of Sir Marmaduke were heard upon the left, and
he appeared with all his Yorkshire chivalry; though
still the cannon of the cavaliers were at the least
a mile behind, encumbered by the fat loam of that
fertile district. Still the impetuous Rupert paused
not; the instant that the cavalry of Langdale came
into view upon the left, his bugles sounded for
the charge; and with a cheery shout, leading his
fiery squadrons, himself the foremost man, he
hurled himself against the horse of Ireton with
the velocity and brightness of a thunderbolt. Forward
they rushed—a torrent of plumes, scarfs, and
rich embroidery—their brandished rapiers glittering
aloft like lightning, and their high-blooded
chargers tearing the turf to atoms in their furious
speed. Such was the fury of their onset, that, neglecting
to discharge their carbines, they plunged
at once into the closest conflict. There was a
clang as of ten thousand smiths plying their iron
trade! a shout that was heard, as men say, at Harborough!
And brave although they were, stubborn
and resolute, the cavalry of Ireton wavered—
in vain their high-souled leader strained every
nerve and bled at every pore; new here, now
there; rallying, shouting, charging; in vain he
crossed swords with the fiery prince, and checked
him for one moment—they bent, they broke, they
fled; then flashed the pistol-shots, and in unbroken
force over them swept the cavaliers! The
ground was cumbered with the slain—but still,
over the dead and dying, over the voiceless trumpet
and the tattered banner, over the mute dismounted
ordnance, amid the groans and blasphemies,
the shivering clash of steel, the neigh of
maddened chargers, and the wild shouts of his
victorious troopers, on charged the daring leader!
on! fetlock deep in gore!

“Now, an he wheel upon our flank, the battle
is half lost already,” bissed the deep tones of
Cromwell in the very ear of Ardenne; “but lo!
the Lord hath blinded him—the God of hosts hath
robbed him of his understanding! See where he
drives along, heedless of aught save massacre and
havoc. Ho! by the light of heaven, this day shall
crown the whole.”

And, in good truth, neglecting all, wild as the
whirlwind, that destroys and still sweeps on, hearing
destruction it knows not and it recks not
whither, Rupert pursued the flyers—mile after
mile they fled—mile after mile he followed—beyond
the heavy ordnance, beyond the baggage of
the parliament, cheering until his throat was parched,
and his voice clove to his jaws! slaying until
his sword was blunted, and his arm weary and exhausted!
Scarce five troops of the whole left
wing had held their ground, and these under the
valiant Ireton, as, fired by the success of their companions,
Astley's stout infantry came steadily and
firmly onward, charged gallantly upon a stand of
pikes—they were hurled backward as from a castle
wall; and still that deep array of pikes rolled

