University of Virginia Library

5. BOOK V.

1. I.
ON THE BRIDGE NEAR HOLMBY HOUSE.

I made my way in safety across the Channel, and
reached the vicinity of Holmby House in Northamptonshire,
where the king was kept close prisoner by
the parliament.

I could see him only by stratagem; and to effect my
errand I saw no means but to watch for the king when
he was out on one of his riding-excursions. An honest
woodman, a friend of the royal cause, who had given
me refuge in his hut not far from Holmby House, informed
me of the king's habit; and for some days I
watched for the opportunity of delivering the queen's
missive.

At last it came. My friend the woodman went to
Holmby House one morning,—the great edifice was
visible through the forest,—and returned with the information,
derived from the retainers of the palace,
that his majesty would ride out that morning and pass
over the road near the hut.

“Take your stand at the little bridge yonder, master,”

said the woodman, “and when his majesty passes,
go up to him as if you wished to be touched for the
king's evil.”

“Excellent!” I exclaimed. And in truth the advice
was admirable. The belief that the royal touch cured
scrofula was then widely prevalent: numbers flocked to
be cured wherever his majesty passed; and I could thus
approach the king, 'twas to be hoped, without exciting
suspicion.

I hastened to take my stand on the rustic bridge
over which the high-road passed; and I had not waited
ten minutes when the king appeared on horseback,
escorted by half a dozen troopers. His face was pale,
and he had changed greatly. All the harsh and corroding
emotions which try the human soul seemed
to have shaken his strength: the plowshare had furrowed
his brow deeply.

As he reached the bridge, his eye fell upon my face,
and I saw that he recognized me under my disguise.
He checked his horse.

“You wish to speak to me, I think, my good man,”
he said.

“Yes, your majesty,—to pray that you will touch me
for the king's evil.”

I approached, and, concealing the queen's letter in
my sleeve, extended my hand, as though to invite the
royal touch. The king did likewise; but suddenly a
loud voice cried,—

“Hold! What is that?”

I turned and saw the fierce eyes of the leader of the
troop fixed upon the letter. He was already spurring
forward; but in another moment it was torn into a

hundred pieces, and the fragments floating on the stream
beneath.

I was seized, and violently hustled by the troopers.

“What letter was that?” cried the commander of
the squad.

“A trifle,” I replied, calmly. “Beyond that I shall
say nothing.”

“We shall see!” was the threatening response; and,
ordering one of the troopers to take me behind him,
the officer forced the king to turn back. Half an hour
afterwards the whole party were back at Holmby
House.

I was a prisoner, and under circumstances which
rendered my fate rather menacing; but a new incident
speedily diverted attention from my humble self. The
king had scarcely entered Holmby House, and had
not taken off his gloves, when the clatter of hoofs was
heard in the park; a heavy detachment of dragoons
approached at a gallop, and in the commander of the
new-comers, who wore the distinctive uniform of the
Cromwellian Independents, I recognized no less a personage
than the tailor Joyce, who had measured me
for my Guardsman's coat in Rosemary Lane when I
first went up from Cecil Court to London.

2. II.
TAILOR TURNED SOLDIER.

There was no mistaking the face or figure of this
singular person who thus came at a critical moment to
decide the fate of the king. I recognized at a glance
the important look, the nose in the air, the short figure,
and the free-and-easy air of the ex-tailor of London,
who had dropped his civil garb for the uniform of a
cornet in the Cromwellian Independents.

Joyce rode straight up to the great portal, dismounted,
and, walking on the points of his feet to increase his
stature, head raised and nose elevated as before, gave
a thundering knock.

“Your pleasure?” said the leader of the troop which
had escorted the king, appearing at the door and confronting
Joyce.

“To see Charles Stuart, formerly King of England,”
was the reply, in a consequential voice.

“From whom do you come?”

“Where is Charles Stuart?”

“He is not at leisure to see you.”

Joyce turned to his men.

“Attention!” he said. “Get ready to fire through
this door!”

“Are you mad?” cried the officer.

Joyce quietly gave an order to his men, and they
leveled their musquetoons at the door.

“Hold!” said the officer. “His majesty shall himself
decide whether he will grant you an interview.”

The officer closed the door as he spoke, and ascended
to the apartment occupied by the king. Joyce had
quietly walked up behind him, and entered the room at
the same moment. In his hand was a cocked pistol.

“It is hard to obtain audience, it seems, in this
house,” he said, consequentially.

The king was half indignant, half amused, at sight
of this unceremonious personage.

“Who are you?” he said.

“It is enough, sir, that you must come with me,”
was the reply.

“Whither?”

“To the army.”

“The army! By what warrant?”

Joyce pointed through the window to his men, drawn
up, armed, and ready.

“There is my warrant,” he said.

The king smiled, and seemed to yield to the comedy
of the occasion.

“Your warrant is writ in fair characters, and legible
without spelling,” he said. “But here are the worshipful
commissioners of parliament, sir. Be pleased,
gentlemen, to decide this affair, as I am not in a condition
to make my authority respected.”

The grave commissioners entered as the king spoke,
and the foremost said to Joyce, coldly,—

“Have you orders from parliament to carry away
the king?”

“No,” said Joyce.

“From the general?”

“No.”

“By what authority, then, do you come?”

“By my own authority.”

The commissioners frowned.

“We will write to the parliament to know their
pleasure,” said the leading commissioner.

Joyce turned to the king.

“You will prepare to go with me immediately, sir,”
he said.

“We protest against this outrage!” came from the
commissioner.

“So be it; and you can write to parliament. Meanwhile,
the king must go with me.”

And, turning to the officer, he said,—

“If the king has a coach, order it. I will set out
in half an hour.”

Turning his back, the important functionary thereupon
went out of the room and down-stairs, where he
mounted again and drew up his men in order of battle.

A stormy discussion followed; but there was no
means of resisting. The guard stationed at Holmby
House to watch the king were seen laughing and talking
with Joyce's men, their army comrades. The
commissioners yielded, the king entered his coach,
and the vehicle, followed by the troop led by Joyce,
rapidly rolled away. I had been made prisoner anew
by the redoubtable ex-tailor. Mounted on horseback,
I trotted along scarcely observed in the party. Two
days' journey brought us to Cambridge, and thence—
the people crowding along the route to be touched by
his majesty for the king's evil—the captive was conducted
to Hampton Court.

Strange fate of the fallen monarch, to return thus to
the scene of his happiness and power! At Hampton
Court he had spent the serenest hours of his life. Here
he had basked in the smiles of his beautiful queen and
shared the gambols of his innocent children; here he
had reigned a king, only to return to the place a poor
prisoner, disarmed and doomed to destruction!

3. III.
THE ESCAPE FROM HAMPTON COURT.

In narrating the adventures of his majesty from this
time to the end of his career,—adventures with which
I was more or less connected, and in which I may be
said to have borne a not unimportant part,—I shall
occupy as little space as possible, indulge in few notices
of public events, and mention only the salient incidents
leading by a sort of fatality as 'twere to the window at
Whitehall. I would fain pass over all. But that is
impossible. At least I shall narrate rapidly.

Joyce, the ex-tailor, was thus far friendly to the king,
that, without asking any one's authority, he permitted
me to remain at Hampton Court and share his majesty's
imprisonment, under the guise of private attendant
or secretary.

From that moment I resolved to effect the king's
escape, if possible. I ventured upon every opportunity
to urge his majesty to attempt it, declaring to him my

conviction that otherwise his life was in danger. His
choice lay between flying to France, where he would
regain his beloved queen and find a place of safety, or
remaining to undergo all that the malice of his bitter
enemies might devise.

For months he resisted my appeals, which I scrupled
not to make in season and out of season. Finally, one
day, after a stormy and exciting interview with a commission
from parliament, he said to me,—

“Your advice is good, Mr. Cecil. This day's scene
has decided me to leave Hampton Court, if possible.
Now let us try and devise some means.”

These words filled me with joy. I believed—with
what truth let events which followed determine—that
the king's life was in danger. I said, therefore, with
animation,—

“Your majesty shall have it in your power to leave
Hampton Court secretly,—to-morrow night, if you desire.
Leave the arrangement of all to me.”

“You have a plan?”

“I have had it for months, your majesty.”

“And afterwards?”

“France,” I said.

The king knit his brows.

“The King of England a wretched fugitive!” he
muttered.

“Or his queen a widow and his children fatherless,”
I said, briefly.

He looked at me with deep sadness, and said,—

“Would that be so great a calamity to them, friend?
All connected with me is unfortunate. But go: do
what you will.”

This was all I wanted. I saluted profoundly, left
the apartment, sauntered past the guard out into the
park, where the gentlemen of the king's suite were
permitted to walk, and, finding myself out of sight of
the sentry, hastened down to the bank of the river.
Here I stopped and waved my hat. Ten minutes
afterwards a boat detached itself from the opposite
bank, and lazily crossed, propelled by the paddle of a
waterman. The boat reached me. I entered, and was
paddled across. Five minutes after reaching the opposite
bank I was mounted upon a superb horse, which
had stood bridled and saddled in a shed attached to
the waterman's hut, and was going at full speed towards
the south.

Half an hour's ride brought me to the manor-house
of Colonel Edward Cooke,—the gentleman with the
fine stud of horses, to whom the queen had written
when her children were threatened at Oatlands.

Colonel Cooke was a warm loyalist, and his swift
horses were needed then to bear the royal children, in
the event of danger, from the country. They were
now to be put in requisition to effect the escape of the
king.

I had long before arranged everything with Colonel
Cooke. It was his horse I bestrode. And I now saw
him advance quickly as I galloped up the avenue leading
to his mansion.

“What intelligence, Mr. Cecil?” exclaimed Colonel
Cooke, who was a tall and stately old cavalier,
with a heavy mustache and royale, shaggy eyebrows
half concealing a pair of dark piercing eyes, and the
erect bearing of the thorough militaire. “What intelligence,

I pray you? Has his majesty consented to go
with us?”

“He has consented,” I replied, with ardent feeling.
And, leaping from my horse, I entered, and informed
Colonel Cooke of my interview with the king.

