University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
KING CHARLES II. AND THE EMPEROR'S YOUNG SOLDIER.

Some hours had passed since the occurrences which had
attracted Captain Bellarmyne's attention at the Royal Oak,
and it was already past ten o'clock, when three persons came
forth from the marble portico of the Italian villa, two of them
bareheaded, and one attired in most sumptuous court costume,
with a huge flowing peruke, impregnating the air with essences,
and giving out clouds of Marechal powder at every motion of
the owner, a French embroidered coat of pompadour-colored
velvet, gold-clocked silk stockings, and diamond-hilted sword,
and diamond aiguillettes and buckles. The other two were
plainly, though handsomely, attired in the usual riding costume
of gentlemen of that day.

It was one of these, who stood covered, receiving the profuse
compliments and thanks of the gorgeous courtier.

“Since, then, your majesty,” he said, in reply to some words
spoken before they left the house, “is so well satisfied with
your reception, and with the fair recipient of your gracious
favors, nothing remains for me but to express my deep sense
of regret at the poor entertainment which I have been able to
offer to so great a king; and to pray, with all humility, that
your highness will be pleased to make use of my poor house,

and all that it contains, at all times and in all manners, as if it
were your palace of Whitehall; which is not, in truth, more
entirely your own.”

“A truce to your compliments, chevalier,” replied the king,
laughing: “your courtesy, like the splendor of your collation,
is almost beyond the power of our gratitude to return. We
shall hope to see your fair cousin, near her majesty, at the next
drawing-room. Meanwhile reckon on me, chevalier, as your
friend in all things wherein I may serve you.”

“Your majesty will remember—”

“The Bellarmyne! So far as I can promise, count, you shall
be as happy— as I have been— as you desire to be. Can I say
more? I give her to you with all my heart.”

“His majesty,” interrupted Rochester, whose caustic wit
never spared his king more than less exalted subjects, “hath
ever had a gracious liberal usage to give away what he hath
not to give. The old cavaliers of his sainted father aver that
it is all he ever hath been known to give.”

“At least, he hath given enough to you, Wilmot,” replied
the king, who was stung as much by the truth as the pointedness
of the hit: “too much, it might be thought, the license to
speak so to your kind master, as, for your life! you durst not
to a private gentleman. But, enough of this: it grows late;
and there were some customers at that Royal Oak as we pass
by, who looked as if it might be their profession, or their pastime,
to cut— throats, or purses. Rochester may fall yet on a
chance, this very night, to prove that his sword is not more
harmless than his pen. Not a step further, chevalier; we
would be incognito; and your splendor, no less than your
courtesies, would betray us. Give you good night, my lord
count, and au revoir.”

And with the word, waiting no further response, the king

took his way, at his own rapid pace— with which few men
could keep up without inconvenience— through the wilderness
of the neglected grounds, into the gloomy windings of the
lane, now almost as dark as a closed room, so feebly did the
young moon and the winking stars penetrate the heavy foliage
which overhung it.

The loneliness and the gloom affected even the rash and
careless mind of Charles. “Odds fish!” he muttered to himself,
“a flambeau, and two or three stout lacqueys were not so
much amiss to-night, after all.” And then he added, turning
to his taciturn companion, whose late insolence, with his
wonted facility, he had forgotten—

“This were a rare time and place for your friend Buckingham's
friend, Colonel Blood. If we were to encounter him
now, with two or three of his roaring boys to back him, we
should soon see how much that divinity would avail us, which
Will Shakspeare says `doth hedge about a king.' ”

“Think not of it, sir,” replied Wilmot, whose teeth were
half-chattering in his head already, with the self-suggested
thought of what Charles had spoken. “Think not of it, sir;
no one knows of this adventure save myself, the chevalier,
and Tom Hardy, the groom, whom you have proved trustworthy.”

“In great things,” answered the king, “no man is proved
trustworthy till he be tried in great things. But look not so
down-hearted, Wilmot; I did not think, I only jested of it.
See, here are the lights of the Royal Oak; too loyal a sign,
sure, to harbor treason; and within a mile or so we shall be
in the high road, where you will find company enow to rouse
your spirits: or stay, the good folk are a-foot yet here, it
seems; we will tarry, and take a cup to revive them.”

As the two gentlemen came into sight, or rather as soon as

the sound of their quick, light footsteps—so unlike the hobnailed
tramp of the customary foot travellers—was heard, it
was observed that the three ruffians who had lingered about
the tap, gambling and affecting to drink, though eschewing
deep potations, slunk away into the darkness, and hurried off
in the direction of Hyde Park, up the lane by which their
intended prey must pass.