onward. They rallied, and again they charged,
driving their horses in upon the serried spears, and
firing their pistols in the faces of the sturdy footmen.
But the cavaliers received them as the bull
receives the mastiff, and hurls him from his unseathed
front—their leader was dismounted and
made prisoner—their bravest were stabbed down
and mangled by the goring pikes—they scattered
and fled diverse. But now the musketry awoke,
mixed with the louder bellowing of artillery; and,
save the rolling smoke-wreaths which packed above
the hosts in the calm hush of the hot noontide, and
the red glare that ever and anon surged upward, and
now the waving of a standard, and now the flash
of wheeling weapons half seen among the volleying
clouds, naught could be now descried. Yet still
the royal foot pressed on, unbroken and invincible;
and Fairfax, though his lines fought stubbornly and
well, and formed again when shaken by the musket-buts
and halberts of the royalists—who hardly
fired a shot, still fighting hand to hand—and poured
their volleys in deliberate yet fast, felt that he still
was losing ground, and that the vantage of the hill
alone preserved him. On the right of the parliament's
array the conflict had been long delayed,
for Langdale had scarce formed, even when Rupert's
charge had pushed the horse of Ireton clear
off the field; and Cromwell dared not flank the
foot of Astley, lest he should be in turn outflanked
by Langdale. But now, with kettledrum and
trumpet, and shot of carbine and of pistol, Sir Marmaduke
advanced upon the gallop; and Cromwell,
tarrying not to receive his charge, swung forth his
heavy squadrons, with a thundering hymn, to meet
him. An officer rode forward from the Yorkshiremen,
as both lines halted to reload, and Oliver
dashed out in person to encounter him. Their
pistols were discharged in vain, for Cromwell's
bullet glanced from the corslet of the cavalier, and
the other fired at random—then blade to blade
they met; a dozen passes flashed with the speed
of light between them; their horses wheeled and
bounded obedient to the bit; Oliver missed a parry,
and his morion with the chin-strap severed fell
clanging to the ground; but, without hesitation, in
he went, and hailed so thick a storm of blows upon
his foeman, that he beat down his guard and hurled
him headlong. The whole passed in an instant—ere
another had elapsed the adverse lines were mingled;
yet, as they closed, Born-again Rumford sprang
to earth, caught up the general's morion, and tossed
it to his saddle-bow. Hastily, as he galloped on,
shouting his battle anthem, and still at every shout
striking a cavalier down from his saddle, he threw
the morion on, but with its peak behind, and so
unwittingly fought on through all that deadly strife.
Equal in numbers and well-matched in spirit, the
tug of war was dubious and protracted between
the Northern horse and the unconquered ironsides;
but, in the end, Cromwell's enthusiastic energy prevailed,
and Langdale, fighting to the last, was
driven from the field. Then! then was the superior
moral of Oliver's men proved past doubt.
Obedient to the first word, they drew off, careless
of plunder or pursuit, although their blood was
stirred almost to phrensy by the protracted struggle
and by the beat of their religious zeal.

“Oh! Ardenne, on!” Oliver shouted, as he
halted his own five regiments. “Pursue—pursue!
suffer them not to rally—support him, Rossiter;
away! Break them to pieces—scatter them!
The Lord of hosts hath given them a prey into our
hands! All glory to the name of our God!”

And, as he spoke, he wheeled at once upon the

flank and rear of Astley's infantry, which still
maintained the conflict in the centre, slowly but
steadily forcing their way against the stubborn
valour of the puritans. One hope remained for
Charles—one only! In the reserve himself, with
his lifeguard, commanded by Lord Lindesay, and
his own picked horseguards—his troupe dorée of nobles—under
the Earl of Litchfield, and Rupert's
best foot regiment, in all some thirteen hundred men,
fresh and unwearied, who had not, on that day, unsheathed
a sword or pulled a trigger, he had a fair
occasion to draw out and fall upon the flank of
Cromwell, as he swept round to charge the foot;
and so, to do him but free justice, he proposed.
Bidding his trumpets sound, and drawing his own
rapier—sheathed as he was in glittering steel from
crest to spur, conspicuous by his broad blue scarf
and diamond George—he plunged his rowels into
that snow-white charger, rendered immortal by the
deathless pencil of Vandyck. His pale and melancholy
features transiently lighted up by strong
excitement, “Follow me,” he exclaimed, “follow
me, all who love Charles Stuart.” Full of ecstatic
valour, they sprang forth—another instant would
have hurled them on the unexpecting and unguard—ed flank of Oliver, who was already hewing his
way, crimson with blood from plume to saddle-bow,
through the now reeling infantry. The charge
must have been perilous to Cromwell in the extreme
—might have destroyed him utterly; and,
had it so fallen out, the victory was the king's, for
Rupert's scattered troops were even now beginning
to return, and Fairfax could scarce hold his
own. But the charge was not made! Whether
from folly, cowardice, or treason, it now can never
be discovered, the Earl of Carnewarth, a mere cipher
in that band of England's noblest peers, seized
on the bridle of the king. “Saul o' my body,”
he exclaimed, in his broad Scottish accent, “will
you, then, go upon your death this instant?” and,
ere the hapless monarch could comprehend his
meaning or arrest the movement, he dragged his
charger toward the rear. Then, on the instant, a
strange panic fell on all around, so that they fled
upon the spur, although no enemy was near them;
and though, at length, the king's exertions—who
spurred through the ranks beseeching them to
stand, and even striking at the fugitives in impotent
but noble indignation—brought them to rally
and ride back toward the field, the moment had
gone by! It was too late! For Fairfax, when he
saw how Cromwell had succeeded on his right,
and felt the consequences of his charge upon the
royal foot, in the disorder of that sturdy mass,
moved down at once his own lifeguard from the
reserve, and brought it into action. The prince
had, indeed, just returned from his insane pursuit;
but his men, deeming that their part was played
for that day, could not be brought to form again on
charge by any effort of their leaders. And now
but one battalion held its ground, a solid square of
foot, presenting an impenetrable front of pikes on
every side to the assailing horse, while from its inner
ranks it poured a constant shower of balls, that
mowed down all before it. Cromwell, meantime,
was overthrowing every thing, traversing Astley's
line from the left endwise toward the centre, when
Fairfax, wheeling his lifeguards round upon the
rear of that undaunted square, charged it himself
in front. Two horses were shot under him; but,
a third time remounting, he brought up his men,
though shattered by the constant volleys, to renewed
exertion. In the last deadly rush his helmet
was torn violently off by a pike's point—the colonel
of his lifeguard proffered his own—but no!
bareheaded as he was, he dashed upon the spears
—he hewed his way into that serried band—with
his own hand he cleft the ensign of the regiment,
who crossed his path, through morion and scull
down to the very teeth—he waved the captured
banner round his head, and threw it to a private for
safe keeping, who afterward would fain have claimed
the honour. That line of pikes once broken,
in swept the independents with the rush of a
springtide; and, where it fought, that firm battalion,
refusing quarter and resisting to the last, was
trodden to the earth, annihilated, but unconquered.

