University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

For two hours at the least did Henry Chaloner remain closely engaged in deep and
painful conversation with his ancient relative, who, understanding well his difficult and
delicate position, appreciated fully his considerate kindness. Henry did not affect for a
moment to conceal from him his opinion that the young cavalier was secreted somewhere
on the premises of Woolverton—nor did he pretend to disapprove the motives
which had led to such concealment, however much he might regret the consequences
which he considered likely to arise therefrom. He showed the proclamation to Mark
Selby, and did not hesitate to confess his own dislike to the duty imposed upon him,
and his sincere wish that the young fugitive might escape; until such times as the
Government should be induced to remit somewhat, of what he termed their cruel and
unchristian rigor.

“At the same time;” he said, “I have but the choice of two alternatives—to resign
my commission and the command of this district, or to perform with strict accuracy all
the duties thereby laid upon me. To resign, at present,” he continued, “I do not think
advisable, not as regards myself—for that of course I should not at all consider—but as
regards the welfare of the country; for should I do so, some other would be at once appointed,
who would, it is most likely, be harsher and more rigorous than I; and much
harm might well come of it. Now, cousin Selby, I am not, as you know, a man of
many words or large professions, wherefore I shall go straight to the point. I believe
the young man to be here, and, in fact, I am forced so to believe by these documents;”
and he laid the papers he had received the night before on the desk as he spoke. “I
hope sincerely I may be mistaken—or, if not mistaken, that I may be unable to discover
where you have hidden him—for it is very sure that it will go very hardly with you, if
he shall be discovered here. I will do all in my power, should such be the case—as I
am sure I need not promise you—to smooth the matter, and hope I may be able through
Cromwell to provide your safety; but, I speak plainly cousin, with all this evidence before
me, I must order a search—I must send for a detachment of the soldiers, to
Low Barnsley, which is their nearest station; and I must—and pray believe me that I
will—exert every faculty I may possess, to capture the young man. I ask you no
questions nor wish to hear any answers, and I will not allow yourself or Mistress Alice
to be at all interrogated. For the rest I must do my duty, and you will not, I am sure,
think hardly of me, for so doing. I shall send off a messenger forthwith to Keating,
with orders to bring hither two troops of the Ironsides to-morrow, at daybreak; till
then I will remain with you, myself, if you will give me quarters, and you will not, I
fancy, find me a difficult or troublesome inquisitor!”

“Oh! you are quite right, cousin, you are quite right in one thing;” answered Selby,
laughing good-humoredly—“you are quite right in one thing, though very wrong indeed
in another. You must search the premises, that is quite clear; I knew that from the
very first—and, indeed, I rather desire it, than otherwise—for I suppose when it is done
and over, I shall be left in peace; and until it is done by some one in authority, I shall
have no rest at all, but shall be worried day and night by these redcoated gentry; and
you know, Henry, I'm not very fond of worthies of your cloth. You must search the
house, and the more strictly the better; for then you will be satisfied yourself, and will
be able to satisfy others—so far you are quite right! but very wrong indeed, I do assure
you, when you imagine that you shall find any one hidden here! for you will not, Henry—
you will not, I can tell you—how carefully you may search soever, and however much
you may suspect it! Of course, I shall rejoice to have you stay with me, and so will
Alice. She hath gone forth this morning to the village, to carry some medicaments, I
fancy, and some dainties to the poor old souls down there; but she'll be home to dinner;
and after you have searched to-morrow, if you will ride out with her and see Gilbert
Falconer's long-winged Norroway hawks fly at a heronshaw, you'll please the girl, and
the honest knave too—in good faith you will—but for me, I care not for such toys!”

“Well, well!” said Chaloner, “I trust it may be as you say, for if I do not find anybody,
it will, of course, be all over, whether there be anybody here or no! but I beseech
you do not depend too much upon the secrecy of your devices. I have seen many of
your old houses, and know the general plan of their concealments. From this very room,
I dare say, if it were well examined, some avenue might be discovered; but as you say
so, I dare say I shall find no one, and I am sure I hope so. Now, if you will permit me,
I will write a brief order to Colonel Keating, to march hither a squadron or two of horse
to-morrow at daybreak—one of my fellows can ride over with it now, and I will tell the
others not to mount guard exactly, but to keep a peaceful watch on all that is going on
to-night. Your people, it will be needful to interrogate to-morrow.”

