 Unnumbered section, following Chapter 7 of Silly and Its Legends, by Henry James Whitfeld. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. A Legend of Holy Vale. It was Tuesday in Easter-week. The feast had fallen late at the season of which I write, so that the beautiful valley was full of blossoms, and of green leaves, putting forth their gems timidly, as if aware of their boldness in thus venturing out so early in the world. A spell of loveliness seemed to float over the little enchanted hollow, birds sang sweetly in the fresh and fragrant shade. Leaves and buds gleamed and danced in the sunlight, and all uniting together, in one offering of material glory and of spiritual and ineffable thankfulness, ascended to God's throne above. The orisons of nature and of man never, per adventure, arose on high with less of the serpent to clog their wings. It was indeed a bright day, and man strove to make it brighter still. After the season of that dread passion, succeeding in the painful vigils of Lent, it was the custom of the day to indulge the people with many sports and pastimes, some of them strangely inconsistent with our ideas of ancient medieval discipline. The abode of misrule was there and the dragon, and the monastic orders parodied and travestied, and the great tempter himself, and pretty-winged children representing not unfitly angels, as they may be seen even now on the continent, in the procession of the fate deo. With the keen knowledge of human nature, and somewhat too of confidence in their own strength, the religious fraternities, and both the secular and regular priests, allowed and even encouraged, some apparently irreverent excesses, these were licensed to an unwanted extent that day at Holy Vale. The mummers and geysers were more numerous than usual. Footnote, geysers, still existing in silly, and called goose-dancers, footnote hands, and seemed to have full permission to jest until an empire-step even intruded itself upon holy ground. The Lady Abbas was a dame of high birth, and of unquestioned sanctity, yet the dragon of Wantley profanely ventured to compare her to the maid Marion, who figured among the maskers, and whose condition to tell the truth sadly belied her assumed character of single-blessedness. The pious superior being afflicted with an infirmity that showed itself in an ungraceful rotundity of figure, hardly differing to worldly eyes, from that of the Buxom-Maitrein herself. It was not altogether the brightness of the day, nor the celebration of Easter sports, which created this more than usual animation and bustle. A ceremony was being performed in the little chapel of the Convent, which is always one of solemnity and of importance in the Catholic world, and this too, as an event of the kind, was of no common order. The profession of a sister is ever an occasion of interest for the community in which it occurs, but the young being now dedicated to God was in herself an object of attention from the peculiar circumstances in which she had hitherto been placed. She was, so it was given out, an orphan, brought up in strict seclusion under the care of an aged maiden-lady in the castle of the Earl of Cornwall at Oldtown. No one knew order for her parentage, nor of her name. She was simply called the damsel Mord, and treated with such respect as, at that time, was accorded only to one of the highest rank. To the mystery of her birth was added another and a more potent charm. She was exceedingly fair, fair beyond all rivalry, rich in intellectual gifts, peerless in her lofty beauty. The wise monk, who was her perceptor, could teach her nothing more, for she had surpassed the limits of his old world law. The brother Limna, at the great Abbey of Tresco, confessed himself vanquished by her exquisite creations. The illuminated Bible done by her was worth a king's ransom. The brood-dress at St. Mary's Nunnery looked with reverence at the work of the Lady Mord's hands. And with all this superiority of gifts natural and acquired, she had the simplicity and the purity of a child. One clue only to the secret of her position was found, even by the most curious inquirers. This was in her face. Gentle and loving as she was, she had about her that which brooked no familiarity and no intrusion. There were in her lineaments a likeness felt, but of which men never spoke. There was a sparkle of plantagenant in her proud, thoughtful eye. Such and in so secluded a fashion dwelt the damsel Mord in the gloomy castle, a fresh and radiant spirit budding into womanhood and waiting, apparently, with the heart untouched, for the hour which should unite her fate to that of another. Her days were peaceful and monotonous, with little to enliven nor vary them. They were precisely the mode of existence calculated to throw a tender and confiding bosom of its guard. Full of impulse and of affection it encountered no danger to startle it and to teach it, by that instinctive warning sent by Providence to a woman's heart, to examine its own feelings and to analyse emotions which are never so perilous or deceitful as when there is no suspicion of their approach. Few visitors sought the castle, and of them fewer still were young. Pilgrims there were, and priests, who brought tidings of the world and talked in a simple and antique manner with the dame de Barenton, but they took little heed of the ladyboard. As she bent over her embroidery frame, or oloomed in gold and colours, some quaint legend or heraldic device, and she was left to her own maiden meditations, with none to direct or share them. There was indeed an affortress, one beside herself, whom his age and position to a certain extent drew closer to her than to its other inmates. Jocelyn de Saint Martin was the son of an old knight, who had been a former senator all there, and was now a page of honour to the chattelmen, with a hope of admittance into the old's household as an esquire. He was of the same age as the damsel, and they had been associates from their childhood. Over the danger of that seclusion, that unconscious sacrament of love between young, undoubting hearts, not a word had been whispered on either side, not a pledge given, not a syllable of troth plighted, or received, and yet, though the world dream not of it, the secret was no longer theirs to breathe. The youth loved that mysterious maiden, and the maiden smiled to know that she was loved. The dream was a bright one, as bright alas as brief, some passage between the two, some touch or look, some of those eloquent nothings which are the language and the soul of passion, betrayed their unspoken secret to the dame de Barenton. She knew her duty and acted on it instantly, the page was dispatched, ostensibly with a missive for the earl, then residing at his castle of Lonseston, but in reality to be the bearer of the news of this perplexing occurrence. The result of this intelligence may be conveyed in a few words. Jocelyn de St. Martin was attached to his lord's person as a squire, and ordered to remain and to begin his duties at once. The fate of the