“Faith! his majesty decides in time, and just in
time,” was the colonel's comment. In his glowing
cheeks I read a satisfaction which, cool and reserved
as he was, the old soldier could not conceal. He went
and poured out two flagons of wine.

“To our success!” he said. “And now for our
arrangements, Mr. Cecil. I and my friends are ready.
His majesty shall bestride an animal fit for a king.
The jades they ride yonder at Hampton Court will have
no showing! Come! Now for every arrangement!”

The plan was speedily agreed upon. Colonel Cooke,
with a party of friends, was to be at the waterman's
hut the next evening at sunset, with horses saddled
and ready, and two led horses for the king and myself.
His majesty would then steal forth to enjoy the evening
air. The guard over him had been relaxed recently,
and this would not be hazardous. The river's bank
would be reached, the stream crossed in the boat,
then to horse, and, encircled by friends, he would fly
to France.

I left Colonel Cooke with a close grasp of the
hand, reached the river, was paddled over, and regained
Hampton Court without having excited the
least suspicion. Ten minutes afterwards I was alone
with his majesty, and told him of the plan for his
escape.

“So be it,” he said, calmly. “Whither I will bend

my course afterwards may be left to the future to
decide.”

I saw that the king could not yet bring himself to
the resolution to take refuge in France; but to this I
thought he must surely be driven. I therefore lost no
time in combating his indecision, proceeded to prepare
for the flight, and finally lay down with a beating
heart, impatient for the morrow.

That morrow dawned, dragged on,—never was day
so sluggish!—but finally evening came, and the king
descended to the hall of the palace, I following him.

As he attempted to issue forth, the man on guard
held his musquetoon across the doorway.

“You cannot pass,” he said, roughly,—for he was
one of the Independents.

“You will surely suffer me to walk in the park for
the benefit of my health?”

“No!”

The sound of feet tramping towards us was heard,
and the guard saluted. It was a sergeant, with a new
sentinel.

“Sergeant,” I said, “this man on guard here bars
the way against his majesty, who wishes to walk for
exercise in the park.”

“He obeys his orders,” was the consequential reply
of the sergeant, who was about five feet in height.

“He was right, then, sergeant,” I said, saluting;
“but you, a superior officer, are fortunately here now.
Has his majesty your permission to walk for half an
hour beneath the trees?”

I had conquered my man. “Superior officer” and
“permission” effected the victory.

“Hum! Well,” said the highly-flattered small personage,
“if only for half an hour. Orders are strict;
but I will send an escort to keep you in sight. Pass!”

A moment afterwards the king and myself were on
the lawn, the man just relieved from guard following
us at a distance and lowering at us.

All depended now upon giving the signal without
being discovered. I succeeded in doing so by gliding
behind a clump of bushes on the bank of the stream.
I saw the boat put off at the signal and slowly paddle
across, and the king sauntered, at a sign from me,
towards a spot agreed upon. Behind came the guard:
it was impossible to escape him.

“Enter the boat, your majesty,” I said, hurriedly,
“and leave me to deal with this man.”

The king shook his head. “I will not desert you,
friend. Come! He can fire but once upon us, and I
fear not bullets.”

Naught I could say moved the king. Thus no course
remained but to risk everything. We were now at the
bank; the boat touched it. The king leaped on board,
dragging me after him, and the boat darted into the
stream again.

The sentinel uttered a tremendous imprecation, and,
taking deliberate aim, fired at the king. The ball only
clipped a feather from his hat, and there was no more
danger now,—from the sentinel at least. The shot
would give the alarm, however,—the troops would soon
hasten towards the bank.

We were not mistaken. The boat had not reached
the opposite shore when the grassy banks in Hampton
Court suddenly swarmed with soldiers. Loud cries

to halt rose from the crowd, and a volley from their
musquetoons whistled around us as the boat ran aground.
The king's friends, headed by Colonel Cooke, hurried
down the bank and bore the king to shore.

“There is no time to lose now, your majesty,” said
the colonel. “Your horse is ready. I beseech you
hasten!”

The horse, a superb hunter, was led up quickly,
and the colonel held the king's stirrup. His majesty
mounted, and all did likewise. As we did so, half a
dozen boats put off from the opposite shore.

Colonel Cooke caught the king's bridle, exclaiming,—

“Come, your majesty!”

“In an instant, sir,” was the calm reply. “I would
take a last farewell of my palace.”

And, reining in his horse, he sat quietly for some
moments, gazing at Hampton Court.

“'Tis very beautiful; and I was once very happy
there!” I heard him murmur.

He remained for some moments gazing towards the
stately edifice with the same sad expression; then he
turned his horse slowly, just as the boats full of soldiery
touched the bank.

“Come, gentlemen!” he said.

And, striking the spurs into his horse, he set out for
the southern coast. Behind him thundered the rest.
The spirited horses swiftly bore their riders beyond
danger. King Charles I. had effected his escape from
Hampton Court.

4. IV.
CARISBROOKE CASTLE.

The pages of my memoirs I am now about to trace
will contain a brief narrative of some of the saddest
and most terrible events in English history. Looking
back now in my calm old age upon those days, I seem
to see a huge black cloud drooping low and full of
mutterings; and truly the storm was about to burst on
the head of the unfortunate king.

Of the events which followed the escape of his majesty
from Hampton Court, I shall present only a rapid
narrative. I have not the heart to dwell upon all the
details. Again my pulse throbs, and the long shadows
of memory fall like a pall.

The king and his party of cavaliers traveled at full
speed all night, and at daybreak were received into the
house of a lady passionately attached to the royal
cause. It was necessary, however, to put more distance
between him and his enemies: the king and his
attendants set out again at dawn. At last the frowning
battlements of Carisbrooke Castle, on the Isle
of Wight, rose before us, and the murmur of the sea
indicated that the Channel was not far distant.

Now arose the question what the king's next course
should be. Should he leave England and escape to
France? He was obdurately opposed to that. The
armies under General Cromwell and the parliament were

wellnigh at loggerheads at last; each was manœuvring,
it seemed, to compose matters first with his majesty;
and the English people had of late exhibited unmistakable
indications of a desire to throw overboard both army
and parliament, and restore the king, taught now, it was
supposed, discretion by his sufferings and misfortunes.

“I will not go to France,” the king said, reining in
his horse, which seemed intent on bearing him towards
the coast. “That is Carisbrooke Castle, is it not?”

“It is, your majesty,” returned Colonel Cooke.

“The name of the commandant?”

“Hammond, sire.”

“Hammond? Ah, yes! a relative of my chaplain.
Go to him, colonel, take Mr. Cecil with you, and demand
whether he is ready to receive me as a guest, not
a prisoner.”

“But, your majesty—”

“Go, colonel.”

“It will endanger your majesty's safety.”

“You need not tell him where I am. I will await
your return in this wood.”

There was nothing to do but to obey; and I went
with Colonel Cooke. A short ride brought us to the
gateway of the great fortress, as I may call it, rather
than castle, and Colonel Hammond speedily made his
appearance. He was a tall and very stern man, with
one of those secretive faces which express nothing.

“Your pleasure, gentlemen?” he said.

Colonel Cooke gave him the king's message. I saw
him start imperceptibly almost, but in an instant this
emotion disappeared.

“Where is his majesty?” he said, coolly.

“That is beside the question, sir. Will you receive
and protect him?”

A brief pause ensued.

“I will go with you,—alone. I must see his majesty
before I reply.”

“Content, sir,” said Colonel Cooke, after a moment's
reflection. “You have only to come with us,
and you will be conducted to the king.”

Ten minutes afterwards, Colonel Hammond was
riding with us towards the wood in which the king
was concealed. I went before my two companions.
As I approached the king, he said,—

“That is Colonel Hammond, is it not?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“Has he given his written promise to receive me as
his guest?”

My head sank. These simple words indicated the
extent of the imprudence of which we had been guilty.

“I think your majesty may depend upon him as a
man of honor,” I said.

The king shook his head. “I have lost my faith
in men,” he said, sadly. “I am Colonel Hammond's
prisoner.”

The words drove my hand to my sword-hilt.

“It is my fault,—in part at least! I will kill him!”
I exclaimed.

The king raised his hand with a gesture of royal dignity.
“No: I am weary of seeing blood shed in my
behalf. Let there be surcease of this. Rather than
leave my kingdom, or be hunted like a wild beast all
along the coast here, I will put myself under charge of
this officer, trusting that he will prove a friend.”

Colonel Hammond had now reached the spot, and
made the king a low salute.

“You are Colonel Hammond?” said the king.

“I am, your majesty.”

“You command at Carisbrooke Castle?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“I will go thither with you, sir.”

And the king advanced on horseback towards the
castle, whose ponderous gates soon closed behind the
whole party. They were not guests, but prisoners.

On the same evening, Colonel Hammond dispatched
a fast-riding courier to London, to announce to parliament
that King Charles I. was a prisoner at Carisbrooke
Castle.

5. V.
EIKON BASILIKE.

So woefully had ended the hopeful design of bearing
his majesty beyond the reach of danger. Once beyond
the walls of Hampton Court, he had been free. He
might have taken refuge in the western shires, still
faithful to him, and perchance have once more found
an army flock to his standard; or he might have embarked
for France, escaped the hostile cruisers, and
rejoined his beloved queen. All this was possible on
the day of his departure from Hampton Court. Now
it was a dream: the prey was in the clutch of the furious
huntsmen.

The outward signs of respect from Colonel Hammond

and the garrison only added to the bitterness of the
king's imprisonment. A cautious game was evidently
going on. This human being might some day be the
master again. He never appeared, accordingly, upon
the battlements but the sentinel saluted; Colonel Hammond
ever doffed his hat and inclined profoundly upon
entering his majesty's presence. I, in common with the
other members of the king's party, was treated as a guest
rather than a prisoner. The future was too doubtful to
render harshness prudent.