The victory was complete, the rout disastrous!
Even to the walls of Leicester Cromwell's fierce
zealots did execution on the flying cavaliers; from
three miles south of Harborough to nine beyond
it, the country was one widespread scene of flight,
and massacre, and havoc. Five thousand of the
royalists were slain or taken, from an army which
had mustered but eight thousand in the morning.
Two hundred wagons, laden with arms and baggage,
all the artillery and colours, the royal standard,
and the king's own carriage, fell to the victors'
share; and, above all, that fatal cabinet of letters,
which—though, with a delicate and generous point
of honour not often to be met with in such times,
Fairfax declined to open them—when published
by the orders of the parliament, proved, past all
doubt or question, the utter insincerity of Charles;
and his resolve—as firm at the last hour as when
he first set up his standard—of reigning, if at all,
a monarch irresponsible and absolute.

That victory decided the campaign, and that
campaign the cause of England's freedom!

10. CHAPTER X.

Hemans—Vespers of Palermo.

The action, having raged incessantly from ten
o'clock till one, sank into sudden silence after the
charge of Fairfax, which, like a hurricane, swept
all before it; and, ere another hour from that time
elapsed, the field was utterly deserted, except by
those who, having fallen in the full tide of violence
and fury, now slept as soundly and as well upon
the gory turf as though they had departed from
their peaceful beds amid the weeping ministry of
friends; or those less fortunate, who lay hopelessly
writhing in their mortal agonies, “scorched with
the death thirst,” and torturing the tainted air with
their unheeded lamentations. The hot sun poured
his steadiest and brightest rays over that scene of
carnage, glancing as if in mockery upon the gorgeous
dresses, the rich armour, and the noble
steeds—lately so full of fiery life and beauty—
which shed but now a halo of false glory over the
horrors and the misery of warfare. The round-heads
had withdrawn to their encampment on the
hills, and were recruiting themselves, after the heat
and labours of the day, in that deathlike and absolute
repose which is the sweetest balm to soul and
body, equally exhausted by the tension of unnatural