beautiful orphan was, to our eyes, far more sad. It did not suit the old's purpose that she, whom he called his ward, should be mated with one of both inferior to her own. In those days there was but one alternative, the damsel was to be the daughter of heaven. With a rich dower, as became her guardian's rank, she was at once to begin her novitiate, and to vow herself and all her matchless charms and her young gifted mind at God's altar as his virgin bride. It was no wonder, then, that all was joy and festivity at Holyvale. The Earl had intimated his desire that there should be no delay. A commission, annulling the usual period of probation, had been forwarded by John Granderson, Bishop of Exeter, to Robert De Naus, the lord prior of Silly. On receiving it, notice was sent to the dame de Barenton, who ordered her train to horse and conveyed her unsuspecting charge to Holyvale. She was there placed in the hands of the lady Abes, who was henceforth responsible for her. The fair girl was conducted to a cell, where she was visited by the superior who confirmed in language, decided indeed, though not unkind, the suspicions excited by the sudden journey in the maiden's breast. The effect of such revelation may be imagined, but cannot be described. It was less despair than an absence of life and its functions. It was an earthquake, crushing at once sense and vitality. It was the mind's death, while, amid that dreadful paralysis, the body still lived on. But if the likeness of Plantagenant was seen upon the brow of the unhappy girl, the spirit of that haughty race was in her heart, she was one to die and make no sign. If her bosom became ice and her being stagnated on hearing her doom, she never for a moment stooped to remonstrate or to complain, she signified her willingness to proceed to the chapel without delay. No victim ever went to the scene of her sacrifice with a proudest step, or with a face more marble or more serene, not a shadow crossed it during the whole of that impressive solemnity. She laid aside her bridal trappings with an air of indifference. She unloosed, and even with her own hands gathered together the silken volumes of her dark hair, as the Abes severed it, lock by lock, from her head. When the rites were concluded, she came forward and received the kisses of the Abes, and of the nuns, with the cheek calm, but so chill that it seemed to freeze the lips that touched it. As soon as all was done, she retired to her cell, which was, in future, to be her living tomb, as haughtily as before. Her favourite tire woman had, as an active grace, been left for a season with her, and she came to her, and as soon as they were alone, fell at the feet of her lady, now only Sister Mary, with an irrepressible and natural burst of indignation and of compassion, but the high-born damsel raised her in silence and kissed her brow. There was, in her eye, a glassy stare, and a vacant agony, a kind of unconscious convulsion in her smile that spoke of something fearful within, but whatever she felt, she gave it no utterance. The very evil spirit that would have maddened another seemed to obey her, the poor damsel who loved her mistress tenderly, with the love of a common mind, looked at her with astonishment and could hardly believe what she saw. The sister took no heed of her wonder, but gently dismissed her, and remained in her cell alone. Whatever the secrets of that prison-house they were secret and hidden from every eye but that of God, nothing was seen of Sister Mary until Vespers, when she appeared in the chapel and petitioned, after the conclusion of the service, that she might be allowed to remain in prayer before the High Altar through the night. The request was at once granted it was no unusual thing, indeed, and in the case of one thus suddenly, for some mysterious reason, cut off from the world it seemed natural to come unto the shrine of the Virgin and there to pray for support and comfort. There could be no refuge for a bleeding heart, like the love and pity of her whose bosom had been pierced by pangs so great. So the sister's prayer was acquitted cheerfully, and she was left at the altar to commence her painful vigil in communion only with the dead that slept below, and with the mother of God who looked down upon her with a smile of pity from her niche above. Then appeared to come upon her spirit of that shadow which the cross flings upon the bosoms of those vowed to the cloistered solitude of a religious life. The girl had departed from the walls, but the nun remained. She seldom spoke and never complained. Her tire woman visited her often, and was permitted to remain with her for hours in her cell, for the strict rules of the order were tacitly remitted in her favour. She could not be called haughty nor was she reserved, but there was no fellowship between the other sisters and herself, and it may be unconsciously she occupied a place both in feeling and intellect which they could not reach. She never mingled with them, instead of the usual equality of the conventional life, when by chance they met her moving about, looking so proud, yet so were-begone with all, they made her a hurried reverence and passed on. Her only occupation seemed to be the care of a rose-bush, said to have some miraculous properties and consecrated to the virgin. It was from this bush that the place was called Holy Vale. One of its flowers was deemed to have the power, if worn, to preserve its bearer from mortal sin, and one of its crimson buds was always borne upon her bosom, for the bush had the gift of perpetual spring, and blossomed through the entire year. So passed away the months of her novitiate, winter, such as winter is in this land of the aloe, the myrtle, and the geranium, was melting before the smile of spring. The day was approaching when the irrevocable black veil was to be assumed. The demeanour of the novice was unchanged. It was as cold as formal, and as still as ever, her faithful tire woman spent with her the eve of the fatal day, and when Sister Mary had dismissed her from the cloister gate after Vespers, she asked permission to spend in the chapel the solemn night that was to usher in for her as solemn adorn. The abes gave the desired leave, with her blessing, on the head of the fair nun, so soon to be affianced to heaven by the last awful tie. She went alone through the holy place to the high altar, and there was seen by those who casually observed her like a prostrate statue, absorbed in an agony of prayer. There they parted from her, but on the morrow they sought her there in vain. She left no relic of her presence, they found no traces of her flight, one thing only showed that she had been lately near. Inside the rose bush of the virgin was found a bow broken off and thrown down upon the ground. One opening bud alone, being taken from its stem, saved this slight indication of her taste, and of the tenderness of a crushed heart for even an inanimate thing. Her fate and her history were a void, the wrath of the stone earl was terrible, but it was as vain as the quiet