Nevertheless, the king's health and spirits rapidly
failed him. Day by day life seemed dying out from
the worn frame, as hope disappeared. He grew thin
and gray. His face was covered with an unsightly
beard. He neglected his dress, grew older and sadder
hour by hour, and would wander to and fro with his
eyes fixed upon the ground, or, sighing, would gaze
towards France.

One day I saw him standing on the battlements,
looking in the direction of the French coast, and holding
in his hand a half-folded paper. He turned his
head, and, seeing me, motioned to me to approach.

“Would I had followed your advice, my friend,”
he said, “and sought refuge in France. I could have
done so, perchance. 'Tis impossible now.”

His head sank, and he remained silent for a moment.

“This letter is from—”

His voice died away, and his lips trembled.

“She has begged the people in London, she writes
me, to accord her permission to come to me. She went
only at my bidding; she would return now, like a good
wife, when the dark hour has come upon her husband.”

“And they have refused, your majesty?”

“They have refused!”

A deep groan issued from the king's lips. He turned
his face towards France again; his thin hands were
clasped for a moment; and then, turning away, he
slowly went to his chamber.

When I attended him there, an hour afterwards,—for
I shared with his grace the Duke of Richmond the
duties of groom of the chamber,—I found him writing.

“See,” he said, raising the sheet, “I am writing my
last will and testament, friend. I strive herein to show
my subjects my inmost heart. In this `Eikon Basilike,'
as I call it, naught is concealed.”

He sighed, and added,—

“Shall I read you the words I have just written?
`I am content to be tossed, weather-beaten, and shipwrecked,
so that she be safe in harbor. I enjoy this
comfort in her safety, in the midst of my personal
dangers. I can perish but half if she be preserved.
In her memory, and in her children, I may yet survive
the malice of my enemies, although they should at last
be satiate with my blood.”'

The king replaced the paper upon the table, clasped
his hands and leaned them upon it; and upon the hands
thus clasped his forehead drooped slowly, his long
gray hair falling around the emaciated cheeks and
concealing them.

In presence of this immense sorrow I could say
nothing and offer no condolence. There was something
terrible as well as heart-rending in this royal
despair; and, without speaking, I turned to leave the
apartment.

As I approached the door, I saw a man standing
without and gazing at the king. This was one Osborne,
appointed by Colonel Hammond to attend the king.

As I came out, he made me a sign that I should follow
him; and I did so.

6. VI.
THE PLAN OF ESCAPE.

Osborne went on until he reached a retired nook,
and then, stopping suddenly, said, in a low tone,—

“You are the king's friend, I think, Mr. Cecil?”

“His faithful friend, I hope, sir, as I trust you are.”

“I am,” was his reply. “I was not, a month ago;
but his majesty's looks haunt my sleep. They are
going to try and murder him. He must escape.”

I looked at the speaker keenly.

“I know what you mean,” he said. “You distrust
me—well. But I am the king's friend. I slipped a
note into his glove two days since, offering to risk my
life to secure his escape; but he has not spoken to me.
I know not if he received it.”

“Your plan?” I said.

“Listen, sir. There is a certain Major Rolfe in the
garrison here,—a wretch bent on earning blood-money.
He proposed to me to entice the king to attempt an
escape from this place. Files and a rope-ladder were
to be supplied. The king was to descend from his
window and escape from the castle. Then Rolfe, with
others, lying in wait, was to assassinate him.”

I listened with attention.

“And your plan, Mr. Osborne?”

“To conspire against the conspirators, to get the
king out of the castle, and cut the throats, if necessary,
of Rolfe and his gang.”

I reflected for a moment with all the power of my
brain. Had Osborne the design which he attributed
to Rolfe, or was this man a true friend of the king?

“You would be ready to receive his majesty when
he descended by the ladder?” I said.

“Yes.”

“I will be at liberty to take part?”

“Assuredly.”

“To stand beside you?”

He looked at me with firm eyes.

“I understand. Yes. Stay! you are unarmed.
Here is a dagger which you may plunge into my heart,
if you have reason to believe in my treachery.”

I took the weapon and placed it in my breast, looking
fixedly at the speaker.

“I accept your offer,” I said, “and will go immediately
and apprise his majesty.”

I left Osborne, went to the king's chamber, and
informed him of the plot. He shook his head.

“It will fail,” he said, “or I will end my life in a
midnight brawl in this corner of my kingdom. I do
not wish to die thus. I would perish in public, before
the eyes of the whole world.”

I combated this resolution with all my powers, and
the king, enfeebled by sickness and sorrow, began to
waver.

“The one your majesty loves best in all the world

awaits you yonder,” I added, extending my hand
towards France.

His face flushed. “Enough! you have conquered
me,” he murmured. “Go. I will do as you wish.”

I hastened from the apartment, and obtained a second
private interview with Osborne.

“The king consents,” I said. “And now to arrange
all!”

The arrangements were speedily made. Files were
to be supplied me, with which I would file through the
iron bars of the king's window; a rope-ladder was
ready, procured by Osborne for the purpose. Once the
obstructions were removed, his majesty could descend
by it, the key of a postern in the outer wall had been
obtained, and Charles I. would be free.

“Rolfe will know of but a part of the plan,” Osborne
said; “and we are playing a dangerous game.
But it must be risked. Now I will go and gain over
some men whom I think we may count upon. If all
is ready, the attempt will be made at midnight, two
nights from this time.”

With these words we parted.

On the second night thereafter, all was ready for the
hazardous undertaking. I had passed the preceding
night in hard work on the iron bars, which I attacked
with a file dipped from time to time in grease to dull
the grating sound. This occupation lasted for eight
hours. At the end of that time the bars hung by a
thread. I announced the fact to his majesty, who had
fallen into a feverish sleep on his couch; and, as I had
managed to convey the rope-ladder of fine twisted
hemp to his chamber unperceived, all was ready.

Midnight came at last. The night was dark; and this
favored the dangerous scheme. A chill wind whistled
drearily around the battlements of the great castle, and
from beneath came the long dash of the waves against
the base of the cliffs.

“The moment has come, sire,” I said, in a low voice.
“Be firm and fearless.”

The king smiled sadly. “Feel my pulse, friend,”
he said, extending his hand. “The Stuarts are unfortunate,
but they are at least brave. This will fail; but
I fear nothing. Is all ready?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“Osborne and his friends are beneath?”

“As well as Rolfe and his party; but ours outnumber
them greatly.”

“Then all, I see, is ready. You will descend after
me—”

“A moment, your majesty. I will remove the bars
and attach the ladder; then I will simply go out of that
door yonder and join the party below.”

“Join the party?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“You cannot: the sentinel.”

“I am allowed to pass about: it is only your majesty
that is guarded.”

“But why not descend by the ladder?”

“I have an arrangement with Osborne, and will see
that Rolfe is a party to it.”

“What arrangement?”

“To bury this dagger in his heart,—in the hearts
of both,—if they have betrayed you!”

The king extended his hand, as a man does to grasp

that of a friend. I took the hand and kissed it. Then
I rapidly drew out the bars, saw that a confused group
awaited below, affixed the ladder, and turned for the
last time to the king.

“Your majesty is not fearful of growing dizzy?”

“No: my nerves are perfectly firm.”

“The descent is considerable.”

“It is nothing,—since France and my wife are at
the foot of the ladder.”

“Then may God guard your majesty!”

As I spoke, I opened the door; but suddenly I
recoiled. The corridor was full of armed men, at the
head of whom advanced Colonel Hammond.

“I have come to save your majesty a dangerous
essay,” he said, coldly. “Your plan of escape has
been discovered, and Osborne is already under arrest.
To-morrow he will be hanged and quartered.”

The speaker inclined stiffly.

“Place two men beneath the window there,” he
added, to a sergeant, “and a regular guard, to be relieved
every two hours, in this corridor. The parliament
will decide the rest.”

7. VII.
THE HOUR AT LAST.

Three days afterwards,—days passed by myself as a
captive in the same room with the king,—Colonel Hammond
made his reappearance.

“Your majesty will be released from further imprisonment

in this apartment,” he said, stiffly. “I
am directed to announce so much by the parliament,
who will send further orders. If agreeable to your
majesty, you may now descend to dinner, which is prepared
in the great hall.”

The king inclined coldly, and was about to decline.

“I pray your majesty to descend,” I said. “Your
health fails from confinement.”

The sad smile, now habitual with him, came to his
lips.

“Content,” he said; “but you use but feeble reasoning,
friend.”

I assisted him to make his toilet, and he descended to
the great banqueting-hall of the castle, where a crowd
of persons had assembled, as was customary then, to see
the king dine.

The king had no sooner taken his seat than the company
were startled by a sudden apparition. This was
a solemn, funereal, and cadaverous personage, clad in
black, but wearing a military belt and scarf, who stalked
into the hall, posted himself opposite the king, and
fixed his eyes upon him in sombre silence. The king
gazed at this strange person with undisguised surprise,
but, finding that he was apparently dumb and might be
deaf, did not address him: the whole meal passing in
silence.

As the king rose, I approached the funereal personage.

“Your name, if I may ask, sir?” I said.

“Isaac Ewer, an unworthy follower of the godly
cause.”

“Colonel Ewer, I think.”

“I am so called.”

“Your object?”

“I am come to fetch away Hammond to-night.”

These words dissipated all doubt. This singular
personage, representing the “Independents” of the
army, had come to order away Hammond, who represented
the parliament. From this moment it was obvious
that Charles I. had ceased to be the prisoner of
the civil power, and had become the prize of the military.
The full significance of the change may be stated
in a few words: the name of Isaac Ewer appears among
the regicides.

This man had just uttered the words I have recorded,
and Colonel Hammond had started up, as though determined
to resist this summary order from the military
authorities, when I heard a familiar voice near me,
and, turning my head, saw Colonel Cooke. How this
faithful friend of the king gained access to the castle I
never discovered. He had been released months before,
and had passed from my mind; but I afterwards
knew that he had kept watch over the king and laid
many plans to effect his escape.

Colonel Cooke now approached the king hurriedly,
and said to him, in the midst of the confusion,—

“Your majesty must attempt to escape.”

“To escape?”