excitement. No plunderers—those human vultores
that haunt the battle-field to render horror
yet more horrible—crept stealthily among the dying
and the dead; for, such was the severe and ruthless
discipline of Cromwell, that the few sordid
spirits who necessarily mingled with the high enthusiasts
of freedom and religion dared not even
by night, much less in broad daylight, for their
lives, to exercise their odious calling. But the ravens
had already flocked in hundreds to the plain,
lured by the scent of carnage from the wide woodlands
of Northamptonshire and Huntingdon, and
now sat perched upon the neighbouring trees, waiting
the evening darkness to commence their loathsome
meal, while several large kites and buzzards
sailed slowly round and round in lofty circles, as
fearing to alight while any breath or motion remained
to their intended victims. Such was the
aspect of the ground across which Edgar led his
men, returning from the first pursuit of Langdale's
cavalry, which he had urged—his military ardour
tempered by Christian mercy—no farther than was
needful to prevent their rallying that day; and it
had given him more pleasure than he had felt for
many a month to see with what a generous and
British sentiment his men, though hot in blood, the
most part wounded more or less severely, and all
exasperated by the fall of many a gallant comrade,
refused—even when urged by the fierce exhortations
of their more fanatical commanders—to strike
an unresisting foeman. While they fought front
to front, their hearts were hardened and their hands
unmerciful; but when the rush and fury of the
conflict had passed over, they felt that those poor
fugitives were countrymen and brothers. How
trumpet-tongued does this fact cry aloud in the behalf
of those much slandered independents, whom
it has pleased the writers of grave, sober history—
all either Prelatists or Presbyterians—to represent
as stern, morose, bloodthirsty, and remorseless.
In the protracted fight and in the hotly-urged pursuit
eight hundred only of the royalists were slain,
and of these more than three fourths occupied the
ground whereon they fought—cut down, flagrante
prœlio, with weapons in their hands; while Rupert's
onset, and the massacre which followed it,
needlessly savage and unsparing, alone cost Ireton's
brigade more lives than the whole royal loss!
The prisoners, not the slain—the prisoners and the
results were the true tests and trophies of the victory
at Naseby. But these were not the thoughts
which crowded on the mind of Edgar as he rode
sorrowfully back across the red arena of his party's
triumph; he looked upon the dead, as they lay
stiff and cold, outstretched in serried ranks, even
where they fought and fell, like swathes before the
mower's scythe—their feet toward their foemen,
their grim and gory faces turned up reproachfully
toward the placid heaven, their backs upon their
native earth, and every wound in front; and, as he
looked, in very bitterness of heart he beat his bosom
with his hands till his steel corslet clattered.
Not one of these but died, in his own creed, self-justified—not
one but deemed himself a patriot and
a martyr—the churchman as the puritan—the fiery
loyalist as the severe republican—each battling for
his country's right—each honestly believing his
opponent the rebel or the tyrant! Alas for human
reason! Alas for human error! Alas for
vanity and ignorance, for blindness and presumption!
Alas for right and wrong—for virtue and
for vice! Where—where on earth shall we discover
the distinction—how test them here below,
save by the arbitry of the false harlot fortune—
save by the sophist touchstone of success? At
every step his charger's hoof plashed with a sickening
sound in the dark curdled gore that flowed
commingling from the wounds of that fine aristocracy—that
old high stock of English gentlemen,
polished in courts, athletic and well-skilled in every
manly feat or rural exercise, second to none as
scholars in the forum or as soldiers in the field,
lowly in bearing to the low, open and frank among
their peers, haughty and proud to their superiors!
—and of that independent yeomanry, fearless, and
generous, and free, remote alike from insolence
and cringing, dauntless and stanch in war, blunt
and sincere in peace, the children, tillers, owners
of the soil! both races equally “England's peculiar
and appropriate sons, known to no other land.'
And wherefore lay they here, never to gladden
hall or cottage more—their energies, their virtues,
their devoted love lost to their native land for ever?
Was it—was it, indeed, for England's good—was
it, in truth, for the pure cause of liberty that they
had fallen there, self-immolated victims—or was it
but for man's insatiate ambition? Was it, indeed,
a trial between the principles of tyranny and freedom,
or a vain struggle between this and that oppressor—a
conflict between principles of legalized
authority and arbitrary sway, or a mere strife between
the interests of Cromwell and Charles Stuart?
Such were the gloomy thoughts that sat so
heavy at the heart of the young conqueror; such
the unanswered doubts that led him almost to distrust
himself, almost to curse the hour when he
joined the standard of the parliament; but it was
not long ere more immediate cares, sorrows more
near and kindred, diverted, if they could not overpower,
the half prophetic achings of his patriotic
soul. The course which Langdale's fugitives had
taken, far to the right hand of the field, prevented
him on his return from meeting the main tide of
the king's army, which, scattered irretrievably, covered
the plain toward Harborough. He therefore,
rode directly to the post of Cromwell. It was near
three of the afternoon when he arrived, and found
the leader of the ironsides mounted again and at
the head of his brigade, refreshed by their brief
halt, about to set forth instantly in the pursuit.
Before he started on his march, however, he handed
several letters to an orderly dragoon, who stood,
booted and spurred, with a broad leathern belt and
a despatch bag buckled round his waist, waiting
his orders. “This,” he said, “this to the honourable
William Lenthal, the speaker of the commons
house of parliament—with your own hand, remember,
your own hand!—this to the worshipful Lord
Say—this to good Master Milton—and now get
you gone; let not the grass grow under your
horse's hoofs—be swift and trusty. Ha! Colonel
Ardenne,” he continued, his brow overclouded as
he saw him, “a word with you apart;” then, as he
drew him to one side, “truly the Lord,” he said,
“hath blessed the general cause with mighty triumph
— I may say with a great and crowning
mercy—and, therefore, it behooves us not, with
weak and fainting hearts, to sorrow over-deeply
for our own private griefs. Surely whom the Lord
loveth most he chasteneth—is not this righteous
truth?”