lamentations of the sisterhood. She whom they deemed a perjured nun was gone, and apparently gone forever. The solemn beauty of her pale countenance was missed for a time, but as no tidings of the fugitive were received, the impression caused by her loss waxed fainter, and yet more faint. The name of the fugitive was scarcely ever mentioned, her empty place was filled up by another, her memory was, as it were, a tale that is told. Others glided along, and passed lightly, as time ever passes over the community of Holyvale. Yet still, even in a religious society the hand of the great leveller comes down, gathering, one by one, the human blossoms on the tree of life. The sisters were called from their simple duties, and left the grey walls for a home, more lasting, but scarcely more silent or more sad. The stately abyss laid down her life and her authority together, and bequeathed her mild sceptre to her successor. Others who had known Sister Mary and had pondered tearfully over her disappearance, at the moment when they deemed her about to win an immortal crown were removed from the scene, two or three only at an advanced age still lingered on. They spoke sometimes of the mystery of Sister Mary's flight, but all hope of clearing it up was gone. The register of the angel on high could alone solve the terrible problem. To earth, and to mortalize, it was, apparently, a sealed volume, to be opened only by a mightier hand than that of man. However, it was not fated to be the eve of Easter Tuesday had again come round, and had fallen late in the year, on exactly the same day as that on which Sister Mary had been lost to God and to them as it seemed forever. The eve of the same Tuesday had once more brought its duties and its religious observances, for a solemn mass was performed for her, who had unaccountably vanished, and heaven was entreated for her. It was observed that the rose-bush put forth its earliest and choicest blossoms in loving profusion, as spirit of peace and a sacred blessing appeared to be floating over the hallowed spot. During vespa's a sweet voice seemed to mingle with the choir, as though an angel sang. Next morning the great doors of the chapel were thrown open, as was usual on occasions of state, for matins. The abyss entered at the head of her train, but the building was not untenanted. It was already occupied by one upon whom was impressed the grandeur and the sanctity conferred by an immortal power from its contact with that which is mortal. Death that consecrates by its touch, and hallows even while its sleighs, had been busy there. A form lay upon the highest step, before the great altar its hands clasped upon its bosom in the attitude of prayer, and so marble-like and motionless that it might have been deemed an effigy on a tomb. There was no mistaking its dread repose, nor its rigid limbs, nor the stern expression of its upturned face. Death was frozen in its liniments of rare beauty, but the expression was as calm and childlike, as though they were but composed in sleep, and a sweet smile played about the lips, fixed there perhaps by the guardian angel that bore away the departing spirit from a frame so fair. The form was one of early womanhood, and was clothed in the dress of an office of the house. Upon the cold bosom, and on the heart that throb no more with life, was placed a rosebud, apparently long-gathered, but yet as fresh as though newly plucked from its stem. The sisters crowded round the figure, sleeping in its awful loveliness. The two aged nuns recognized it at once. It was their lost sister, Mary. They buried her where she lay. It was vain to ask by what miracle she had been preserved and given back in her pure and perfect innocence, for by her outward beauty they might be assured of that within. Perhaps the rosebud had guarded her from temptation, and had imparted to her strength to resist it, so they committed her to the dust, with her body sinless and undefiled and raised above her a marble monument, and the fame of Holy Vale and of its sacred flower flourished in the land. Save those survivors of her sisterhood there remained in deed known to inquire into her fate. Men spoke of a secret passage, leading from the chapel to St. Mary's at Old Town, by which she had escaped and joined her faithful tire-woman, but these surmises led to no result. The stern hole was dead, Jocelyn de St. Martin had died too, in harness warring against the infidels. When she thus came back raised as it were from the grave, only to be restored to it forever, she had as little affinity to the old and feeble nuns, as she had felt when, more than a generation before, she had walked in haughty solitude beneath that roof. Her presence there troubled them, with its unearthly brightness and its strange gift of youth, and the contrast of its angelic freshness with their wrinkled and forbidding brows. So they buried her where she lay, in the odour of her sanctity and in her undying beauty. At the Reformation the black marble slab, placed above her rest, was destroyed, but according to tradition, it bore these words alone, Saiget-Marie, Priers-per-El. Footnote, amid the general dearth of local tradition and of relics of all sorts, Holyvale has a rather distinguished place. It can show not only an ancient well, from whose properties it perhaps derives its name, and a range of orchards and gardens, which may have belonged to a religious establishment, but they have a decidedly conventual appearance, but also a portion of some fabric, which is of incontestable antiquity. This is the top of a freestone arch, once forming part of a doorway or of a window, but now covering the entrance of a pigstie. It may be seen behind the first house, on the left-hand side of the road, as it approaches the little hamlet from Hugh Town. There are likewise many other wells in places where, now, no houses exist, but where they must formally, from the very presence of such things, have been both dwellings and inhabitants. A resident at Holyvale has, in his position, a curious and interesting relic of the past. It is an old chair, bought at a sale of the furniture of Stark Castle, and said to have been equally honoured with that celebrated by Sir Walter Scott in Old Mortality, and so much prized by Lady Margaret Bellendon in the Tower of Tillett-Edlem. Under his most gracious majesty, Charles II, who once saken it, end of unnumbered section following Chapter 7, recording by Timothy Ferguson, Gold Coast, Australia. Chapter 8 of Silly and its Legends by Henry James Whitfeld. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Brier. This morning I went on an excursion to Brier. It is one of the inhabited islands lying between Tresco, to which it is joined by the Sands at Low Water, and Sampson. Surely all three were formerly one for, as I have observed elsewhere, the space now covered by the sea is full of walls and enclosures. The fate of St. Mary's has clearly been anticipated here. The distance between the Quay at Huetown and Oliver Cromwell's Castle, which is built in the Channel parting Brier from Tresco, and on the shores of the latter, is just three miles. So why does the fine pool of St. Mary's? I made the passage in about twenty minutes under sail with a stiff breeze. I had a six-word gig that literally flew over the waves. The craft of this kind here are proverbially good, and ours formed no exception to the rule. On our return, with the jumping sea and the wind dead ahead, our six stout islanders did the whole space from point to point in three quarters of an hour without shipping a drop of water. The men were proud of their boat, but they said that there was another in the island worth two of her. Brier contains, at the present time, thirty families and one hundred and nineteen inhabitants. Its average length is about a mile-and-a-half. Its breadth, scarcely half a mile. The ground rises abruptly in every part from the shore, into which the sea is visibly eating its way. The whole of Brier consists only of three hundred and thirty acres, a great deal of which is still uncultivated. To the east of the declivity, called Gweil Hill, from the opposite islet of that name, is a pool of fresh water covering two or three acres. Footnote. This is a peculiarity in the local non-climature. Samson Hill of Brier is the one in Brier opposite Samson. Brier Hill in Samson, or of Samson, is so-called for a similar reason. Footnote ends. On the north-west side is a pretty spring, said to be useful for medicinal purposes. It is so situated under the cliff that the sun never shines upon it. The steep hill opposite Samson is named from it Samson Hill, and has or rather had on its summit three burrows, parts of which have been removed. These, as far as I could learn, are all the objects of interest to be seen, and they do not present a very varied list. But the resources of nature are less limited and on a far greater scale. Her treasure caves and cells need no fostering hand to draw forth or to develop them. Of the six inhabited islands, none is more full of stern and wild beauty than Brier, and though every carn and rock and headland has its name, to enumerate them would be only to present to the eye a list of unmeaning appellations, uncouth as the scenes to which they are applied, and to our ears as dead as the language of the names they bear, which with its children has passed away forever. The gap between historical and mythic times, between the bright sunlight and the shadowy poetry of the mountain mist, is shown clearly in the names of places here. These islands, with a formerly greater or less extent, were once thickly peopled. The graves rise up in witness of this fact every point and carn has its distinct appellation. There is not a solitary hill nor a grey tomb, which has not received the baptism of one of those ancient words, which have in them so much beauty and expression, but not one of those words belongs to an era within the memory of man. The fount from which they were named is as unknown as the lips that christened them. The antique dweller on Menalto, and Mencarlo, felt the influence of this genial climate, and the spirit in his heart found utterance in his tongue, and so, in the rich varieties of his forgotten vocabulary, he discovered those terms which we now admire. But they are all distant and unreal as a dream. To reach them we must leap over a gulf, not of years but of centuries. The Phoenician, the Greek, the Roman, the men of the Dark Ages, have left no trace of their language. We do not recognise their presence by one phrase, that sounds to our ears like a familiar friend. The Briton only, with his druid, comes before us, and shows us the relics of his religion, and bids us confess the accents of his tongue, and claims these domains for his own. The fact is singular, but stripped of all colouring, it is true. When we leave the words of a language that is mythological, we come to those of today, there is no interval, there is no resting place for thought nor for speculation, between us and our voracious. When we quit the Briton, we come to Banfield, and Toll, and Leg. We leave Cunabellan, and we find ourselves with today. There is, in the hands of the proprietor, a terrier of the islands, of the time of the Commonwealth, and there are in it, I think, only three names extant here at the present time. Probably a change so rapid and so sweeping, is without parallel. On landing I walked up the beach and entered two houses belonging to the fishermen. Their extreme comfort struck me forcibly. The kitchen of the one in which I remained for a short time was furnished with every requisite, and the sitting-room was filled with glass and china, and even with some humble attempts at ornament. There were, in a corner cupboard, several antique silver spoons. The dress of the host and his wife was good and clean. I may say, on Pasa, that Woodley's account of the extreme poverty of the Solonians, if in his time it were correct, is now no longer. On every side are palpable evidences of prosperity and well-doing. From all I hear, however, this state of things is of no long standing. The change has been wrought in the last few years, but it seems likely to be permanent, as it is complete. When I quit at the cottage, I was joined by a respectable man who stated that he was a farmer, and offered to accompany me on my walk. We went first in the direction of the little church, built at an expense of £250, by the Society for Promoting the Erection and Enlargement of Churches. There is a meeting-house on the hill above, but it is now shut up. Services performed here, by the curate from Tresco, who crosses from thence in a boat every Sunday afternoon. A little further on is the Coast Guard Station, following the road we ascended the hill, which is bold and steep. Most of the ground is covered with furs, and affords pasture to a few mountain ponies and sheep, as well as some cross-bred Alderney cows. In the sheltered nooks are always planted early potatoes, which are bought up at a price varying from sixpence a pound to one pound of five shillings a bushel, and are sent to Covent Garden Market. Footnote, the price this year was £1.15 shillings per bushel. Footnote ends. They form the chief reliance of the people, and great distress was caused by their failure in the disastrous years of the potato disease. The land is of excellent quality, and lets out from £1 to £2 per acre, I saw a good deal trenched with seaweed for manure, and prepared thus for sowing barley, which is generally done in the first week in April. We ascended the hill, while I made these observations, until we gained a considerable altitude, and then paused to look around. The scene was indeed strikingly magnificent. Facing us was Hughtown, low as Venice in its lagoons. Below was the pool of St. Mary's, in whose anchorage a whole navy might ride in safety. To the left was St. Martin, and nearer us, on the same side, Tresco, its abbey gleaming in the sun, its pool sleeping like a sheet of molten silver, and its grounds forming a picturesque contrast to the sterile solitude around. I'm now extreme right