University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

Three days had passed since Bartram's interview with Alice, and the third sun had
set and night was falling fast over the lovely scenery of Woolverton, when three strong
men well armed with quarter-staves and broadswords, but without any fire-arms, came
cautiously out of one of the dense coppices that lined the old park wall, and stealing
with light steps and watchful eyes across the open lawn, ensconced themselves in a thick
brake of holly bushes which grew on the brink of the stream, not very far from the
bridge which Chaloner had so manfully defended, and the scene of Sherlock's bold
equestrian exploit. A few minutes after they had hidden themselves, the gate-house
clock struck seven; and while its chimes were still ringing through the woodlands, the
distant flourish of a cavalry trumpet came floating on the night-wind, and the faint
sounds of a squadron on the march.

About half an hour later, in the green winding lane that led from the Stag's Head
past the lodges into the Worcester turnpike, some hundred yards below the park gates,
a troop of the Ironsides was drawn up, the men sitting motionless on their strong horses,
with their drawn broadswords in their hands; while their captain and two subalterns,
having dismounted from their chargers, stood a few paces in advance conversing
eagerly, though in low guarded tones, keeping strict watch as it would seem, even
while they talked most earnestly.

“I do believe, for my part,” whispered one, “that it is a mere cheat and trapan.
For what, I do beseech you, should we watch here where any one could see us at fifty
paces distance, or farther if he had occasion to fear anything?”

“I do somewhat mistrust the same,” replied another; “yet sure I am that letter
was in Despard's hand, and he was ever a stanch bloodhound on the track of any cavalier.
Besides, we have our orders; and at the worst it is but a night's ride, and a cold
halt here for an hour or so. Move hence I will not until the clock strike nine. Hush!
was not that a sound by the ditch side there?”

At the same moment when he spoke, a vidette, who was thrown forward some eight
or ten yards in advance, brought up his carbine to the port and challenged loudly—but
no reply was made, nor was the least noise heard again, though the whole party listened
with ears sharpened by the most anxious expectation.

Just as these things were going on without the park, matters were drawing rapidly
toward a crisis within the walls; for as it grew more dark, two other men, one a tall
stout athletic countryman, the other a short thickset figure, somewhat apparently
advanced in years but active still and vigorous, came out from a plantation nearer the
Stag's Head inn than the coppice whence the three former had emerged; and coming
up to the stream, which was quite shallow in that place rippling swiftly over a gravel
bed, couched themselves in the long grass exactly opposite the mouth of a low cave,
which lay in a right line under the holly brake wherein the others were ensconced, at

some ten paces distant. The three men who had come first to the ground surveyed
the others quietly as they came up, and remarked to one another, with a grim air of
satisfaction, that they had no arms except staves, and perhaps pistols, which they would
not, even if they had them, dare to use for fear of attracting observation. But neither
they nor the new-comes saw that a sixth man was soon after added to the number,
who came out crouching from the coppice at the very spot whence the first three had
issued, with strange and uncouth gestures, stooping at times quite to the ground, and
crawling on his hands and knees, seeking as it appeared for some track on the dewy
grass, which he examined carefully with his hands, and seemed at times even to snuff
at, like a hound trailing a doubtful scent. By these means, and by slow degrees, he
followed exactly on the steps of Despard and his comrades—for it was they who lay hid
in the hollies—till he was now within six feet of their very lair; but in so total silence
had he crawled up from behind, and with so much sagacity, as it appeared, of caution,
that they had neither heard him nor suspected his approach; then raising his head
somewhat, he cast a wild glance round him, and again seemed to snuff the air; and
then as if contented sank quietly down into the covert, which grew thick and shadowy
on the river's margin. At the same silent hour, in the deepest part of the heronry
wood, hard by a narrow path winding among the swampy brakes, upon the firmer
ground, which led from a narrow postern in the park wall to the same green lane which
has so many times been mentioned, entering it a mile or more westward of the Stag's
Head, stood a young man appareled as a forester, holding two noble chargers; one a
blood-bay with coal-black mane and tail, the other a dark iron-gray, both of them evidently
thorough-bred, and that of the best strain of blood, but very plainly harnessed
with hunting-saddles somewhat old and used, rude leathern bridles, and coarsely fashioned
holsters—yet were they exquisitely groomed and in superb condition, their skins
as smooth and soft as velvet, and so bright that they actually glittered even in the few
faint starbeams, that stole through the floating clouds which clothed the moonless skies.
A short but heavy musketoon leaned against the bole of a huge ash-tree close beside
him, with a large noble bloodhound lying upon the ground near to it.