“Undoubtedly,” Edgar replied, not unsurprised
by the peculiar manner of his leader; “undoubtedly
it is; but wherefore say you this to me?”

“Yea, and he tempereth the wind to the shorn
lamb. So may he temper it to thee, humbly and
fervently I trust, honest and valiant friend, in thy
time of affliction. Much have I prayed and wrestled
with the Lord since I did hear—”

“What—what? I pray you speak, lieutenant-general,
if you know aught concerning me or mine.
There needeth not this tampering with the subject;
I can endure to hear aught of affliction human
tongue can tell me.”

“Be you so strong?” said Cromwell; “man,
then, your heart; for, of a truth, your father is a
prisoner in the camp, sore wounded — ay, unto
death, I fear me.”

“Where lies he?” Edgar inquired, with a voice
so preternaturally calm that Oliver himself gazed
at him wondering. “Hath he had any help?”

“I caused him to be borne,” Oliver answered,
“down to the village yonder, even unto the house
of the Episcopalian priest; two of his own domestics
be about him, and General Fairfax hath sent
his own chirurgeon—best hasten, though, if thou
wouldst see him living. I march forthwith; but
tarry thou behind until the fourth day hence—so
long may I dispense with thee. Then join me at
the half-way house 'twixt Harborough and Leicester,
at the first hour after noon. Farewell, and
may the Lord look down on thee!” The trumpets
sounded, and the ironsides filed off at a sharp trot,
and Edgar, mounting hastily on a fresh horse, and
calling several of his body-servants to attend him,
rode furiously away along the broken lanes toward
Naseby.

The vicarage was a low rustic tenement, distinguished
from the neighbouring cottages by nothing
but its superior neatness, and its close vicinity
to the square ivy-mantled tower, and the yew-shadowed
yard, with its low mossy graves, of the small
village church. A noble lime-tree, myriads of bees
humming and revelling amid its scented blossoms,
overhung the grassplot in the front, and a thick
growth of honeysuckle crept over the whole building,

curtaining porch and roof with its close-matted
verdure, and peeping with its honeyed trumpets
through the latticed casements. Each hut and cottage
through the hamlet had been converted into a
temporary hospital for the reception of the wounded
from the near battle-field; but, by the group of
horses, guarded by a stout knot of troopers, and
the two sturdy sentinels who kept the door, the son
knew instantly the sojourn of his father. Curbing
his horse so violently up that he had wellnigh fallen
on his haunches, he sprang down, and rushed under
the low doorway. Just as his foot was on the
threshold, a person whom he judged to be the surgeon
was passing outward.

“How fares he?” Edgar gasped, the words half
choking in his throat; “how fares your patient?
Have you any hope?”