with St. Agnes, surrounded by its archipelago of rocks, and nearer still Samson, the population of which is fast being removed, as opportunities offer, to St. Mary's. Only three or four families now remaining on the island. Add to this combination of all that is simply grand in art and in nature, a blue sky, a breeze just sufficient to ripple the surface of the bay, and to produce what eachless calls its countless smiles, a sea almost as azure as that of the Mediterranean, with sands dazzlingly white and whiter still, by contrast with the objects around, and there is a picture before you, which it would be difficult to equal and impossible to surpass. My companion told me that near where we were standing, he once broke with the plough into a barrow. He found there ten or a dozen pots or jars full of a kind of gritty dust, exhaling a very fetid odour. The whole earth around was unctuous and black, and smelt unpleasantly. As soon as the atmosphere was admitted, the vessels moulded away and no relic of them was left. The islands are bound in remains of this kind, giving indisputable evidence of the existence here to fore of a far more numerous population than of late years, as do the circles and cromlex and kissed veins and menhirs, for where there were so many temples, there must have been both priests and worshippers. I have been much surprised, however, at the almost total absence of traditionary tales both here and in Cornwall, and at the little interest seemingly taken by the natives in their antiquities. Ask one of them the history of ruin, and in most cases his reply will be, like that of Lord Melbourne when Prime Minister, I am sure I don't know, though he seldom adds, but I'll ask. As we turn to descend the hill, a bend in the road brought us opposite to Tresco, separated from Briar, by Grimsby, or Grimsy Channel. Cromwell's castle lay before us. My guide told me that the ruins on the hill above were the remains of a still more ancient fortress, which was battered down by Cromwell, who then built the tower below to command the passage. The protector, however, was never here. In 1651, Sir John Grenville, after a gallant defence, surrendered the islands to the parliamentary troops, under Sir George Aescoff and Admiral Blake, Prince Charles having previously resided here for some time. It is singular how the reputation of the Great Puritan Warrior is always connected with gloom and destruction, though his civil government was wise and firm. It was not so with Napoleon he created everywhere and laid the foundation of the present greatness of France, but Cromwell is always remembered as a destroyer. To his hand was attributed all the ruin worked during the Civil Wars, even in places which he never visited. You go to a cathedral and are told that he battered it down, though he was warring far away. You see a wide breach in a decayed curtain, and his tremendous name is connected with the storming of the place. You are shown a relic of him. It is a basket-hilted sword, or a buff coat, or a half-pipe. His associations are all of strife. He is the embodied actor of the rebellion. His memory is indeed the sword of the Lord and of Gideon. In the tale of those bloody fights, when the wounded of the Cavaliers were butchered by those who boasted that they did not the Lord's work negligently, his name is only mentioned in history and legend as the one that smote and spared naught. The Saracen mother that frightened her spoiled child and the Saracen rider that threatened his horse, with the awful name of Richard, acted exactly as my guide of today acted when he pointed to the Fortalus below us as it lay gloomily on the dim shore and told me that Cromwell built it, from the ruins he himself had made. The scene was suitable to the tale. The shadows of the evening were coming down fast. St. Mary's Pool was vanishing from the eye. The wind set sullenly up Grimsby Channel, and howled around the decayed walls of the Fort. The only sound heard was the scream of the seabirds as they winged their way back to the cliffs of the off aisles. The spirit of the old protector might have brooded over the castle that bore his name. As I gazed it faded slowly from my sight and was no longer seen. I wished my guide good night, and returned in silence to my boat. End of Chapter 8. Recording by Timothy Ferguson. Gold Coast, Australia. Chapter 9 of Silly and Its Legends by Henry James Whitfeld. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Timothy Ferguson. Chapter 9. Tresco. Many years ago, in company of a very dear and long lost friend, I was passing over the Lago Maggiore in one of those covered boats which Byron compares to a coffin clapped in a canoe. The day was wet and gloomy. Our little bark was too full to contain us all under the awning. Among the passengers the chance to be a French gentleman, or rather a Frenchman, and his bride a pretty and delicate woman. When the rain began in earnest, the gallant gall squeezed himself into a place under cover, taking with him all his wraps and leaving his wife to the sole protection of a small parasol. We gave up to her one of our seats, and it was quite touching to see the warmth, with which the worthy husband thanked us. After a little while the mist rolled away from the bosom of the lake. Shadows and gleams of pale light floated over its surface. Then the blue haze of the sky grew more distinct, and the sun of Italy came forth, and a sore labella lay before our eyes, glittering with dew, and bathed in the glories of a summer day. There are scenes in our lifetimes that strike us forcibly, and then seem to die, and, as it were, be buried, embalmed in the freshness of their memory. They are apparently forgotten as though they had never been, but long afterwards, perhaps at some great distance, with seemingly nothing to form a link between the present and the almost ideal past. Some accident calls forth the associations that are sleeping only, not dead, and our impressions of other days arise again before us, with all the fidelity of visible life. It is perhaps a glimmering or a reflection of the gift of immortality which we inherit, with the likeness and after the image of him who made us. It may be a fine sparkle of his omniscience, a fragment of the ruin of our angelic nature, a shadow from the closed gates of paradise, but so it is. Sometimes unexpectedly a scene of our old existence glides back, and forms part of our busy now. This happened to me today. When walking in the gardens of Tresco Abbey, I was again in imagination at a solar beller. The flood of years that formed up to that moment an impossible barrier between me and it was swept away. The life of other days came back with a gush of young feelings, and a warm remembrance of one who is now no more. I realised long for those beautiful idea on passing over the Rhine alone in the same boat, which had formally borne three happy comrades. Take, O boatman, thrice thy fair. Take, I give it willingly, for, invisible to thee, spirits twain have crossed with me. In saying so little of Tresco