“At once,” he replied, quickly. “The army has a
plan for seizing you immediately. This must be prevented.
All the preparations are made. We have
horses all ready here, concealed in a pent-house. A
vessel is at the Cowes waiting for us. We are prepared
to attend you.”

The king turned pale.

“No,” he said. “I have given my word to Hammond
and the House that I would make no further such
attempts. They have promised me, and I have promised
them; and I will not be the first to break promise.”

“Your majesty means by they and them the parliament?”

“Yes.”

“They have no power to protect you! You are a
dead man if—For God's sake, your majesty, consent!”

The face of the speaker flushed.

“For the queen and your children's sake!”

The king shook.

“No, I cannot: do not tempt me!” he murmured.
“My honor of gentleman alone is left to me!”

A thundering knock was heard at the door as the
king uttered these words, and a file of soldiers entered,
in front of whom advanced, with heavy tramp, two or
three sombre-visaged officers.

They went straight to the king.

“You must come with us,” said one of them.

“Who may you be?” the king asked.

“Officers from the army. Come!”

“Whither?”

“To the castle.”

“`The Castle' is no castle! I am prepared for any
castle, but tell me the name.”

“Hurst Castle.”

“Indeed!” the king said, calmly. “You could not
have named a worse.”

In truth, the selection of that gloomy fortress, a

species of dungeon, fitted for murder, seemed an
ominous indication of the designs of the king's captors.
It stood on a desolate promontory, approached from
the Isle of Wight by a narrow causeway; and an hour
afterwards the king was conducted thither.

In this sombre keep he was immured now, and I confess
my heart sank. I had remained with his majesty,
along with others, and experienced very great solicitude
for his safety. Everything now seemed to depend upon
the result of the struggle between the army and parliament.
The latter was known to embrace a number of
prominent persons who favored the king's release: if
the army were overthrown, the king, thus, would be
saved.

One morning came intelligence that the army under
General Cromwell had crushed the parliament. Soon
afterwards the rattling chains of the drawbridge were
heard as the ponderous mass fell. The emissary of the
army had come to conduct Charles I. to Windsor
Castle.

He was conducted thither. A month passed: I had
begun to dream of happier times for this poor husband
and father, so long the sport of his enemies, when, on
the 15th of January, 1648, a squadron of horse appeared
and escorted the king to London.

The hour had come.

8. VIII.
THE SCENE AT WESTMINSTER HALL.

I have shrunk from dwelling at length upon the days
passed by the king at Carisbrooke and Hurst Castles;
for a stronger reason still, I shall pass hastily over the
last scenes of the tragedy, the memory of which still
affects me profoundly.

This human being, now approaching death, had his
weaknesses, his prejudices,—committed crimes more
than once,—claimed prerogatives inconsistent with the
liberties of England; but he had suffered, had grown
gray in prison, and all the glory of royalty had been
stripped from him, and now his enemies, in an evil hour
for them, were going to commit the blunder of making
a martyr of him by putting him to death.

The forms were speedily gone through with. From
Windsor Castle, where he had enjoyed a brief season
of tranquillity, not divested of hope, he was taken in his
coach, under an escort of troopers with drawn pistols,
to St. James's Palace in London, where his treatment
at once indicated that his fate was sealed.

I had remained with him, as had his grace the Duke
of Richmond, his faithful Herbert, and other friends.
We were mercifully permitted to share his last hours;
and the terrible details of these hours are here recorded
briefly.

It soon became known to us that the military power

was completely in the ascendency. General Cromwell,
its head, proceeded to turn out of parliament all opposed
to the fatal resolution at last reached. The king
was transferred to a wing of Edward the Conqueror's
Palace; and speedily came the order that he should
be brought to Westminster Hall for trial.

It was a dark and chill morning in January when
the order came. The king rose calmly, put on his hat,
took his cane and gloves, and bowed to the officer
bearing the order.

“I am ready, sir,” he said.

The officer did not return the salute. The days of
royalty, and the respect due it, had passed away now.
The officer simply pointed to the door.

The king went out, and found himself in face of a
body of armed men, who gazed at him, some with
lowering faces, others with undisguised pity and compassion.

“Forward, to Westminster Hall!” the officer commanded;
and the troop moved, escorting the king,
who walked in the midst. I was near him, and went
on in a dream, as 'twere. The fatal pageant affected
me as men are affected by things seen in sleep.

All at once, as the procession moved along, I heard,
from a window above, the hoarse words,—

“Here he is! here he is!”

I looked up. The king was passing the “Painted
Chamber;” and the hoarse speaker was General
Cromwell. For the third time in my life I saw this
terrible man:—first in Buckinghamshire, at Mr. Hampden's,
a shuffling, absent-looking countryman; again
at Naseby, a cold and immovable statue on horseback;

now a judge, pale and purple by turns, looking upon
his victim.

I heard afterwards that he and others had met here
to see the king pass, and that General Cromwell, after
uttering the words above recorded, added to Marten,
one of his associates,—

“The hour of the great affair approaches. Decide
speedily what answer you will give him; for he will
immediately ask by what authority you pretend to judge
him.”

“In the name of the Commons assembled in parliament,”
Marten replied, ironically, “and of all the
good people of England.”

The purlieus of Westminster Hall were nearly choked
with troops. These, too, seemed divided between bitter
enmity and compassion. Many of the citizens had
mingled with the soldiery, and cried aloud, as the king
came,—

“God save your majesty!”

The soldiers did not suppress this cry; and the fact
seemed to enrage their commander, Colonel Axtel.
Suddenly the tall form of that officer advanced, the
dark face full of anger. This sentiment became fury
when some of the soldiers, whose backs were turned to
him, shouted, compassionately,—

“Justice! justice!”

With a cane which he held in his hand, Colonel
Axtel struck them vigorously over the shoulders; and
the men who had just clamored for justice to the
captive now shouted as loudly,—

“Execution! execution!”

The king entered Westminster Hall in the midst of

his guard. Behind came the procession of his judges,
with the sword and mace borne before them.

The king sat down, keeping his hat upon his head,
and looked around him with calm and even curious
eyes. His bearing was composed, and his eyes seemed
to express a grave wonder at the scene. He was yethin
and pale, and the curls beneath his beaver were
silvered with gray.

The judges took their seats above him, and the ceremony
began. An advocate rose, and began to read
from a paper which he held in his hand that the king
was “indicted in the name of the Commons assembled,
and the people of England.”

The king interrupted him here with some words
which I did not hear. The advocate scowled at him,
but continued to read; whereupon the king extended
his slight cane, and touched him with the gold head
upon the shoulder. The head detached itself from
the cane, rolled on the floor, distinctly heard in the
profound silence; and the whole assembly, wound
to the highest pitch of nervous excitement, rose in
mass.

“God save your majesty! God save the king!”
rose from the crowd of people in the hall.

Scuffling succeeded: the troops, under direction of
their officers, were buffeting and hustling the malcontents.
The advocate's voice, loud and monotonous,
resumed the indictment. It was finished; and Mr.
Bradshaw, who presided, demanded of the king what
his plea was,—guilty or not guilty of the crimes laid
to his charge.

“I make no plea. I deny the authority of this

court, though not the power,” the king replied.
“There are many illegal powers, as those of highwaymen
and bandits. The Commons agreed to a
treaty of peace with me when at Carisbrooke, and
since that time I have been hurried from place to place.
Where are the just privileges of the House of Commons?
Where are the Lords? I see none present.
And where is the king? Call you this bringing a king
to his parliament?”

Bradshaw scowled, retorting in some violent words,
and a discussion ensued. The court promised to break
up in the midst of a brawl,—perhaps a conflict between
army and citizens. It was hastily adjourned,
therefore; and the king was reconducted to his prison,
the people shouting, as he passed,—

“God bless your majesty! God save you from
your enemies!”

The first scene of the first act had thus been played.
The rest followed rapidly, and the catastrophe was
at hand.

The king was again and again brought before his
judges. He resolutely refused, however, to acknowledge
the competency of the tribunal; and it was plain
that violent measures would be called for. These
were adopted. The king's enemies had gone too far
to recede: their own safety absolutely required that
his blood should be shed.

All was resolved upon at last; and for the fourth
time his majesty was conducted to Westminster Hall.

Bradshaw had already taken his seat, and wore a red
dress. The fact was ominous, and the proceedings
were brief.

“Read the list of members of the court,” growled
the president, Bradshaw.

The clerk began to read. At the name of “Fairfax,”
a voice from the gallery cried,—

“Fairfax has too much wit to be here to-day!”

All eyes were raised. The voice was seen to have
issued from a group of ladies who attended as spectators.

Colonel Axtel, commanding the soldiery, shouted,
with fury,—

“Present pieces!—fire!—fire into the box where
she sits!”

As he spoke, one of the ladies rose, in the centre
of the group. For a moment she remained motionless,
looking down with great scorn upon the rough faces of
the troops, who were confusedly raising their musquetoons.
She then slowly went out of the gallery; and
I heard from the crowd around me,—

“'Tis Lady Fairfax! They dare not harm her!”

The reading of the list proceeded. At the name
of Cromwell a new tumult rose.

“Oliver Cromwell is a rogue and a traitor!” cried
a second voice from the gallery.

Axtel raged; but the president made a gesture, and
the reading proceeded. The clerk concluded by declaring
that the king was “called to answer by the
people before the Commons of England assembled in
parliament.”

“'Tis false!” shouted the voice in the gallery; “not
one half-quarter of them!”

At this renewed interruption and open defiance,
Colonel Axtel seemed ready to lose his head. He

foamed with rage, and shook his clenched hand towards
the spot from which the voice had issued, shouting,
“Fire! fire on them!”

Bradshaw again interposed. Silence was obtained;
but a more important interruption was to come.

The president began to pass sentence.

“I demand,” said the king, “that the whole of the
members of the House of Commons, and such lords
as are in England, shall assemble to hear the sentence
about to be pronounced upon me.”

Bradshaw frowned angrily, and was about to proceed
without noticing this protest, when one of the court
started to his feet in great agitation and with tears on
his cheeks.

“Have we hearts of stone?” he exclaimed. “Are
we men?”