At the same moment the young soldier, who had been constantly
watching them from his station in the arbor, arose,
and entering the house, went to his apartment quickly and in
silence.

No one was left except the landlord, leaning on the hatch of
his door, a green-aproned tapster, and two or three hostler-boys,
lounging about the horse-block and trough.

A cup of burnt sherry, which they first called for, was
speedily supplied; but when Charles himself, who perhaps
felt that he had acted rashly, began to sound Boniface as to
the possibility of hiring, or even purchasing saddle-horses, he
soon found that he might as well have asked for camels; so
making Wilmot pay the scot, who by chance possessed a few
shillings—the royal pockets being, of course, empty, he walked
away with slashing strides, laughing gaily at his own absurdity
in thinking to hire post-horses at a wine-garden.

Scarcely had they departed, following unconsciously in the
steps of the ruffians who had preceded, and were now, doubtless,
awaiting them in ambush, when Captain Bellarmyne passed
the landlord, who was shutting up the house; and without
answering his inquiry, how soon he should return, followed the
pair at such a distance as to keep barely within hearing of
their footsteps.

He had a long, dark cloak thrown loosely over his shoulders;
and besides a stout horseman's tuck hanging on his

thigh, wore a brace of fine pistols, recently loaded, at his
belt.

For about half a mile he followed the king slowly and unseen,
yet having still in ear his firm, rapid, vigorous footstep,
until at length, just at the spot where he anticipated mischief,
the sound suddenly ceased.

It was as fit a spot for ill deeds as ever was chosen by the
clerks of St. Nicholas. The lane here turned at right angles,
a footpath entering it on the right by a turnstile; it was
overhung by two or three heavy-boughed oaks, making it twilight
even at noon; and on the left was flanked by a dark,
thick-set coppice, divided from it by a foul, stagnant ditch,
deep in mire, and mantled with duck-weed and rank aquatic
verdure.

The only gleam of light which entered this thieves' corner,
came faintly through the opening of the footpath, and was
reflected a little more brightly from the water, on the surface
of which seemed to be concentrated all the feeble glimmer of
the starlit skies.

As the tread of the king ceased, Bellarmyne flung away his
cloak, and rushing forward, heard a rough voice exclaim—

“Come! come! No nonsense! Your purses, cavaliers—
or your lives; and you may think yourself in luck if the weight
of the first redeem the second.”

“Odds fish!” cried Charles, “mine won't; for there's not a
groat in't, I'll be sworn. How runs yours, Jack Wilmot? for,
if it's not the fuller, we must make steel redeem our lives
instead of silver.”

And he drew as he spoke, and put himself on guard, facing
the sailor and the soldado; who, though with their points
advanced, still paused, awaiting the courtier's reply, as preferring

a sure ransom to a doubtful conflict; but the bolder
ruffian cried—

“But silver won't do, my noble roisterers; we must get
gold, an' you are to go skin free.”

“Hold your hands!” exclaimed Wilmot, losing all self-possession
from the extremity of fear; “this is treason—it is the
King!”

A loud, coarse laugh replied, in scorn, “The king—a likely
king, indeed; without a maravedi in his purse!—down with
the lying beggars, if 'twere but for their impudence. Treason,
quotha! and not a groat in 's pocket! Together, boys—have
at them.”

And the clash of steel followed sharp and continuous. All
this had passed so rapidly, and the minds of those engaged
were so intent on the work in hand, that Bellarmyne's approach,
swiftly as he hurried up, was unperceived till he was
close beside them.

“Stand to it, cavaliers!” he cried; “aid is at hand! We
are stronger than the ruffians—pink them home!”

At his shout the thieves fell back a little; and had the true
men stood their ground stoutly, would have fled without more
ado. But Rochester, though he had fought tolerably well for
a moment, fear lending him a desperate sort of courage, when
he heard a step and shout close behind him, misunderstood
their import; and, losing all heart, threw down his sword,
leaped the foot-stile with singular agility, and ran away as
hard as he could across the fields toward London.

Seeing this cowardly desertion, the rogues rallied; and the
sailor, who was their best man, facing Bellarmyne, the other
two pressed the king home. Had there been any light, the
ruffian could not have kept his life ten seconds against the
practised weapon of the Imperialist; but, as it was, scarcely

the glimmer of the points could be discerned, like glow-worms
in the gloom; and the antagonists struck, thrust, and warded,
by feeling the contact of their blades, not by seeing their
direction.

After a minute or two, finding that the men were resolute—
that in the dubious darkness he had little or no advantage
over his immediate antagonist—while the king's hard breathing,
and his breaking ground once or twice, told him that he
was overmatched—the young soldier changed his tactics.
Still keeping up his guard against the sailor, he quietly drew
a pistol with his left hand, cocked it, and springing back with
a quick bound to the side of Charles, who had been pushed a
pace or two behind him, discharged his weapon within a
hand's breadth of the head of the tallest ruffian.