Meanwhile, within the Hall all had been carefully prepared for Marmaduke's escape;
a tearful and most passionate farewell had passed between the cavalier and his affianced
bride; between whom it had been arranged, that so soon as they should be certainly
advised of his arrival on the safe coast of France, every exertion should be made to
procure his free pardon—a thing by no means to be despaired of when he should once
be out of reach of capture! and failing that, and no change for the better occurring in
the state of politics at home, that Alice, under her father's escort, should follow him to
France, and there become his wife, under a milder rule and in a happier realm than
poor distracted England. This settled, when they had torn themselves for the last time
asunder, old Selby led his guest through all the devious passages, and let him out at the
gate which communicated with the arched drain, promising to wait there for an hour
unless he should return before that period had elapsed. He had not long to wait, however,
as it happened—for within twenty minutes Wyvil returned in haste and breathless,
and told his anxious friend, now finding that the token he expected was not in its place
he had crept cautiously to the drain-mouth, and thence discovered a party of the Ironsides
posted as if upon the watch, with carbines ready and drawn broadswords—that he
had been challenged by a vidette, but had got off, as he believed, unseen and unsuspected.
This explanation passed while they were hastening, after the gate had been
sufficiently secured behind them, toward the other outlet; and when they reached it,
once more affectionately pressing the young soldier to his bosom, the noble-minded old
man bade him go once more, taking God's blessing with him, and waited long and
anxiously, holding the door in hand before he ventured again to make it fast; but no
more was he disturbed that night, and when two hours had passed, he rejoined Alice,
to soothe her with the comfortable tidings, that doubtless her young lover had escaped
so far securely on his way seaward.

The clock had not struck eight, when Wyvil reached the mouth of the low cavern;

and though, as he peered stealthily out of its narrow opening into the misty darkness,
he could discover no sign of any persons on the watch, he was yet mindful of the
peddler's message, and took good care to show no part of his person, not so much as
the tips of his mustaches, beyond the entrance. He did not lie there very long, however,
before a keen shrill whistle rose from the tall fern on the farther margin of the
rivulet, and was again and again repeated, with an interval of perhaps twenty seconds
between each signal. No person indeed showed himself, yer Marmaduke, who had on
many a former occasion held intercourse with Bartram, knew the sharp call so well
that he did not hesitate a moment to extricate himself from the sandy burrow and
descend into the channel of the stream—at the very instant, however, in which he left
the cavern, several heavy stones and a quantity of loose earth came rolling down the
bank from above, and before they had reached the bottom of the declivity three stout
men, by whose feet they had been spurned from the summit, leaped down upon him,
calling aloud, and bidding him surrender “in the name of God and the commonwealth
of England.” Marmaduke had in fact scarcely got sure foothold, when the enemy was
on him; yet he turned sharply round to face them, drawing his rapier when he did so;
while, even in that anxious moment, he had presence of mind to take notice that Sherlock
and the peddler had sprung out of their covert at this unexpected onslaught, and
were rushing down to his assistance with all speed. Too late, however, was he in his
movement; for ere his sword was well out of the scabbard, and long before he could
shift it to parry or to strike, a sweeping blow of a huge two-handed quarter-staff was
dealt him on the right side of the head, which felled him instantly into the channel of
the stream. Very lucky was it for him, that he had turned completely round before the
blow took effect; for as he dropped the first man sprung upon him, kneeling upon his
breast as he lay face upward in the shallow water, and grappling his throat with both
hands; so that, stunned as he was by the blow, and helpless to arise, he must have
necessarily been suffocated, had he fallen on his face, before the struggle ended.