“You will ruin us, and yourself too!” came in a
hoarse undertone from those near the speaker, whom
they violently attempted to hold in his seat.

“If I were to die for it!” was the renewed protest.

Cromwell, who sat just beneath, turned and looked
at the speaker with lowering eyes.

“Colonel Downes,” he said, sternly, in his deep
voice, “are you mad?”

“No!”

“Can't you sit still?”

“No! I cannot and I will not sit still!”

He broke from those attempting to hold him down.

“I move,” he exclaimed, “that we adjourn to deliberate!”

Cromwell rose in a rage, and his eyes seemed to dart
lightning as he looked at Downes.

“You wish to save your old master!” he said, in a
storm of wrath; “but make an end of this, and return
to your duty!”

Cries and confused voices were heard, however,
throughout the great hall; and, doubtless reflecting
that nothing would be lost thereby, the court determined
to retire to deliberate. They went out at a
side door, and remained absent for about half an hour;
then they reappeared, defiling in, stern, silent, and
ominous.

Bradshaw took his seat in the midst of cries of
wrath, pity, and horror from the crowd, where Axtel
exerted himself to obtain silence.

In the midst of this silence, sentence was passed
upon the king.

He listened without a word, and, at the termination
of the sentence, rose and put on his gloves. Axtel
advanced and motioned to him. He obeyed the order
of the man who now stood in the place of the headsman,
passed through the crowd of furious soldiery,
who puffed the smoke of their pipes in his face, spat
upon him, and yelled, “Justice! execution!” in his
ears, and, entering his sedan-chair,—a luxury still
permitted him,—was borne back to his place of imprisonment,
a man condemned to die.

As he disappeared, a great cry rose above the crowd,
struck with awe and horror.

This cry was,—

“God help and save your majesty! God keep you
from your enemies!”

One of the soldiers, even, joined in this cry, and was
seen to do so by an officer, who felled him with one

blow. This took place as the king passed. He looked
at the unfortunate man with a smile of sad pity.

“Poor fellow!” he murmured, sighing: “'tis a heavy
blow for so small an offense!”

9. IX.
THE HAMMERING.

The terrible comedy of the king's trial had been
played at Westminster: the tragedy in front of Whitehall
was to follow it speedily.

Of those days which passed between the king's sentence
and execution I have no strength to speak. I
was near him, with other friends, and was witness to a
calmness and dignity worthy of a brave man and a
monarch. The king's nerves were unshaken: he prepared
for his end with august composure; and when
he was informed that the people in power had consented
to permit him to see his two children before his
death, a smile of joy lit up the pale and emaciated face.

This intelligence was brought to him on the night
before his execution. He was writing at the instant,
and laid down his pen to clasp his hands in deep gratitude,
raising his eyes, as he did so, to heaven.

As the messenger disappeared, he turned to the
friends around him, and said, with a smile,—

“'Tis not forbidden a poor king in captivity to
make verses, my friends: I have thus employed myself

after writing my last adieus to one from whom I am
severed,—one very dear to me.”

He took up the sheet upon which he had been writing.
As he did so, a sudden hammering began in front of
Whitehall. I shuddered; for I knew that 'twas the
workmen erecting the scaffold.

“What is that?” the king asked, turning his head,
and listening.

No one replied. The sound of hammers continued.
Suddenly the king's cheeks filled with blood.

“I understand now. God's will be done!” he murmured.
“But this shall not fright me!”

The smile came back to his face, and he said,—

“Will you hear one or two of my poor verses?”

In the midst of sobs, he then read these verses:—

As he finished reading these words, the door opened,
and Bishop Juxon appeared, his face pale, his bosom
heaving. As he approached, the old prelate's equanimity
gave way, and he began to sob violently.

The king raised his hand calmly, with a gesture of
kindness.

“Compose yourself, my lord,” he said to the bishop.

“We have no time to waste on grief: let us rather
think of the great matter. I must prepare to appear
before God, to whom in a few hours I have to render
my account. I hope to meet death with calmness, and
that you will have the goodness to render me your
assistance. Do not let us speak of the men into whose
hands I have fallen. They thirst for my blood: they
shall have it. God's will be done! I give him thanks.
I forgive them all sincerely; but let us say no more
about them.”

A harsh growl at the door was heard. The sentinels,
guarding the king night and day now, had opened the
door, and expressed by the growl their disgust at the
supposed hypocrisy of the king.

The weeping bishop motioned them away.

“Suffer us, my friends,” he said.

And, as though these mild and faltering words had
affected even the rough natures of the sentinels, they
closed the door with a crash.

The king then knelt and prayed long and devoutly.
As he rose from his knees, he turned his head quickly.
His face beamed with joy.

“What has your majesty heard?” the bishop said.

“I know not if I have heard them, but 'tis the feet
of my children!”

Footsteps approached along the corridor, and reached
the door: it was opened, and the little Princess Elizabeth,
a girl of about twelve, and the Duke of Gloucester,
still younger, ran forward into their father's arms.

The children had burst into passionate tears; but
there were no tears in the eyes of the king. A delight
beyond words shone in his pale face.

“My little ones!” he murmured, covering their
faces with kisses. “Thank God, they have permitted
you to come to me! Oh, yes, yes! now I forgive them
from my heart!”

Some moments passed in those half-inarticulate exclamations,
mingled with caresses, which are so touching,—above
all in a father embracing his children for
the last time on earth. The children sobbed and held
him closely. He never seemed weary of caressing and
kissing them.

At last he grew more composed, and his countenance
assumed an expression of solemn gravity.

“Sweet-heart,” he said, to the little princess, “do not
forget what I tell thee. I wish you not to grieve and torment
yourself for me; for it is a glorious death I shall die,
for the laws and religion of the land. I have forgiven
all my enemies, and I hope God will forgive them; and
you and your brothers and sisters must forgive them also.”

He paused, and I saw an expression of deep tenderness
come to his eyes.

“You will see your mother, sweet-heart,” he said.
“Tell her that my thoughts have never strayed from
her,—that my love for her remains the same to the last.
Love her, be obedient to her, and do not grieve for
me: I die a martyr.”

Nothing was heard in the deep silence which followed
these words but the sobs and broken words of the little
princess promising to obey these last commands of her
father.

The king raised his hand and passed it across his
eyes. He then turned to the little Duke of Gloucester,
and, placing his arm around him, drew him upon his knee.

“My child,” he said, “I wish you to heed what
your father now says to you. They will cut off my
head, and perhaps make thee a king; but you must not
be a king so long as your brothers Charles and James
live. I therefore charge you, do not be made a king
by them.”

The child's face flushed suddenly, and he looked at
the king with a flash of the eyes shining through his tears.

“I will be torn in pieces first!” he exclaimed.

The king's face glowed.

“That is spoken like my son!” he said. “You
rejoice me exceedingly!”

He bestowed a warm embrace upon the child, then,
drawing the princess towards him, clasped both to his
bosom.

As he did so, the ominous sound of the hammers in
front of Whitehall broke in. The king sobbed, nearly
unmanned, and covered the children's faces with kisses.
As he did so, the guard advanced to remove them, and
Bishop Juxon groaned.

The king raised his head. “Oh, 'tis pitiful! Do
not take them from me!” he exclaimed.

The guard drew nearer, stern and unmoved. The
hammering was heard through the open door.

The king saw that the hour had come. With heaving
bosom, he placed his hands on the heads of the
children and blessed them. They sobbed passionately
as the guard took them away; and the king rose to his
feet and turned aside to hide his tears. A window
looked upon the court. He went to it, to see the last
of them, if possible, and, leaning his face against the
frame-work, sobbed aloud.

The children were passing through the door now, in
charge of the guard, when all at once the king turned
and hastened to them in an agony of weeping. Clasping
them for the last time in his arms, he covered them
with kisses and caresses, called upon God to bless them,
and, releasing them, staggered rather than walked back
to his seat, into which he fell, concealing his face in
his hands.

The hammering from the front of Whitehall had
never ceased.

10. X.
THE WALK TO WHITEHALL.

At midnight the king, after performing his devotions,
lay down, and was soon asleep. All had retired
but his attendant Herbert and myself, who had been
commanded to remain.

The king had given me both a letter and messages
for the queen. I was to convey these to her majesty
after witnessing the king's last hours, of which I was
to give her a detailed account.

I lay down on a pallet,—Herbert occupying another,
—but could not sleep. The terrible events occurring
around me excited my nerves and drove away my
slumbers. Providence had decreed that I should thus
witness the last moments of a condemned king, should
be beside him and lose no detail of the tragedy. All

had passed before me; I was to be present to the end;
and the thought of what would take place on the
morrow banished sleep.

The night thus passed, the chamber lit only by a
large taper which burned in the centre of a silver basin.
Long shadows, funereal and ominous, fell upon the
walls: nothing was heard but the quiet breathing of
the king, who had for the time lost all consciousness
of his misfortunes.

About daybreak I was startled, however, by a deep
groan from the pallet occupied by Herbert, the king's
attendant. I looked in the direction of the sound,
and saw that the sleeper was tossing to and fro, the
victim, it seemed, of some painful dream. Suddenly
I saw the king rise on his elbow.

“Herbert!” he called; and the faithful attendant
at once awoke.

“What is the matter?” said the king. “You groan
fearfully in your sleep!”

Herbert passed his hand across his brow, as though
he were confused.

“I have been dreaming, your majesty,” he stammered.

“Tell me your dream,” came from the king.

Herbert sighed, and said,—

“I dreamed, your majesty, that Archbishop Laud, in
his pontifical robes, entered this apartment and knelt
before your majesty, who looked at him with a pensive
expression of countenance. Conversation then took
place between the archbishop and your majesty; he
sighed deeply, seemed in pain; then the talk ended;
he inclined before your majesty, and was going towards

the door again, when suddenly he fell prostrate on the
floor.”

The king had listened without interrupting the
speaker. He now remained an instant buried in reflection.

“Your dream is remarkable, Herbert,” he said, at
length, in a pensive tone. “But the archbishop is dead.”

He paused again for a moment.