It was just in time; for the king's guard was beaten down
by the blade of the other, and the soldado's point was at his
throat. The broad glare of the sudden discharge startled all
who were engaged save one; and he never started more.
The fatal ball crashed through his brain, and he was a dead
man ere his heavy body plashed into the noisome ditch behind
him.

“Fire-arms!” shouted the sailor. “Ware-hawk! Vamos!”
and he, too, leaped the turnstile, and disappeared; while his
companion took to his heels up the lane, and was soon out of
hearing.

“You are not hurt, sir?” asked the young soldier, not
desiring to penetrate the incognito of the king, as he returned
the pistol to his girdle.

“Thanks to you, no, sir,” answered the king, warmly. “But
for you, I had been past feeling any hurt. Your pistol did
good service—it saved my life.”

“It has done me better before,” replied Bellarmyne, laughing;

“for it saved my own at Cracow, when a big Croatian
had me down, with his knee on my chest, and a knife a span
broad at my weasand.”

“That was good service, sir, too,” said Charles, gravely;
“but, perhaps, not better than this.”

“Better for me, I only said,” answered Bellarmyne, gaily;
“but come, sir, if you are of my way of thinking, we were
better to be moving. That pistol-shot will bring out all the
bees buzzing from their hives under the Royal Oak; and,
though not dangerous, they might be troublesome. I should
have used my pistols when I first came up, but that I thought
of this; and I should not have needed to use them at all, had
your friend shown himself a man.”

“You are prudent, sir, as well as brave; rare qualities in
any man. We were better, as you say, to be moving. Add
to the favor you have done me by giving me my friend's sword;
yonder it lies; it might tell tales of him. Thanks! Now,
which way lies your road, sir? Mine takes me towards the
Mall. Will you give me your company?”

“Willingly, sir. Had you not asked I should have offered
it. I have friends in the city with whom I can bestow myself;
although I had intended to pass the night, where, perhaps, you
saw me, sir, at the Royal Oak.”

“Saw you? No! When, sir?” asked the king, quickly;
and then, without giving him time to reply, he added, “One
word more—do you know me, sir?”

“I saw you, sir, as you dismounted at the Royal Oak this
afternoon with your companion, and judged you to be gentlemen
of the court on a frolic; but I have not the honor of
either of your acquaintance. Fortunately, I overheard some
chance words of those ruffians, by which I learned that they

intended to waylay you, and was so enabled to do you this
slight service.”

“Slight service!” answered Charles, with a light laugh; “I
wonder what you gentlemen of the sword think good service?
But come, as that learned thief exclaimed, as he made his exit,
`Vamos.' The rogue patroles, I suppose, will find their brother
thief dead in the ditch to-morrow, and raise a hue and cry of
murder—let them. We can keep our secret.”

And walking stoutly and rapidly along, they soon reached
the high-road; after an hour's active exertion passed Hyde
Park corner—a field on the very outskirts of the town, just
coming into vogue as a court-promenade and riding-course;
and entered Piccadilly—a wide road, lined with the occasional
mansions and gardens of the nobility, but little resembling the
continuous and fashionable street of the present day.

The hour was so late that all the lights in the dwellings and
public places were extinguished; and the watchmen of that
time, like those two centuries later, preferred dozing in their
snug sentry boxes to perambulating the streets, when all
sensible and well-disposed people are sound asleep in their
beds.

Before the guard-house, however, at the entrance of the
Mall, there was a brilliant lamp burning and a sentinel on duty;
here, without approaching so near to the latter as to give him
occasion to challenge or salute, the king paused where the full
light fell on his strongly-marked, swarthy features.

“Now, sir, look at me well: peruse my lineaments; and see
if you recognise the person whose life you have saved? Did
you ever see me before to-day?”

Bellarmyne looked at him earnestly, and replied—

“If ever, it must have been in the Low Countries. Perhaps

at Breda—were you ever there? I trod on English soil but
three weeks since, for the first time these thirteen years.”

“And your name?” asked the king, perfectly satisfied that
his incognito was safe.

“Is Armytage Bellarmyne, late captain of the Emperor's
Life-Guard.”

“A kinsman of my good friend Nicholas Bellarmyne, of the
city? whom men call the English Merchant.”

“His son. Is he your friend?”

“A very old one.”

“And your name?” asked Bellarmyne.

“Is my secret. We shall meet again; then you will know
it. Good night!”

They shook hands, bowed, and parted.