“You will get nothing, Henry, out of them, I promise you—meanwhile do just as you
will, till one of the clock, when we dine in the Hall below; if your own horses be
tired, send one of mine, good Henry.”

My horses are quite fresh,” answered Chaloner, as he removed toward the writing

table; “and now I will write to Colonel Keating without delay; and walk out—when I
have dispatched a fellow with it—to join Alice in the park; I met her at the Stag's
Head as I came and wished then to escort her homeward; but she was going farther,
and bade me join her in the park, when I had finished talking with you, down by the
heronry wood.”

It did not occupy the young soldier many moments to finish the official note, and shaking
his cousin affectionately by the hand, whom he both respected and loved, as being
the nearest relative he had on earth—his mother having died within a year of his birth,
and his father not having long survived her—he put on his hat, and sauntered slowly
through the long suite of rooms; now pausing to admire some rare painting or antique
statue; now gazing out of the windows, across the courtyard and the moat, over the
sunny park, which he could see stretching away for a mile and a half in length till it
was bounded by the heronry wood, and the deep narrow river—a rich and beautiful
perspective. He was, indeed, now in a very different mood from that in which he
paced the parlor floor of the Stag's Head; for the unconcerned manner of the squire,
and his reiterated assertion that no person would be found concealed in the Hall, had
produced, and very naturally too—for he well knew the strict probity and truth of the
old man—a strong impression on his mind; and though he had observed, that Master
Selby did not positively deny the concealment, or assert that there was no one hidden,
he was considerably tempted to believe that such was the case. Indeed, the very fact
of his finding Alice so far abroad, and seemingly so unconscious, had, at the moment,
somewhat shaken his opinions; and now, when he recurred in his thoughts to her calm
smile and fearless unembarrassed air, he could not believe her privy to any scheme of peril.

As he reached the oaken staircase, and passed slowly round the gallery on which it
opened, he caught through the tall gothic window another view of the grounds in the
opposite direction; a view of much greater extent, including nearly three miles of open
lawns with belts of timber trees, and deep withdrawing dells between them; these lying
broad and fair in the mellow noontide lustre, those full of cool blue shadows, with here
and there a rippling reach of the stream flashing among the thickets—all terminated far
off to the westward by the park wall, and the gigantic range of elms, which screened it
from the road. It was but a passing glance that he threw over the lovely landscape;
for he had marked it oftentimes before, and was familiar with its beauties; but even in
that transient glance, his eye was arrested by two moving figures far off in the distance,
which, distant as they were, he recognized for Alice and her old attendant.

The sight quickened his movements, and he ran down the broad easy steps, calling
to his men as he descended; so that one of them met him from a side door as he reached
the little hall at the stair-foot. He was not engaged half a minute in giving instructions,
in his own clear and precise method, to the servant—but passed onward immediately
through the paved court and formal garden to the gate-house, intending to join Alice
within a few minutes at the farthest. But very variable indeed, and uncertain are the
intents and resolutions of mankind, and very liable to interruption even when they
appear the least so—and thus it proved in this instance; for in the first place, an old
woman, the wife of the porter, who had known him from his childhood upward, came
tottering out from the lodge, and detained him a short time by a series of silly and disjointed,
but kindly meant, interrogations, which it was not in the heart of Chaloner to
treat with neglect or coldness; and then, when he had got rid of this annoyance, and
issued into the road through the park, whom should he see trotting up the avenue, but
stout John Sherlock, on Wyvil's coal-black charger? In a moment he remembered,
how he had directed the good yeoman to wait and speak with him; and how, forgetting
all about what he had wished to say, he had ridden off afterwards, leaving him
asleep under the oak tree. Again therefore he was obliged to pause in common courtesy;
but he contrived to learn from honest John all that he had to tell concerning the horse,
the place he had found him, and his intention of consulting master Selby as to the wisest
method of disposing of him, without the loss of much more than a quarter of an hour;
and then at length, having expressed his approbation of the worthy farmer's conduct, he
set forth in good earnest to join his beautiful cousin.