“Had I conferred with the archbishop,” he added,
“it is possible, albeit I loved him well, that I might
have said somewhat which would have caused his sigh.”

As he spoke, the king threw aside the coverlet.

“I will now rise,” he said. “I have a great work
to do this day.”

He seated himself, and motioned to Herbert to dress
his hair. The attendant obeyed, but his hand trembled,
as though from cold,—the fire in the apartment
having died out.

“Nay,” the king said, calmly, “though my head
be not to stand long on my shoulders, take the same
pains with it that you were wont to do. This is my
second marriage-day, Herbert.”

Herbert obeyed with trembling hands, and I observed
the king shiver.

“'Tis very cold,” he said. “Give me an additional
shirt. The weather may make me shake; and I would
have no imputation of fear. Death is not terrible to
me. I bless my God I am prepared.”

As he spoke, Bishop Juxon entered, his face pale and
woe-begone.

“Welcome, my lord,” the king said. “Will you
pray with me?”

The bishop knelt down, and in a faltering voice
uttered a fervent prayer, which the king listened to,
kneeling also devoutly. He then resumed his seat;
and the bishop read from the Gospel of St. Matthew.

“Did you choose this chapter, my lord, as applicable
to my situation?” asked the king, when he had ended.

“It is the gospel of the day, as the calendar indicates,
your majesty,” replied the bishop.

The king's face exhibited great emotion. The chapter
read by the bishop was that which gives an account
of the trial, condemnation, and execution of our Saviour.
A strange chance—if there be any chance—
had made it the regular gospel of the day, in accordance
with the calendar. The king resumed a moment
afterwards his kneeling position. I could see his lips
moving. A deep silence—the silence of prayer and
pity—reigned in the apartment.

The king had just risen, when the door opened, and
the guard appeared.

“I am ready,” he said, calmly.

And, placing his hat upon his head, he descended the
staircase into St. James's Park. The path to Whitehall
was lined with ten companies of infantry. In front of
the king moved a detachment of halberdiers, with drums
beating and colors flying.

The king walked on slowly, exhibiting no emotion
of any description,—on his right the good bishop, on
his left Colonel Tomlinson, of the army, and myself.
The king was absolutely composed, the soldier full of
compassion for him. This sentiment was so plain that
his majesty observed it, and, taking a gold etui which
he wore, said,—

“I beg you will accept this, sir, as a token of remembrance,
and that you will not leave me until all is over.”

The soldier bowed his head, and took the gift with
deep emotion.

“I will observe your majesty's command,” he said.
“Dare I ask your majesty if there be any truth in what
I conceive to be a terrible slander concerning you?”

“Ask your question, my friend.”

“Did your majesty concur with the Duke of Buckingham
in causing your late father's death?”

The king's face assumed a smile of pity.

“My friend,” he said, “if I had no other sin than
that, God knows I should have little need to beg his
forgiveness at this hour.”

“Then—”

The reply was not finished. A sudden roar from the
drums interrupted it. They were near Whitehall, and
the king said to the guard,—

“Come on, my good fellows: step apace.”

And, pointing to a tree, he added, to Bishop Juxon,—

“That tree was planted by my brother Henry.”

These trifles all engraved themselves indelibly upon
my memory. If they are otherwise unimportant, they
still indicate the king's calmness.

He had now reached the flight of stairs which leads
from the park into Whitehall. As he entered the
palace, Colonel Tomlinson said,—

“Here are two Independent ministers, your majesty,
who offer their spiritual aid and prayers.”

The king paused, but replied, almost immediately,—

“Say to them frankly that they have so often prayed
against me that they shall not pray with me in my

agony; but if they will pray for me now, tell them
that I shall be thankful.”

As he spoke, the king turned to me, and held out
his hand.

“I must leave you now, friend,” he said. “You
must not go with me to the scaffold. You have my
last request. Convey the letter you wot of; tell her
to whom 'tis addressed that she was in my heart to the
last; and may God bless and keep you, as my faithful
friend, always!”

I could make no reply, but, falling upon my knees,
pressed the king's hand to my lips, with sobs.

A moment afterwards he had disappeared within the
palace.

11. XI.
THE EXECUTION.

I hastened to the front of the palace, where rose,
grim and threatening, the scaffold with its block, upon
which the execution was to take place.

A frightful dream, rather than a series of real events,
seemed playing before me, and I could scarce collect
my thoughts or reason upon the situation. A great
crowd blocked up the street, of mingled soldiery and
civilians. Round hats and gleaming arms were mixed
together in enormous confusion; and through the
mighty multitude awaiting the terrible scene ran a low,
vague murmur, like the sound of waves before they are
lashed to fury in a tempest.

I staggered on, rather than walked, and almost by
main force made a path through the mass towards
the scaffold. More than once I came near becoming
engaged in a personal collision from my urgency. A
soldier whom I had thrust aside aimed a savage blow
at me with his halberd, and a burly ruffian into whose
ribs I struck my elbow overwhelmed me with blasphemous
curses. I disregarded all, however, and, thanks
to my persistence, reached a position near the scaffold.

The crowd was agitated, and many faces were pale.

“Poor king!” said a woman,—for there were many
in the mass;—“see! they have driven iron staples in
the scaffold, to chain him down if he resists!”

“Poor heart!” came in response; but with these
pitying exclamations mingled hoarse shouts of “Execution!
execution!”

I was now in the immediate vicinity of the scaffold.
My head was turning, wellnigh, at thought of the
coming spectacle; but in the midst of this confused
dream, as 'twere, rose clear and vivid the thought,
“Who will act as executioner?” Gregory Brandon,
the official headsman, had fled from London, and would
not strike off the king's head if they found him. Who
would? To volunteer was too infamous for the most
infamous. It might be that no Englishman could be
found who would act as headsman!

A fearful commentary upon this desperate hope was
speedily presented. The crowd surged to and fro; a
path was made through the compact mass; and through
this opening advanced two figures, from whom the most
brutal shrank back.

The figures were clad in a close woolen garb, then

peculiar to butchers. One wore a long gray peruke,
beard, and black mask; the other a black peruke and
mask, and a black hat whose heavy flap was caught up
in front. Something peculiar in the walk of this latter
proved that it was Gregory Brandon. But who was the
personage in the gray beard?

The men mounted the scaffold in the midst of loud
cries. Then all became silent. Through a window in
front of the palace, the king walked straight to the scaffold,
accompanied only by Bishop Juxon and Herbert.
As he reached it, I saw the figure taken for that of
Gregory Brandon kneel to him. I pushed nearer, and
came within hearing just as the king turned quickly, seeing
some one touch the headman's axe, exclaiming,—

“Have a care of the axe! If the edge is spoiled,
'twill be the worse for me!”

Meanwhile the headsman had remained upon his
knees. He now said, in a muffled voice,—the voice
of Gregory Brandon,—

“I entreat your majesty's forgiveness for performing
this terrible duty.”

The king shook his head.

“No,” he said: “I forgive no subject of mine who
comes deliberately to shed my blood!”

The headsman groaned, and I saw a shudder pass
through his frame.[1] He rose, and, with head bowed
upon his breast, awaited.

The king had turned away, and uttered a few words
to Bishop Juxon. He then raised the long locks of
gray hair flowing upon his neck, and said to the
headsman,—

“Is any of my hair in the way?”

“I beg your majesty to push it more under your
cap,” came in muffled tones from the black mask,
whose wearer bowed low.

In observing this ceremony, Bishop Juxon assisted
his majesty.

“There is but one stage more, your majesty,” faltered
the good bishop, “which, though turbulent and trouble-some,
is yet a short one. Consider: it will carry you
a great way,—even from earth to heaven.”

The king inclined his head.

“I go from a corruptible to an incorruptible crown,”
he said, “where no disturbance can take place.”

As he uttered these calm words, the king threw off
his cloak, and gave his George to the bishop, with the
single word, “Remember!” He then removed his
coat, resumed the cloak, and, pointing to the block,
said to the headsman,—

“Place it so that it will not shake.”

“It is firm,” came from the headsman, who shuddered
so that he could scarce hold the axe.

“I shall say a short prayer,” the king said, as calmly
as before. “When I hold out my hand, thus,—strike.”

The king stood for a moment with closed eyes, his
lips moving in prayer. Then he raised his eyes to
heaven, knelt, and placed his head upon the block;
and the headsman, with a single blow, severed his head
from his body.

As the head rolled upon the scaffold, and the body
recoiled from the block, a cry burst from the vast
crowd,—shouts and weeping mingled.

Above the mass, thus agitated and moving to and
fro, rose the scaffold, where the gray headsman, the
associate of the wretched Brandon, held up the dripping
head of the king, crying,—

“This is the head of a traitor!”

12. XII.
SO WENT THE KING WHITE TO HIS GRAVE.

I left the scene of the king's execution, staggering
in my gait like a drunken man, and for hours thereafter
wandered about London, the prey to a species of
nightmare which chilled and fevered me by turns. All
objects which my dull eyes rested upon seemed unreal,
like the shapes seen in dreams. I scarce knew where
I was; could see nothing but that one fearful group on
the terrible platform in front of Whitehall.

Night fell, and still I went to and fro like one
who has lost his way. Then, I know not how, I found
myself again in the neighborhood of Whitehall. The
streets were deserted; the great crowd had vanished:
save the light in a window on the ground-floor of the
palace, I saw no evidence that London was not a city
of the dead.

Towards the light a strange attraction drew me.
Without any definite design, I went to the great door

of the palace: it was open. The hall was deserted. I
entered, approached the door of the apartment from
which the light shone, and, reaching the threshold, saw
before me a singular spectacle.

In a coffin, covered with black velvet, lay the body
of Charles I., the head replaced in its natural position,
the lips wearing a sweet smile.

Beside it stood three persons, and in shadow at one
corner of the room were a number of stern-faced halberd-bearers,
erect and motionless as statues.

The three persons were Colonel Axtel, dark, sombre,
and sullen; Sir Purbeck Temple, a friend of the king,
whom I knew well and at once recognized; the third
personage was the now terrible General Cromwell.