Meanwhile, the other ruffians, seeing that Marmaduke was for the moment quite
unable to resist, rushed upon Bartram and the gallant farmer, pressing them so hard
with their long two-edged rapiers, against which the others had nothing but their oaken
staves, that it was quite impossible for them to offer any aid to the young cavalier;
and now they had more than enough to do to defend themselves, and must have been
slain speedily or have surrendered, had not a new auxiliary rushed suddenly, and that
most unexpectedly, upon the scene. A long, protracted and most fearful howl gave the
first note of his approach, as the person who had lain hidden in the brake immediately
behind the ruffians, darted with strange fantastic bounds and frantic gestures down the
steep river bank, and seizing Despard—for he it was who knelt so cowardly on the
young soldier's chest—tore him away from his hold as if he had been a mere child; and
shaking him for a moment at arms' length, with another howl, fiercer and shriller, and
more fiendish in its tones than any yell that ever issued from the lips of man—even of
the untameable and savage Indian! hurled him to earth, and leaping like a tiger on his
prey, grasped with his fingers, strangely and fearfully contorted, the wind-pipe of his
tortured victim; compressing it with all his might, and dashing his head up and down
upon the ragged flints till the blood gushed from it in torrents—gibbering all the while,
and uttering a low chuckling laugh of triumph, that, when connected with the savage
fury of his onset, was perhaps even more revolting than the long beast-like howl which
had preceded it.

All this passed in a moment—in far less time than it has taken to describe it; for as
soon as he was released from the weight of Despard—the temporary faintness produced
by the stunning blow having immediately yielded to the effects of the cold water,
which had completely overflowed his face and temples—Wyvil sprang to his feet, brandishing
the sword which he had never let go for a moment, and hurried to the aid of
his companions, whom he saw overmatched in the unequal combat—but eagerly as he
leaped forward, he was yet all too late! for when they heard that wild and devilish outcry,
and saw a fourth man rushing from the brake, which they had believed to be

tenanted by themselves alone, and dealing such extraordinary retribution on their comrade,
the superstitious terrors—the only terrors to which they were accessible—of the
desperadoes, were aroused. “It is the fiend!” cried one; “fly! fly! in God's name!”
and, with the word, leaving their late opponents unquestioned masters of the field, and
wondering only that they were not pursued, the ruffians broke away, and rushing
through the scattered bushes, sought the wild woods, and actually ran miles before
they paused even for a moment, in mute and breathless consternation. But not for that
did the death-struggle cease between the disgraced roundhead soldier and his uncouth
antagonist; strong as he was, and desperately as he struggled for his life, striking violent,
although impotent blows with the dagger which he had contrived to draw, and
striving by the most fearful muscular efforts to dislodge his inveterate antagonst, yet all
his efforts were in vain; for his persecutor clung to his throat with an iron grasp, and
wrenched his head completely round, still muttering and gibbering, and laughing with
a fierce fiendish glee, and making horrible grimaces—grinding his strong white teeth
till the foam flew from his lips, like froth churned from the tushes of the hunted boar;
and falling on the face of the dying Puritan, was blent into a frightful lather, all clotted
with the gore that flowed from his deep wounds.

And now the smothered imprecations—the broken sobs and gasps of the throttled
roundhead, were changed into the dread death-rattle; his eyeballs rolled up meaningless;
his lips were painfully convulsed, and white as ashes, while all the rest of his
countenance was purple almost to blackness with the blood forced into all his pores by
that strong gripe—the dagger fell from his relaxed and nerveless fingers—a sharp quick
shudder shot through his whole frame, and then all was still—the powerful limbs collapsed
and flaccid—the staring eyes half starting from their sockets glared with a dull
white film—the chest that heaved of late with energy so terrible, inert and motionless;
and all the fiery passions, the inordinate lust of gold, the hot insatiable ambition, the
recklessness of human life, the strong fixed purpose, the undaunted courage which but
now fluttered in that living throbbing heart—all quenched, and darkened, and at rest
for ever! Ere Wyvil and his trusty friends could reach the scene of the protracted
struggle—for, although he was himself quite ignorant of the persons both of his assailant
and his rescuers, Bartram and Sherlock suspected the identity of both—knew that of
one, from the first utterance of the awful outcry that harbingered his coming—all was
completely over; and as they came up, Martin Rainsford—for it was the poor idiot,
whose instinctive hate for Despard had worked out Marmaduke's deliverance—uprose
from the dead body, and actually danced on the cold senseless clay, in the wild exultation
of his mad revenge.

“Ha! ha!” he cried aloud articulately, and in a clear high voice—“Ha! ha!
rogue roundhead—wilt kill more faithful guardians of the weak? wilt beat poor Martin?
wilt do more evil now? wilt shed more blood? Not thou, I warrant me—not
thou! Ha, ha! ha, ha!” and then the spirit of appalling vengeance which, it would
seem, had gifted him with a new and strange instinct, to hunt out and destroy the slayer
of his favorite mastiff, deserted him at once; and he fell down as helpless and nerveless
as the body of his victim, upon the blood-stained sod beside it, in a dread epilectic
paroxysm.