“How tiresome,” said he within himself, as he proceeded on his way—“how tiresome
that I should lose so much time; she will be well nigh home, ere this, and I shall
get no opportunity of talking with her after all!” but at the same time he stepped out at
the top of his speed, and had soon passed over two-thirds at least of the distance between
the house and the spot where, from the windows, he had seen Alice half an hour before
When he had come thus far, without discovering any signs of her he sought, or hearing
any sound of her voice, although he stopped and listened once or twice, he began to
grow weary lest he should have taken a wrong path and missed her; for it seemed to
him that she ought to have been at least so far on her way homeward, if no farther.

The spot on which he stood, as he thought thus, was in the bottom of a gently sloping
dell, planted with tall old beeches, quite free from any underwood, and carpeted, wherever
the shadow of the thick foliage had not overpowered its growth, by soft and mossy
greenwood. At this point the path, which he had followed hitherto, separated into two
branches—one leading straight on to the postern of which Alice had spoken, and the
other winding away to the left hand toward the fishing-houses. Both of these paths, as
he well knew, crossed the river on narrow rustic bridges at a few paces distance only,
and wound through thickets and plantations so tortuously that it was not possible to see
a person till you were quite close up with them. While he was deliberating which of
the two branches he had now better follow, a sound reached his cars, which sent the
blood rushing through all his veins like torrents of hot lava—a long shrill piercing
shriek—another! and another! in the well-known tones of the sweet girl, of whom he was
in search. The cries proceeded evidently from the direction of the postern, and uttering
a shout in answer, he dashed forward through the trees, with speed scarcely inferior to
that of a hunted stag. A few bounds carried him across the little hollow, and up the
acclivity beyond it; and before him lay the stream wheeling on, dark and deep, but
very narrow—not above twenty feet at the utmost—between steep banks, spanned by
the single log which formed the foot-bridge. On the farther side was a strong bridge
covered with stunted evergreens, and over that another small ravine feathered with
underwood and tufts of furze and broom, into which the path divided abruptly. Hence,
as it seemed to him, the voice proceeded; and with another shout, which to his great
surprise was answered faintly from behind him, he ran across the rugged arch, climbed
the steep rocky brow, and plunged into the dell half frantic with excitement.

Scarcely, however, had he made ten steps beyond the summit, before a sight met his
eyes which would, if anything, have forced him from his self control. In the very
bottom of the glen, prostrate upon the ground, with a tall ragged ruffian furiously and
unmercifully belaboring him about the head with what resembled greatly the truncheon
of a broken pike, lay the old servant Jeremy; and a little farther off—just where the
ground rose on the other side, in the violent gripe of two savage-looking men, who by
their dresses, were evidently disbanded desperate wanderers from the royal army—as
pale as death, and trembling in every limb, stood Alice Selby.

One of the wretches, who held her tightly grasped by one delicate wrist, had thrust
the muzzle of a huge horse-pistol cocked, as the ready eye of Chaloner observed in an
instant, within a hand's breadth of her temples; and was, with loud and beastly imprecations,
threatening her with instant death if she spoke or resisted; the other had
already torn a jewelled pendant from one of her ears, and that so brutally, that a drop
or two of blood had fallen on her shoulder; and, just as Chaloner came into sight,
attracted by a glittering brooch which secured her kerchief, he thrust his sacrilegious
hand into the sanctuary of her bosom, and by one violent effort dragged away both the
brooch and kerchief, rending her robe itself, and leaving all her snowy bust exposed to
their foul glances. So greedily were they occupied in their unholy calling, that the
villains had not observed the repeated shout of Chaloner; and consequently he came on
them quite unawares—he was indeed upon the first almost before he was aware of it
himself and rushing at a tremendous pace down the steep slope, drawing his rapier as
he came, he kicked the brute who was in the act of stooping over his groaning victim,
head-over-heels into the broken gully among the stones and brushwood; and dashed on,