The man of healing shook his head. “None—
not the slightest,” he replied; “the ball hath severed
all the main intestines. The hemorrhage
has ceased externally, and he is easier now; mortification
must ensue; he cannot live six hours!
I have done all I may in quieting his agonies—
man can no more.”

Bending his head to veil the bitter anguish that
racked his manly features, Ardenne passed onward;
directed by a gesture of the silent sentinel, he entered
the small parlour; and there, upon a temporary
couch, the window-curtains drawn aside, the
lattices thrown open to admit the slightest draught
of air that might be stirring—the old steward of his
household wiping the death-sweat from the massive
brow and long gray locks of his loved master, while
the big teardrops fell like rain down his own withered
cheeks—and the white-bearded vicar kneeling
in silent prayer beside the deathbed of the cavalier
—there lay his father, with his high features pale

and sharpened by the near approach of death, and
the froth gathering round his bloodless lips, and the
dark drops of icy perspiration bursting from every
pore of his broad temples. No groan or murmur
passed the mouth of the calm sufferer, but one
sad, querulous, and oft-repeated cry, “Comes he
not yet?—not yet?” but when the foot of Edgar,
lightly although he set it on the floor, clinked with
its jingling spurs upon his ear, he started half erect,
and drew his hand across his eyes as if to clear
away the gathering mists. “'Tis he,” he cried, in
tones distinct and clear from the excitement of the
moment, a faint flush lighting up his ashy cheeks,
but instantly departing, “'tis he at length—thank
God—my son! my son!” and into that son's arms
he sank, and lay there as contentedly as though no
cloud of anger or mistrust had ever come between
them, smiling up with a faint but most kind smile
into his face, and clasping his convulsed and trembling
hand with all the little strength his mortal
wound had left him. For many moments Edgar
could find no voice—his whole frame shook with
agony—he sobbed as though his very heart would
burst, gazing upon the countenance of that loved
parent with dry and burning eyes, and a throat
choked by the convulsive spasms of a tearless
sorrow.

“My boy—my own boy—Edgar,” the old man
faltered forth, at length, “take not on thus—oh! take
not on thus bitterly. 'Tis but the course of nature
—the old must die before the young; and I—why
I have fallen full of years and full of honour, although
myself I say it—and I am glad to die thus
—thus, with your arms about me, Edgar. But I
have much to say to you, and I can feel my time
grows very short to say it. Our reverend friend,
to whom I owe so much, good Master Winterfield,

will pardon us a little while—and Anthony, old,
faithful Anthony, will leave us. We have not met
in many days, and we would fain be private ere
we part,” and his voice failed a little, and a tear
stood in his clear gray eye; “part, as we must,
for ever. We will recall you,” he continued, “presently,
for I would fain pray with this holy man
ere I go hence to stand before my Maker.” There
was a pause—a long, sad pause, as all obeyed his
words, broken by nothing but the hard breathing
of the wounded man and the strong sobbing of
the mourner.

“Edgar,” the old man said, at length, “are we
alone? Have they all left us?” and then, his question
being answered, “This is a sorrowful yet a
most happy meeting; for I feel—I feel here,” and
he laid his hand upon his breast, “that that kind
heart of yours has pardoned all the wrongs, the cruel
and unmanly wrongs, which I have heaped upon
you. Is it not so—my boy—my kind and noble
boy?”

“Oh! speak not thus,” he answered, when he
could force a word, “oh! speak not thus, my father;
you have been ever good—too generous! too good!
'Tis I—'tis I alone, may Heaven forgive me, that
have been to blame. Say only that you pardon
me, and bless me, oh my father.”

“No! no!” exclaimed Sir Henry, with more of
energy than he had spoken yet. “I will not—I
do not—for I have naught to pardon. Never—
never, from your most early years—have I had
cause of aught save joy and pride in you. And
you were—yas! you were the joy, the pride, the
only anchor, the last stay of my lone widowed
heart, till England became mad, and this accursed
and unnatural war rushed over us, tearing
asunder every gentle link and blightiong every

warm affection. But I have naught, even here, to
pardon—for I have been, even here, alone to blame!
But I—I too was mad!”