Abbey and its lovely gardens, I put great violence on my feelings. Footnote, the geranium hedges are so magnificent being in some places, from fourteen to sixteen feet high, almost to verify and realise the pardonable boast of one who had the honour of the islands at heart, and was reproached with their want of wood. Indeed, we heed our ovens with our geranium faggots. Footnote ends. But I am bound both in courtesy and gratitude, and as a matter of justice to consult the wishes of others, and in deference to them I pass over in silence much that I should otherwise have been delighted to notice and to praise. It is due to myself to say so much, and it is equally due to others to say no more. Footnote, my friend, Mr. Jedgie Moyle, the resident medical man here, must pardon me if he is the unlucky exception to my general rule of avoiding all mention of names. His great talent as an artist is so well known to his friends that any praise of mine would be superfluous. But, as an act of gratitude, I cannot help saying that he has presented me with the work of his which I value as much for the kindness that prompted the gift, and for its intrinsic worth, as for the associations it recalls. It is an oil painting of Tresco Abbey taken at sunset, the building and the landscape around are bathed in the purple haze of twilight, while its soft glow is caught and fixed upon the canvas with a spirit, and a dreamy poetical beauty the effect of which it is hardly possible to describe. End footnote. The relative size and importance of these islands have changed materially, even since the days of Leyland, whose piece of Tresco was the largest of the group, it was then doubtless united to Breyer and Sampson, on the one hand, and perhaps to St. Martens on the other, and now it is not more than six miles in circumference. Its population has equally diminished. It must have been very numerously people in former times, from the visible evidence of separical remains. Though Pliny says there was a prejudice in favour of an insular burying place, but it is difficult to account for the falling off in the number of the inhabitants and of the inhabited houses. Trabbeck says that there were within the memory of man only twelve families in Tresco. There were in his time seventy-four dwellings, now the population is about four hundred and fifty souls. Sampson, Breyer, and Tresco number together six hundred. The evidence of ancient populousness is too strong to admit of doubt or contradiction, but the causes of decline are beyond man's power to trace. History is utterly silent, and tradition nearly so, but we cannot hesitate to believe that at no very distant period many, if not all, of these isolated rocks have formed one great mainland teaming with wealth and richness. Whether an earthquake has wrought this melancholy change or whether the sea, gradually rising, has submerged the lower grounds, it is impossible to say. When the tide is out, says Trabbeck, a man may walk from St. Mary's to St. Martens and from thence to Tresco. Ruins of houses as well as the remains of hedges are frequently discovered beneath the sand, many feet below watermark. In the middle of crow's sound a fine regular pavement of large flat stones is seen, about eight feet under low water at spring tides. But it is useless to dwell further on this point at present. Tresco, as the seat of government, is rising fast in power and prosperity. The first thing I saw in it was a steam mill. The next thing was a servant in livery kindly sent to meet and conduct me to the abbey. Dogs of a rare breed were basking in the sun upon the broad row before the gates. Pheasants rose upon the wing and flew along the margin of the great pool, which covering fifty acres and upwards reflected in its bosom the hill, rich with gorse in full bloom and with exotic shrubs. As I walked onwards fancy drew me away from the present to the times of Eld when a great continent occupied the site of these romantic rocks and veils. A turn in the carriageway brought me inside of the house there, before the reformation, stood by chance a far loftier fabric. Though attached to the monastery of Taverstock, the abbey of Tresco was not yet inferior to some of the proudest religious establishments in England. As I looked upon its successor, I recalled many circumstances connected with its records. The reader will, I hope, pardon me, if I turn aside from passing events, and from the realities of day to day, till I lay before him a legend of Inescor or Tresco, called The Night and the Dwarf. Section following Chapter 9 of Silly and its Legends by Henry James Whitfield. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Timothy Ferguson. The Night and the Dwarf. It was a goodly pile, the abbey of St. Nicholas in Tresco, or, as it was then called, Inescor, embouzzened like a picture in the setting of its brown hill, gleaming with heather blooms and with golden furs. In every direction around it lay hamlets and comfortable farmhouses surrounded by cultivated lands and meadows of deep green. Surely the goodfathers owned a fair heritage, and the state of their dependency showed that, while enjoying a pleasant lot themselves, they dealt gently and kindly with those beneath their sway. So it was in those days, not then as now was the pilgrim or the wayfarer compelled to seek a venal welcome at the wayside inn. Not then as now, was hospitality only to be bought. The first of the monastic virtues, and the one most worthy praised, was charity, far and wide through Christendom, were scattered those memorials of our father's piety, those solemn abbeys and pariaries buried in the dim religious shade of Tresco evil, with the foundation of the buildings of which they bent so gracefully, and wherever arose one of those grey piles, there was to be found a secret hospitality, a kindness dispensed alike to rich and poor, a practical lesson of the love for God and man, under the shelter of those walls grew up a loving tenantry and still, lower in the scale, a body of peasants connected with their superiors, by ties of affection and of reverence, and of benefits both given and received. Go now to Silynsik at the abbey gates, where are they? In a bright garden, full of the luxuriant beauty of tropical flowers and shrubs, you pass by two glorious allows, and behold a grey wall and a fine pointed arch. Is there anything more? Yes, there is yet one relic more. A few antique graves are scattered around for this place. Redland of perfumes was the burial ground of the abbey. There is nothing here to remind you of death. The ground is covered with the mosaic of bright eyed blossoms, and the air is heavy with fragrance. These grey stones and ancient tombs are all that is left of the great abbey, and if you would ask for the old Catholic hospitality on this spot as of your, it must be from the dead, whose mansions are lying about and whose spirits may, per adventure, brood over the scene of a majesty decayed and spoiled and utterly laid waste. A hind passing by looks at you through the mossy arch. The wind