General Cromwell was standing beside the coffin,
with his back turned to me; and I could not see his
face. His left hand was placed beneath his right elbow;
the other hand supported his chin. As I reached the
threshold, Sir Purbeck Temple had drawn near to the
coffin, and was looking at the king's face with half-suppressed
sobs.

“My poor master!” he exclaimed; “and this is
all that is left of thee!”

“Did you expect to find him alive,” growled Axtel,
“after the blow of the axe?”

Sir Purbeck was silent for an instant. Then he
faltered,—

“I know not what I expected, sir. But I have read
that a species of divinity and holiness hedges a
king!—”

He could say no more. Axtel growled: the word
best describes the sound he uttered. He extended his

hand towards the body; a smile of contempt curled
his sullen lips, and he said, with a heavy frown,—

“If thou thinkest there is any holiness in kingship,
look there!”

Sir Purbeck Temple made no reply. I could see the
tears on his cheeks.

General Cromwell had meanwhile remained silent
and motionless, gazing at the body, as he afterwards
gazed at the king's portrait,—hiding his secret thoughts.

Suddenly he moved and drew near the coffin. For
an instant he paused again. Then, reaching out his
hand, he raised the head of the corpse, looked at it,
and at the body, and said, in his deep voice,—

“This was a well-constituted frame, and promised
long life!”

As he uttered these words he replaced the head in
the coffin, turned away, passed by me slowly, without
appearing to be aware of my presence, and went out
of the door of the palace.

In my turn I approached the coffin, and gazed long
at the king. His lips were smiling: he had died,
plainly, forgiving all his enemies. I bent down and
pressed a last kiss on the thin hand. A growl from
Axtel, and a harsh order to leave the apartment, followed.
I left the room and the palace, and was again
in the streets,—seeing nothing, as I went on, but the
cold face and the smile of the king.

Let me finish the gloomy record.

The body of Charles I. was conveyed to St. James's
Palace, where it was embalmed. It was then taken to
Windsor Castle, Cromwell having refused sepulture for

the king in Westminster Abbey; and at Windsor it was
committed to the earth. The pall-bearers were the
Duke of Richmond, the Earl of Hertford, and the
Lords Lindsay and Southampton. As the coffin covered
with black velvet was borne from the hall,—the
only inscription upon it, “Carolus Rex, 1648,” cut
with a penknife,—the snow began to fall slowly and
tranquilly, as though it mourned the dead man.

By the time it reached the chapel, the pall of black
velvet was entirely white.

“So went our king white to his grave!” said his
weeping pall-bearers.

Not even the burial-service of the Church had been
permitted to be read over the king's grave.

13. XIII.
AN OLD CAVALIER OF THE KING.

I might here terminate my memoirs: the great epic
is finished, and the curtain has fallen on the tragedy.
But some incidents remain to be narrated, which refer
to my personal fortunes; and my children, if no others,
will like to hear of these incidents and of what marked
my last days in England.

On the night of the scene at Whitehall, I wandered
about London, laboring under a sort of stupor of grief
and despair. A new blow was, however, coming. Fate
had not exhausted her malice.

I had entered a low tavern, worn out and seeking a

spot to rest. On the rude table, covered with beer-stains,
lay a newspaper, which I took up mechanically.
As my eye fell upon it, I saw my father's name; and
as I read, my heart sank within me. The paper gave
a list of estates belonging to royalists, which had been
confiscated. Cecil Court was among them, and the
name of Sir Jervas Ireton opposite indicated that the
estate had been conveyed to him.

This intelligence came near to unman me. Then
my dear and honored father would be turned adrift,
homeless, in his old age! The sworn foe of our family
had wreaked his utmost vengeance upon us! The
coarse Sir Jervas Ireton would rule in the ancient home
of the Cecils!

I rose, my head turning, nearly. Whither should I
go? To France, leaving this blow to fall upon my
father? I could not: I must first see him. But how
to get to Warwickshire? I had no horse: was penniless.
I went out of the tavern with a fire burning in
my brain, and tottered rather than walked along the
deserted streets.

I was going along thus, the prey of a despair which
I could not resist, when, just as I passed beneath a
swinging lamp, I heard the clatter of hoofs. They
drew nearer. I raised my head, the light shone upon
my face, and I heard my name uttered.

A moment afterwards, a cavalier, whose horse's hoofs
had made the clatter, stopped near me, threw himself
from the saddle, and passed his arm around me.

“Cecil, you are ill!” he exclaimed.

The light fell upon the speaker, and I recognized
Colonel Edward Cooke.

“What mean you by wandering through the streets
at this hour, friend?” he continued. “You are pale
and woe-begone: you have seen all to-day, I doubt
not. But come! you are ill, Cecil! Tell me whither
you go.”

In a few words I told him of the confiscation of Cecil
Court, and of my resolution to see my father again
before I left England forever.

“Well,” the old cavalier said, “nothing is easier,
friend. You know I live near London, and my stud
is not yet seized. My horses are famous ones, as you
know; and you shall take your choice. Come! my
servant will give you his cob, and make the journey
home on foot. Come, friend!—we poor forlorn cavaliers
should help each other.”

I responded by a warm pressure of the hand, and
was soon in the saddle. Half an hour afterwards we
had left London by a by-way where there was no sentinel,
and two hours later reined in our horses in front
of the old manor-house of Colonel Cooke. I had
visited the house twice before, the reader will remember,
—first to bear to the old cavalier the queen's note
requesting him to be ready with his horses when she
thought to fly with her children to France, and again
to make arrangements for the king's escape from
Hampton Court. The old house shone now in a
bright moonlight, which lit up, too, the leafless and
spectral trees; but within, in the great fireplace of an
apartment hung round with portraits, roared a fire of
logs, which revived our chilled limbs.

My host proceeded at once to produce flagons and
cold meats. The food and rich wine warmed me and

brought back my energies. Then, lighting a pipe, and
puffing clouds of smoke from beneath his gray mustache,
Colonel Cooke began to speak of the terrible
event of the day just passed.

I have no space to repeat our conversation. It
extended far into the night. All over England, I
think, that night, poor cavaliers like ourselves were
conferring on the future and shedding tears over the
past.

At last Colonel Cooke rose, and the light fell full
upon his tall figure and his brave face, with its gray
mustache, and its sparkling eyes yet undimmed by
age.

“You must be weary, friend,” he said; “and your
bed is ready. At dawn my best horse will be saddled:
take him; I make you a present of him. God bless
and prosper you! And now a last cup!”

He filled my cup and his own, raised his above his
head, and, with flashing eyes, exclaimed,—

“Confusion to Cromwell and his gang, and God
save his majesty King Charles II.!”

With a close pressure of the hand, we parted, and I
retired to rest.

On the next morning by sunrise I was riding at a
gallop in the direction of Warwickshire.

14. XIV.
THE HOUSE BESIDE THE HIGHWAY.

The animal which my host had presented me with
was a superb hunter, in the finest condition. He plainly
asked nothing better than to be permitted to go at top
speed; and thus league after league fled from under
his feet, every moment bore me nearer and nearer to
Cecil Court.

I will not interrupt my narrative to speak of my
thoughts and feelings, or to paint the gloomy picture
of rural England in that winter of 1648. 'Twas terrible,
what I saw as I went on my rapid journey. War
had stamped its destroying heel on the lovely land
of the past, and a curse seemed hovering over the
once-smiling fields. I shall not speak further of my
journey, save to relate one singular incident which
befell me.

I was proceeding at a rapid gait in the direction of
Oxford, when, raising my eyes, which had been bent
upon the ground, I saw, beside the road I was following,
a small house which seemed familiar to me. A
second glance, and I had fully recognized it. 'Twas
that to which I had been conducted by Gregory Brandon
and his daughter, and where I had held the interview
with the sick dwarf Geoffrey Hudson.

As I drew near, I saw that the house was uninhabited;
but in front of the door stood a horse covered with

foam, apparently from a rapid journey. Who could
have thus stopped, I asked myself, to enter this deserted
house? To whom could this animal, covered
with foam-flakes, belong? I determined to solve the
question speedily, dismounted, and entered the house.
Before me, seated on a broken chair, and leaning his
head upon an old table, I saw no less a personage than
the dwarf Hudson.

As my footsteps resounded on the creaking floor, he
quickly raised his head.

“Ah, 'tis you?” he said, drearily. “At first I thought
'twas a ghost. Whence come you, sir?”

“From London. And you, friend?”

“From London also.”

“You have ridden rapidly.”

“I set out at midnight.”

“Then you saw all?”

“All.”

I looked at the strange being, who had answered my
questions in his thin voice with an accent of sombre
indifference. The dwarf seemed to be laboring under
the crushing weight of a sentiment which resembled
despair.

“You were in the crowd yonder?” I said, at a loss
how to continue the conversation.

“Yes,” he replied, in the same dull and dreamy
tone.

“You recognized—him; I mean the headsman?”

“Yes: 'twas Gregory Brandon.”

“And his assistant?”

“Hulet: they paid him a hundred pounds to assist
at the execution.”

“Hulet! is it possible? The man in the gray
beard Hulet?”

“Yes, Hulet,—the man who had Brandon dragged
from this place of concealment,—who persecuted to
the death the woman I loved,—who has paid at last
for all, and will plot no more.”

“Paid for all?”

“He is dead.'

“Dead?”

“Killed in a drunken brawl in a low tavern, at
nightfall after the execution.”

I remained silent at this strange intelligence. Then
I looked again at the dwarf.

“You say that Hulet persecuted to the death—
whom?”

“Janet Brandon, of whom I knew as Janet Gregory
here! He was crazy about her,—harassed her with
his importunities. She fell ill, and that wretch stood
beside her death-bed and taunted her.”

The dwarf turned pale as he spoke, and uttered a
low groan.

“All is ended for me in life,” he added, in the
same low dull tone. “I have left courts forever, and
go to my obscure home to hide my misery. You were
my friend, and here farewell! We shall never meet on
earth again,—but some day—I shall see her—yonder!”