without pausing to see what became of him, to succor the terrified girl; who seeing aid
so near, again sent forth one of those wild ear-piercing screams, which she had been
deterred from uttering, since the first moment of her peril, by menaces of instant death.
Her shriek, and the noise of their comrade's fall, were the first intimations the other
robbers had that they were interrupted! He with the pistol, diverting his aim instantly
from Alice, levelled the weapon with cool deliberation at the young soldier's head, and
pulled the trigger, when he was scarce six feet from its muzzle. Happily for him,
however, and yet more so for her whom he alone preserved from robbery and perhaps
worse outrage it had been greatly overloaded, and recoiled so heavily that it threw up
the hand which fired it, for it had been correctly aimed; and, as it was, the ball pierced
the crown of Henry's hat, actually grazing his hair in its passage. Before the ruffian
had time to note the effect of his discharge, the point of Chaloner's sword was glittering
between his shoulder blades, while the guard knocked against his breast-bone, so forcibly
was the thrust driven home; and with a fearful execration he dropped to the ground
—the blood gushing from his mouth, and from the wide wound in his bosom, like water
forced out of a pump.

So rapidly did all this pass, that the wounded man was actually prostrate before his
comrade had unsheathed his broadsword; and when he did so, he was still so confused
and startled, that parrying easily an ill-directed lunge, Henry was able to catch Alice
round the waist, and rush back through the underwood, avoiding the place where the
first ruffian was now struggling out of the ravine toward the river. He had hoped to be
able to cross over, when he doubted not that he should have little trouble in defending
the narrow bridge, by which one only could pass at a time, until help should arrive;
and he was confident that help was not far distant, from the shout which had so promptly
responded to his own—but he was disappointed, for he had barely mounted the ascent,
and reached the river bank, when both the robbers were upon him sword in hand. To
attempt to traverse the bridge, leaving his back exposed, would have been insanity!
Setting down his precious charge, and bidding her run for her life, while he kept the
pass—he again shouted at the pitch of his voice, and as he did so, was engaged instantly
in hand-to-hand encounter with two swordsmen.

Few men of that day were at all equal to Henry Chaloner in the management and
mastory of his weapon; and he derived from his cool and collected disposition and advantage
hardly if at all inferior to his skill in the fence. Had one only of the ruffians, now
opposed to him, been able to assault him at a time, the affair would have been decided
in ten seconds—but even a master of defence has his hands full enough, when attacked
hotly by two tolorable fencers—and such at least might be considered the bravos, who
now pushed at him with fierce savage oaths, encouraged by the hope of booty, and
burning to avenge their comrade, and half maddened by despair and want. Even at
this disadvantage, the brave young officer would, it is probable, have proved still superior,
had he fought with his wonted coolness; but now his eye wandered too often
from the flickering points of the brandished rapiers, in pursuit of his cousin—and, when
he saw her, after staggering a few steps toward the bridge, sink down upon the grass in
a dead faint, he was so much diverted from what he was about, that he received a thrust
in the left breast that would have finished his career upon the spot, but that it glanced
off from a button of his coat, inflicting a sharp wound as it grazed him, and running
quite through his left arm. The effusion of blood was very great, although the sword
blade by good fortune had missed the artery, and the robbers at once saw their advantage.

“Fight steady, Joe,” cried one, “for by the—” and he swore an oath too blasphemously
fearful to be written down—“he'll bleed away by inches, and we can finish him
at our leisure.”

And accordingly they both assumed the defensive, menacing him it is true at times,
both with edge and point, and at times pressing him back toward the river; but
keeping off, and waiting the time when loss of blood should render him a weak and
easy victim. Now he exerted every nerve, and practiced every feint and foin to tempt