moans around the fragments that remain, and the saddened stranger gazing for a moment on the ruins of God's house remembers what it once has been and, with a sigh, turns sorrowfully away. Not such, however, was the appearance of the stately abbey of St. Nicholas in Tresco about the middle of the 14th century, one fine morning in May. The peace and dignified tranquility that generally characterised it were gone, all was hot haste and confusion, and hurrying to and fro, the reverend brethren paced the lofty walls, or passed from chamber to court, and from court to chamber, or gazed through the great gates now wide open with distress and terror painted upon their countenances. From time to time a string of cattle, or of sheep, or of beasts of burden entered the sacred precincts, while their drivers accompanied by trips of women and children outvired each other in their dismal tales, to which the monks listened with faces as pale as those of the speakers. Every now and then, amid the disarray and uproar, there arrived a band of armed men, headed by someone of higher rank, who held lands of the abbey by bridal and spear, and came with his vassals to discharge his futile devoirs by protecting it, and doing battle in its cause. As troop after troop filed in the military garnishing of the place became very respectable, and a casual observer would have smiled at the idea of danger to a strong hold so well defended, but the peril that ministered was apparently of no common kind, in spite of the formidable muster of men-at-arms and spearmen and archers and cross-bermen that crowded the abbey courts, the terror that existed before their coming, did not seem to cease. Nor were its inmates reassured by their presence, in the midst of the discordant shouting and the absence of all order, and of all authority the monks and peasants and troops were mixed up together in a medley of inextricable confusion. No one was there of rank or of talent sufficient to entitle him to take the lead, as well as for others to acquiesce in his superiority the only person to whom men would naturally have turned was the abbot. But the good priest was well my beside himself with dismay, he moved backwards and forwards amid the crowd as it ebbed and flowed, like a man paralyzed by some great shock. Monsignor St. Nicholas, with his constant and de laure's cry, piteous and come to our aid, save us for we perish, and there is none to deliver us. Monsignor St. Nicholas, pray for us. The prayers and ejaculations of the worthy abbot were an atheless of smaller veil towards the restoration of the peace so rudely disturbed. As drove and flock and horsemen and footmen passed into the monastery, it became evident that spacious as were its limits. They would soon prove insufficient to accommodate the newcomers. The retainers of the house armed and equipped for service, sitting groups of seated themselves to rest here and there, while their leaders seemed to have abandoned the idea of such one ever existed of establishing some discipline. After a few ineffectual efforts, they let things take their course and looked listlessly on. Now an order was issued to send forth scouts to ascertain what was passing on the side from which danger was dreaded, and then it was countermanded until thin lines of bluish smoke dotted the landscape in ominous proximity to the abbey, and the command was repeated, but it was unheard or if heard unheeded. From time to time the man stationed on top of the Great Tower as a lookout reported the progress of the enemy and at every fresh intimation of the squirreless approach the abbot's agony increased and his appeals to Monsignor St. Nicholas became more incessant. One or two of the chief tenants tried to arrest the disorder that prevailed and to induce the abbot to second them. There could be but one result, where this state of things to continue. They saw this and made an effort to amend matters. Holy Father they said, it is time to hang out of the Tower, the Great Banner of the House, and to man the walls. But to these appeals the priest turned to deaf ear, his reply was still the same. God and Monsignor St. Nicholas BLA'd he cried. What can I or what can any man do in such a straight, low am a man of peace? What then, no eye of the battle or of blood, I will not trust in the arm of flesh, but in the weapons of the spirit and of prayer. Monsignor St. Nicholas aid us. And the good followers of the abbey thoroughly disheartened, shrugged their shoulders, and great as might be the abbot's faith, and the help of his patron saint, seemed themselves to share but little in his devout trust. They went back to their men with a look on their weather-beaten brows that spake as plainly as glance ever spake, of minds made up to meet the impending danger, but of hopelessness and utter despair of success. One of these men, who was past the prime of life and had apparently seen some service, from the broad scar that traversed his sunburnt forehead, was disposed to give vent to his discontent in words. He gazed sternly round the increasing crowds, whose din had become almost deafening, with no friendly or pluckable look. Then his eye wandered to the figure of the abbot, who was standing still, in a lamentable state of bewilderment and indecision. Eye, muttered the stout veteran, half insoliloquy, and half addressing himself to his companion, Heaven helps him who helps himself. My old captain, Sir John Chandos, whose one eye nothing ever escaped on his sole be peace, could do naught with such scum as this, would that I and my men were safely back and housed within the walls of my manor at Samson. There might I at least strike a good stroke for my own, or make some composition with these rovers. But the abbot can neither fight nor bid others to do it for him, marry he who will find his prayers but a sorry defence against lanceheads and sword-points, and blazing brands. I would give the value of ten arpents of my best land, sith the fight must be fought against such odds, if brass deferre were but here. Most of this long monologue had fallen unheeded upon the tympanium of the abbot's ears. But they caught its conclusion, the effect was electric, the name pronounced, seemed even as a beacon to a storm-tossed mariner, as a straw to a drowning man. He was, in a moment, absorbed by the one idea that he had just received, as though it were an inspiration from on high. Turning to William Lapour, the speak he demanded in an agitated voice, where brass deferre was, and bade them summon him instantly. The attempt indeed was made, but it was made in vain. To cries that resounded on every side, coupled with his name, no answer was returned, saved the significant one of silence. Brass deferre was nowhere to be found, and the abbot's distress grew again to a height that would have been amusing, and had not also been sincere and real. A new cause for alarm was now superseded to those already existing. The water on the tower announced the appearance of one of the scouts, who had been sent out to explore the neighbourhood. At the