“Now, before Heaven!” exclaimed the peddler, who, as he looked upon that awful
spectacle, bold as he was, and fearless, and well accustomed to look unmoved on
bloodshed, felt his cheek pale and his hair bristle—“Now, before Heaven! although
we owe our safety to it; this thing is very terrible! The idiot boy hath slain him—
and is, I do believe, sped by some chance blow like wise!”

“Now, God forbid it be so!” cried John Sherlock, kneeling down as he spoke beside
the boy; “for if it were so, it would kill the old dame outright, and bring sweet Marian
to the grave, ere many months had flown. But no,” he said—“but no! he is not
dead, nor even wounded—he hath but fallen in a fit, such as he ever takes after
uncommon and unusual excitement.”

“Who is he then?” asked Wyvil—“who is he—do you know him? and who is this
that he has slain?”

“We have no time to talk of such things, Captain Wyvil,” answered the peddler,
hastily—we must fly straightway. Meantime we must leave you, John Sherlock, to
settle all the rest. I fear me much this dead man, and those runaways, will call forth
fresh suspicion against good Master Selby.”

“Not it! not it!” cried Sherlock; “those cowardly dogs who ran, were but chance
fellows of that dead ruffian yonder. I know them well—they are the same thieves
who set on Mistress Alice—disbanded desperadoes of the royal army, escaped, I trow,
from the defeat at Worcester, and forced to rob and pillage by sheer want. How they
fell in with this knave Despard, I know not, and marvel at it too; but we may rest
quite certain, that they will not tell aught of what has passed this night—in truth they
dare not—for they will fly the Puritans as the hare flies the grayhound; and for their
lives, they dare not tell a cavalier how they would have betrayed and captured one of
their own party—no! no! no fear of them—and as for this dead dog! I will tie such
a stone about his neck as shall find its way with him to the bottom of the deep black
pool underneath the waterfall below there. It will rain hard too before daylight, and
that will wash away all traces of the scuffle. I will get Martin home anon; and frame
some story how I found him in a fit out in the fields—that will account too for the
blood upon his garments—and if he say aught of it, as he is not very like, poor fellow!
seeing he does not speak thrice between Lent and Christmas—no one will notice it at
all. Now, God give you good speed, Master Bartram; but tarry not here I beseech
you, else shall we but lose our pains. Safe journey to you, Captain; I think you will
'scape scot free, after all's done. But I say, Bartram, not a word to Frank Norman of
this job—not a word for your life!”

“No, no,” replied the peddler; “it is a bad business as it is, and I'll not make it
worse, depend on it. Come, Captain Wyvil, John's in the right of it, we must make
hay while the sun shines;” and with these words, he started at a long swinging pace
that brought them within a few minutes to the postern gate which had been left ajar
on purpose, so that they passed unhindred into the heronry wood, closing the door which
was fastened by a spring lock carefully behind them. A few steps farther brought them
to the spot where Norman held the horse; and mounting instantly, scarce interchanging
five words with the forester, they rode away as quickly as the nature of the ground
would permit, until they reached the lane. There Bartram set spurs to his bold bay
horse, and put him resolutely at the strong, quickset hedge, which separated it from the
cultivated fields, clearing it with a gallant leap. Marmaduke followed not a horse's
length behind; and thence they drove at a hard gallop athwart the open country, sweeping
in their career across wide brooks and over stiff inclosures, unchecked and fearless
—for they dared not trust themselves on the high roads, which were patrolled by parties
from the neighboring garrisons—until they reached a lonely hovel at the verge of a vast
tract of forest land, with the Welsh mountains rising dark beyond it against the cloudy
sky. There a small clownish boy was stationed with a relay of fresh horses, equal in
strength and blood and spirit to those which had so nobly borne them hitherward; and
mounting upon these without a moment's pause, they again dashed into a wild wood
road—already twenty miles at least from the park walls of Woolverton, and farther yet
from the head-quarters of the Ironsides. Long before midnight, as Sherlock predicted,
it began to rain; and in less than an hour from the commencement of the storm, it
waxed into as wild a gale as ever ushered in the winter equinox, with heavy rain and
sleet, and raving gusts of wind, and ever and anon a crashing peal of thunder—yet
they paused not, nor slacked their long hard gallop, for liberty and life were on their
speed—and they were not the men to lose them by any lack of hardihood or daring.