them from their guard, and even succeeded in drawing blood from each, by turns, though
slightly. And now he perceived the advantage which they had gained, and which
they seemed so resolute to keep—and as he felt his strength ebbing out drop by drop,
and a chill sickening faintness gathering at his breast—and no help drawing nigh—and
she, he would have died to save, lying there senseless and inanimate, a ready spoil to
those worse than brutes, as soon he should fall—a sensation nearly akin to the cold dull
agony of despair fell on his soul; yet still he fought undauntedly, and still they dared
not to close with him; though every moment he felt more and more that he could strive
only a little—a very little longer. Then to augment the wretchedness—if anything
could indeed augment it—of his feelings, even at that moment of unutterable torture, as
if in mockery of his situation, the clear loud merry sound of the dinner bell came
clanging through the sunny air from the neighboring Hall—telling of joy and merriment,
and succor near at hand, yet really as far from him as though it had been fifty leagues
aloof. He felt it—felt it bitterly, and keenly—and, though he almost staggered from
exhaustion, knowing that all depended on himself, he lunged with fierce impetuous
thrusts, raising once more as loud a shout as his quivering lips could utter.

By heaven! the shout was answered—close at hand rang the cry—a loud stentorian
whoop from the beach covert, and the thundering tramp of a horse at full gallop.

“In with you, Joe—in with you, man,” muttered the ruffian, who had spoken before;
“thrust at him, both at once:” and they did so, again and again; and at the third pass
again wounded him. Still he kept up his guard, and feebly answered the approaching
clamor.

And now, bareheaded, in fierce haste, lashing the fiery Arab to yet more fiery speed,
Sherlock drove up the hill beyond the river. The men looked doubtfully at one another;
yet still, although dispirited, pressed on!

“Damn it—don't give it up now!” the man, who had not spoken hitherto, now
cried with terrible malignity: “Finish this fool at once! the other has no arms, and
before he can dismount, and cross the bridge, we can get off, and bear her with us!”

“Revenge!” the other answered, with a yet fiercer rush on Chaloner, than any he
had ventured yet to make; but the assurance of prompt aid had reinvigorated the ebbing
strength of Henry; and he not only parried his thrust completely, but lunged in his
turn, and gave his assailant a sharp wound in the shoulder. The ruffians had, moreover,
counted without their host; for Sherlock never once thought of dismounting, nor
drew the rein at all, nor checked the thundering gallop of Wyvil's black Arabian. No!
not he! He flung his hat, with which he had been thrashing the charger's sides in
lack of a better goad, high up into the air, and setting himself firm in the saddle, charged
with a wild shrill cry full at the perilous leap. Bravely the gallant brute drove at it—
with his expanded nostrils red as fire, and his wide eyeballs glancing with a keen spark
of vicious lightning—bravely he drove at it, with the speed, as it seemed, of a whirl-wind,
the solid greensward literally shaking beneath his furious gallop. Not a second
did he pause—no, not the twinkling of an eye! on the sheer verge. The treacherous
turf, at the extreme brink, yielded, broke in, under his forefeet—but it was all too late;
a moment he was seen sweeping through the air, and then alighted with a stern dint on
the rocky ridge, amid a cloud of dust and fire, ground from the flinty surface by his
heels! “Hurrah!” screamed the excited yeoman. “Hurrah! surrender ye black
thieves, or ye are but dead men!” and, as he spoke, reining his horse up by the side
of Henry, he plucked one of the empty pistols from his holster and levelled it—“Down
with your arms”—but the sight was all sufficient. Seeing that Sherlock had no sword,
and judging from his dress that he was a mere countryman, they had persisted even after
his bold leap; but when they saw the motion of his hand toward the holster, they took
at once to their heels, one even throwing away his sword, and dashed into the scattered
bushes, flying in mortal terror.

The farmer's blood was up, and though unarmed, he would have still pursued; but
Henry called him to desist, and lend his aid to Mistress Alice. Water was soon procured
from the stream, and, after two or three deep sighs, and a long fluttering struggle,

she returned to her senses, and with them to a full appreciation of her peril, and of her
cousin's gallantry in her behalf. In a few moments a bandage was applied to the young
soldier's wounded arm; and, Sheriock undertaking to carry the poor old servant—who
still remained insensible from the terrible beating he had undergone—home on the black
horse by the postern; and to send people to look after the slain bravo—the young pair
crossed the bridge and hurried homeward, both silent and affected beyond the power
of speech; one by the intensity of his excited feelings acting on a debilitated system,
the other by the conflicting influences of joy, and gratitude, and terror.