“Oh! no,” cried the repentant son; “it was my
duty to obey you—to bear with you—to do, in
every thing, your bidding—”

“Not so!” Sir Henry once more interrupted
him. “'Tis no man's duty to obey in things
against his conscience; and I was but a fool—an
obstinate and merciless old fool, that would not
even hear you. Nay, more! nay, more!” he cried,
wringing his hands with mental torture, “rash,
miserable sinner that I am, I would have slain you
but for that angel girl—slain you, that would have
never been within my power but for your self-devoting
efforts to preserve me. And I have slain
your quietude—your peace of mind for ever!
blasted your hopes of fireside happiness—banished
you from the dwelling of your fathers—robbed
you—ay, robbed you of your heritage—divorced
you from your bride—cut short your hopes of leaving
your high name to sons as glorious as yourself.
All this—all this, and much more have I
done—much more!” and, as he spoke, he sank
back quite exhausted by his own vehemence; but,
in a moment, disregarding the entreaties of his
son that he would not wear out his faculties with
this most needless passion, “I will—I will,” he
answered; “I will go through with my confession.
Reach me that cup, and hear me;” he
drained the draught of some mild opiate mingled
with wine and water, and proceeded. “Much
more of deadly sin than this! I am the murderer
of Sibyl.” For an instant Edgar fancied that his
intellect had failed him, and gazed hopelessly upon
his face; but there was no glare of insanity, no
idiot vacancy in those high pallid features. “Yes!”

he continued, “I have murdered her. Have I not
seen her growing paler day by day, and thinner,
and more deheate and frail? Have I not seen her
pining hourly away—withering beneath the blight
of her affections, like flowers beneath the carliest
frost-winds—and yet, at every hour, more patient,
and more angel-like, and more unearthly in her
pure holy loveliness? and I have done this also—
this foul and gradual murder! and she will waste
away before her time, and sink by inches into the
cold dark grave, blessing her slayer as she dies!
And thou, too, thou, my son, wilt live a sorrowing
and solitary thing—for thy strong noble soul will not
succumb to any violence or spite of fortune—alone
upon the earth, like the last oak of a Druidic
grove, when all its brother trees have fallen by the
woodman's axe—magnificent, and flourishing, and
stately, yet sad in all its dignity—friendless, companionless,
alone! and with the worm, the never-dying
worm, busily gnawing at its heart—yet happier
than thee in this, that 'twas not by a father's
hand its green companions fell; not by a father's
hand the foul destroying worm was thrust into its
bosom! No, no! it cannot be—you can not pardon
me!”

“All this,” said Edgar, calmly, yet much moved,
though smothering his emotion; “all this is but
the work of Heaven. The Lord hath willed it so,
and we are but the instruments, the wretched instruments,
within the hollow of his hand. If you
have erred, as I say not you have, you erred in
honour, and believing yourself justified; but if it
be a comfort to you, hear me now, on my knees,
beside your dying bed, declare, that never—never,
for one short moment—have I felt any wrath or
bitterness—never known any feeling toward you,
dearest and most honoured father, save the most

deep heart-springing reverence and love. Sorrowed
I have, and deeply, that you misjudged my
soul, and disapproved the course my conscience
bound me to pursue; but never have I thought of
you as wronging me—never presumed, nor even
wished to blame you. But yet, if there be aught
for which you need forgiveness from a child—oh,
term most misapplied—with all my heart—with all
my soul—in sight of men and angels, I bless you
and forgive you, oh my father.”

“And bless you,” cried the old man, “my noble-hearted
boy. Heaven bless you—and it will—
it must bless such as you, and prosper you with
all its choicest stores, and make you tenfold compensation
for your past and present sorrows;” and
he drew down the lips of Edgar to his own, and
clasped his arms about his neck, and their tears
mingled long and silently, and their prayers went
up together to the throne of mercy; and with those
tears and that embrace, the bitterness passed by,
the iron was drawn out from the old warrior's soul.