He pointed to heaven, went out of the deserted
house, mounted his horse, and disappeared.

Such was my last meeting with this singular being,
of whom I never afterwards heard.

15. XV.
HOME AGAIN.

I rode on towards Cecil Court, lost in gloomy
thought. The interview with the dwarf, who had
thus informed me of the death of Janet Brandon and
the man Hulet, had deepened the sombre mood which
oppressed me.

But something still more tragic awaited me. I
should probably arrive at Cecil Court to find it in
possession of the foe of my family,—my father homeless,
the name of Cecil replaced by that of Ireton!
The memory of my poor brother Harry came to add
poignancy to these gloomy reflections. Had he been
spared, we might have borne up: leaning on his strong
arm, my dear father might have gone forth again into
the world. I was left; but I was nothing. Oh, if my
brave strong Harry had not fallen!

Haunted by these sombre thoughts, I continued my
way, and drew near Keynton. Near the village I met
an acquaintance, a poor man of the place.

“Go not thither, Master Cecil,” he said: “there be
soldiers of the godly faction there.”

“They would arrest me, then, friend?”

“Yes, master. See, the man yonder is moving this
way.”

It was necessary to avoid arrest above all things;
and I turned into a side-road.

“A last word, friend,” I said. “My father?”

“The squire be well, master; but look you!”

The trooper was riding towards me; and, setting
spur to my horse, I followed a bridle-path which led
straight through the woods towards Cecil Court.

In half an hour I emerged from the wood, and the
old home of my family was before me. Oh, how
my heart yearned towards it! How my pulse leaped
at sight of the dearly-loved roof! I put spur to my
horse, went at full speed across the fields, drew near,
passed through the great gate, then, galloping up the
familiar old avenue, I threw myself from the saddle,
and approached the broad door.

As I did so, a brilliant gleam from between two
clouds fell upon the old portico. My heel clashed on
the flags; I heard a cry; the door opened, and I found
myself caught in the arms of my father,—and of Harry!

16. XVI.
A FRIEND IN NEED, AND INDEED.

There are some scenes, reader, which the most eloquent
chronicler shrinks from describing, feeling that
words have not yet been invented adequate to convey
his emotion.

My brother whom I thought dead was thus alive,
and I clasped him in my arms! The dear laughing
face was there again before me,—the warm hand pressed

my own: it was Harry,—Harry! and, holding him
close to me, I laughed and cried like a child.

The history of this marvel was given me in few
words. Harry had been fearfully but not mortally
wounded on the day of Naseby. With the wounded
of both sides, he had been conveyed to an obscure hospital
in London, and only after long confinement to
his bed had he been able to rise again. He was then
conducted to prison: his obscure existence was unrecorded.
At last his prison-door had opened; and here
he was again at home.

“That's the whole, Ned,” he laughed,—“except
something else. Shall I tell that too?”

“Speak, Harry.”

“No; I'll think I'll let madam tell you in person.”

“Madam!”

“Certainly. Do you remember our visit to my lord
Falkland's house `Great Tew'?”

“Yes! yes!”

“And his handsome and most agreeable niece
Alice?”

I started, gazing at him with wide eyes.

“She has come to see us, now!”

And, opening an inner door, Harry called out,
laughing,—

“Alice!”

The beautiful girl hastened in, bright-eyed, laughing,
and holding up her red cheek.

“Welcome, brother Edmund!” she said.

I pressed my lips to the red cheek, lost in a maze of
wonder. As I did so, I felt two arms around my neck,
and Cicely's lips close pressed to my own.

“Oh, brother! God be thanked—!”

The child began to cry then, and only held me
closer.

“My little Cicely!” I exclaimed, returning her embrace.
Then I added, laughing,—

“You at least are not married?”

Harry burst into laughter.

“Ask Frank Villiers there if she's not!” he cried.

I turned, feeling as though I were in a dream. Before
me stood young Frank Villiers, with his chestnut
curls, blue eyes, and joyous smile, enjoying plainly my
astonishment, my dumb stupor.

“Let me explain all, my son, in a very few words,”
said my father, in his mild sweet voice. “Harry and
Cicely have just been married, and are about to leave
me. They go beyond seas until the troubles of England
have blown over. God has mercifully returned
my dear Harry to me back from the grave, and now
sends you too to add to the joy of my old heart!”

My father had scarce uttered these words, when hoofstrokes
clattered up the avenue.

“Who comes so fast?” he said, going to the door,
and opening it.

A moment afterwards I saw rush in the figure of
young Jervas Ireton. He was covered with dust, and
held a paper in his hand.

“Make haste, Mr. Harry, and Mr. Ned, and all!”
he exclaimed. “They are coming to arrest you!—
from Keynton!—the troopers!”

“To arrest us?” I said, coldly. “Doubtless 'tis
your good father, sir.”

“Father? Why, he's dead!” exclaimed the young

hopeful, without any exhibition of feeling. “Died of
the quinsy,—furious because I'd married the gamekeeper's
daughter! Her name was Cicely,—she's a
beauty! But hurry, Mr. Ned and Harry! I'm your
friend; not one of the godly. I have no opinions of
any consequence! Order your coach, quick, and horses
too, and get to Charlecote with the ladies! Stay! the
troopers are coming. See, yonder on the hill!”

A glance indicated that the warning was judicious.
On the summit of a hill about half a mile from the
house was seen a party of troopers approaching at a
round trot.

“I'll see to the coach without a moment's delay!”
Harry exclaimed; “and you, young ladies, gather up
your jewels and laces and be ready! Ned, you and I
will go on horseback. Your horse will await you in
the shrubbery near the coach.”

Cicely and the fair Alice were hastening out, when
young Ireton caught the hand of the former.

“Do you remember old times, Cicely?”

“Yes,—oh, thank you, Jervas; but don't keep me.”

“You are going away now, and I won't see you
again, Cicely.”

“Good-by, Jervas.”

“One moment, Cicely. I am not of much consequence;
but I'm not a bad fellow, and I will try to
show you that.”

He unfolded the paper in his hand.

“I loved you, Cicely,” he went on, “and married
the gamekeeper's daughter because she's named
Cicely too! I love you still, and Mr. Ned, and Harry,
and Mr. Cecil, and all of you. My father's dead, and

I'm the master, and this deed is mine. It is the deed
to my father for Cecil Court, which they confiscated.
Here, Cicely! that is my wedding-present. Now give
me a kiss!”

He tore the deed in pieces, and presented it to her.

“Good, good Jervas! You are a true friend! Oh,
thank you! you shall have a good kiss, indeed!”

And Cicely held up her lips quickly; the youth bestowed
a resounding salute thereon: a moment afterwards,
Cicely had disappeared, and the troopers were
seen rapidly approaching.

“Go, my son,” said my father. “I have seen you,
and you must not run the risk of prison! God be
thanked, my old eyes have looked again upon my children!
Embrace me! God bless you!”

I threw myself into my father's arms, shook hands
with Jervas, and ran to my horse, which stood in the
shrubbery.

As the troopers thundered up to the door, the coach
containing Cicely, Alice, and Frank Villiers disappeared
in the wood behind the house.

Harry and I followed on horseback; and we gained
Charlecote in safety.

On the next morning the coach with its gentlemen
outriders set out for the coast. Fortune served us. We
obtained passage on a vessel bound for Holland.

Three days afterwards our feet pressed the soil of
the continent. We were beyond the reach of all our
enemies.

17. XVII.
VIRGINIA.

A few pages more will terminate my memoirs.

I found her majesty the queen at the château of the
Duchess de Montmorenci, in a hall hung with black
ever since the execution of the great duke by Richelieu.
And here in this funereal mansion the illustrious
widows mingled their tears.

The queen scarce shed any when I gave her the
king's letter and last message. A dumb despair seemed
to have dried up the fount of her tears; and when I
had finished my tragic narrative she simply dropped
her head, fixing her eyes steadily upon the floor, and,
seeing that she had forgotten my presence, I silently
went out of the apartment, leaving the august mourner
to herself.

Frances Villiers had remained with her, and now
received me and soothed me. Need I relate what
followed? The sole obstacle to our union had been
the promise made to Harry. He was not dead now,
but alive, and certainly would never more prove my
rival. Thus I came to Frances, and took her hand
and pressed it to my lips. An hour afterwards she had
promised me; and in a month she was my wife,—the
dearest and best wife man ever had.

Thus, friendly reader, whether of my own blood or

other, I have come to the end of my story. Would
you have a few words more, and know how my life
passed afterwards? The record will fill but a page,
and I lay it before you. I remained on the continent,
attached to the French court, until the summer of
1650, when I went with his majesty Charles II. on
that ill-fated expedition that terminated at Worcester.
I shared his perils and adventures thereafter, and may
some day relate them. Now I will record only the
fact that I escaped in safety and rejoined my wife in
Paris.

The year afterwards I was in Virginia, and was building
my house here on York River. Some old cavalier
friends had preceded me, and told marvels of the
country,—of the cheap and fertile lands, the stately
rivers, and the charming climate. I therefore collected
my resources, set sail from France, established
myself on the great York, and have never revisited
England.

The Cecils flourish there still,—Harry being the
head of the house. My dear father is long since dead,
—God rest him, and bless his memory! And Harry, the
owner of Cecil Court, writes me at length by every
sailing-vessel, filling his sheet with laughing comments
on affairs around him, and memories of old times.

Just across the York resides Frank Villiers with his
wife Cicely,—a well-to-do planter, surrounded by rosy-faced
children. He and my dear friend Mr. Page of
“Rosewell” are here constantly. And my old age
thus passes serenely in the midst of my family and
friends, beneath the sunshine of one of the most beautiful
of all lands.

For all I am grateful,—chiefest of all for my dear
wife and my happy children. God made the first portion
of my existence stormy; he has mercifully sent the
sunshine to bathe with its mild splendor my old age.
I thank him humbly, and strive to love my fellow-creatures
as I should. Old enmities have long since
disappeared from my heart. The smiles of my dear
Frances and my little ones shine brightly. And that
cheerful sunshine lights up my life, blotting out all the
sad memories of the past.