The clergyman returned, the simple but affecting
service of the church was feelingly performed,
the last most holy rite partaken, both by the son
and sire, the servants were called in—the faithful
followers of their lord through weal and wo—and
a faint smile, a sad farewell, a kindly pressure of
the honoured hand, dismissed each, weeping, not
as for a master, but rather as for a friend and
father, from the low chamber; and once again the
father and the son were left in solitude. There
they remained for hours; the old man, while his
painful breathing shock the couch beneath him,
calm, patient, and serene—the stately son bowed
down, and bent, as if by age, clasping the languid
hand that grew at every instant sensibly colder and
more pulscless, and sorrowing as one who would

not be consoled, although he choked his anguish,
lest it should but increase his father's sufferings.

The bright warm sun had long since sunk into
the west, and his last flush had faded from the sky;
yet so mild was the evening air that every lattice
was still thrown wide open, and the rich odour of
the woodbine and sweetbrier rose more profusely
on the senses when the plants were steeped in the
pure dews of summer. And now the dark blue
skies grew gradually lighter, as the moon, near her
full, soared slowly and serenely over the distant
trees. There was a whispering of the breeze in
the top branches of the lime, and from the odorous
shrubs in a far corner of the garden a solitary
nightingale, awakened by the glorious lustre of the
planet, started at once into its wild and melancholy
flood of song.

The dying man, who had sunk into a long and
tranquil slumber, moved now uneasily; he made an
effort to turn over, and the pain caused by the motion
roused him, “Sibyl,” he muttered, hardly
yet awake, “Sibyl, your song is wondrous sweet
to-night, but why so sad? it should be gay as
summer after this blessed union. Ah!” he continued,
“ah!” as consciousness returned, “I dreamed
—I have slept pleasantly, and dreamed a most delicious
dream. Is it late, Edgar?”

“The clock hath just chimed ten,” Edgar replied,
“I would have called for lights, but feared
to waken you—shall I now do so?”

“No,” he said, faintly, “no, it matters not now.
How calm it is, and sweet—the blessed moonlight
streams in through the casement like Heaven's
own mild forgiveness into a sinner's bosom: Edgar,
when I am gone, say to my poor, poor Sibyl,
that, on my happy deathbed, my sole regret was
that I could not join her hand with yours for ever.

She will be yours now—now that this miserable
war is ended—for it is ended, Edgar, and I regret
its termination less that I have lately seen much
in Charles Stuart—in the king—that I had disbelieved
or shut my eyes upon before. He hath,
I must confess it, dealt insincerely with his nearest
counsellors. He hath kept up a secret intercourse
with the wild Irish rebels, through that ill-minded
Antrim; and, I much fear me, he was
privy to, and instigated their first bloody rising
under the bigoted and barbarous O'Neill. Weak,
obstinate, and prejudiced he is, beyond all doubt,
proud and uxorious. I know that he stands pledged
in private to his queen never to give peace to his
people unless by her consent—and all this done
against the counsels and without the knowledge
of those men who have a right to counsel him, ay!
and know his measures—since for him they have
risked their all!—done in deep malice to his enemies
—in deeper guile to whom he calls his friends! Out!
out! I say, upon such kingcraft! A good man he
may be, but—it will out—a bad king! But enough
of this. She will be yours, and you will both be
happy yet—as I am now—most happy! How
soothing is that sad bird's note—I could almost
believe it is prophetic—how beautiful—how beautiful!”
He was again for some time silent, as
though absorbed in listening or in thought; and
Edgar, who well knew his end was very near at
hand, was motionless, and almost breathless; his
heart was far too full for words. At length the
old man spoke once more, but now his voice was
very faint and low, and all its accents were so altered
that his nearest friend could not have recognised
a tone—and his words came at intervals,
quivering, and slow, and interrupted. “How exquisite,”
he said, “how exquisite this tranquil bliss.
Never—no, never—felt I such complete peace before—such
perfect happiness. Edgar—my time—
is drawing—near. My feet grow numb and cold.
Kiss me—boy—kiss me. The bird hath ceased
his song;” even while he spoke, its notes were filling
every corner of the chamber with its most thrilling
melody. “The moon hath set,” yet she was
streaming full on his uncurtained couch; “all—
all is dark—and silent. Time—it is time—to die!
My boy—my own boy. Bless you — Sibyl!—
Sibyl!”

It was all over—the spirit had departed to its
God.