same moment, with the announcement in he rode, spurring his painting hob, or cob, whose bloody sides and foaming mouth gave tokens of his rider's head long speed. In he rode breathless, and almost without tongue to tell his tale. The crowd, as he entered, made way for him silently, and then closed around him, and asked him for his tidings. They were soon told. The fleet of pirates whose threatened presence had frightened the islands from their propriety was the naval portion of those dreaded and detested routiers, whose scorched their track upon the shores they visited with sword and flame. Like locusts they passed over the fair lands of France and Italy, and left a desert behind them. The fatal legacy of the English wars, they had lingered on sometimes by the temptation of pay, and plunder, bribed into the service of one of the neighbouring sovereigns, sometimes put down by the united forces of the crown, and of the great barons, and sometimes, for lack of prey to feed upon, dwindling into mere herds of robbers. Still, however, they continued to exist, and were ever ready, at times of civil discord, to start up into a natural strength and stature. Such a pretentious gathering was it, that swept, like a hurricane, over the ancient hasperities, the fortunate isles now called silly, and threatened pillage and death against the fair Abbey of Tresco. This formed the substance of the hobbler's tale. The modern Viking air, the routiers, had swooped upon the rich booty from far and near the united bands, seizing upon all the shipping within their reach, came down upon the monastery, in which, in addition to wealth of its own, was deposited much belonging to others. Those, however, who put trust in its broad moat and frowning towers, might now feel some apprehension for the result. Fenced cities had stooped and given away before these terrible bands. Princes had condescended to treat with them, and to pay a species of blackmail for their protection or their forbearance, and now, like a multitude of ravening wolves, they made right for the treasures of the sanctuary, even as the Assyrian yearned for the wealth of Zion, they disdained to summon a place, the wealth of which gave a spur to their covetousness, and which for its weakness they despised. They made, therefore, no overtures to the monks. Their terms were simply surrender and submission. Between that and resistance to the uttermost, there was no medium. The choice was given to the community and a dreadful choice it was. Like the memorable message and reply at Saragossa, the leader of the robbers might have demanded an instant capitulation, and who was there amid that panic-stricken mob, to reply to his insolent summons in the words of Palafox to the Frenchman, Gwera al-Chochilo, war to the knife. When it was known that the great host of routiers had disembarked and was coming in force against the Abbey, their advanced parties being seen already, on the side of Briar Hill, the very magnitude of the danger produced a sort of calm, men were stunned into order and began to feel the necessity of subordination. By a sort of tacit and spontaneous movement, some of those better equipped and disciplined fell in together and proceeded to man the wall. Some manganals and military machines were carried thither and prepared for use. The old captain, William LePoie, took advantage of this mute submission to post the troops at the best advantage and to place the non-combatants in a situation where they would at least be out of the way. After doing all in his power, he had descended to consult the Abbot on some doubtful point, and had just found the reverent father in the great court when both the soldier and priest were startled by a shout that made the welkin ring, and was re-echoed by the gray pile around them. The stout veteran cut short his speech and listened for a repetition of the cries. When it came, he then knew the reason of that burst of enthusiasm. None can feel the value of an able leader, when the question is one of life and death, so well as a soldier, and therefore it was with no common joy or exultation that he gathered the meaning of that warlike welcome. It was the greeting of his followers to a well-proved chief. William LePoie's heart leapt within him as the air shook with one unanimous claim. Bras de Ferre. Bras de Ferre. St Nicholas for Bras de Ferre. Mary said the worthy Abbot, so Bras de Ferre is somewhat slow in making his appearance, but right glad am I that he has come at last. Per adventure he has gathered his vassals, and the knaves loitered and delayed the good night. I trust that his band is neither scanty nor ill-equipped, for he holdeth broad lands of the church, and, as a certain father hath it, he broke off and stood with silent amazement, gazing on the scene that presented itself. First his hands bound behind his back with a cord, his head drooped in a hangdog fashion upon his breast, and his whole figure, bearing unmistakable signs of dogged, insolent, roughenly fear, came a man clad in half-alma, but possessing no offensive weapons. His steel cap, or salade, as well as his breast and backplate, were stained with rust and dirt, and his swily face and untrimmed beard and garments of buff were in perfect keeping with the rest of his equipments. He looked what he really was, a common routier, or conditiero of the day. Behind him and quickening his base occasionally with a sharp prick of his lance, rode one of a far different stamp. As if in contrast to the mere mercenary the base trafficker in war appeared one of those martial and chivalrous warriors whom Frossa painted and loved so spiritedly, followed as his whole train by two well-appointed esquires. Of great stature, far exceeding the usual height of men and of enormous strength, he yet sat his powerful Normandestria, with the ease and grace of a page mounting his first wars. He was clad in complete armour and over his bright bassinet, and shadowing his open and honest features floated along white plume, his whole bearing was a model of noble and manly vigor, and the very smile upon his firm, resolute mouth was an augury of victory. The fathers of the men of those days who had fought in the wars of the Giants, when England and France had met so often in stricken fields, face to face, looked frequently upon such champions, and spoke of Edward Plantagenet in his black mail, and Chandos, and Audley, and Felton, and on the opposite side the brothers Deguesclin and the marshals Delignac and De Passac and Comingay and Paragord, who, though simple counts only, dared to send their gloves in defiance of the Prince of Wales. In the days of which I am writing, however, the heroic mould was well nigh worn out. In the words of Ariosto, Natura la Fence, Epoirupla Stampa. The 11th Louis loved chivalry that little, and if he was served by such men as Denois, it was almost against his will. Even in the wars then terminated few had seen a more perfect or more gallant cavalier than he who, with his visor up and his brave spirit stamped upon his face, rode into the Abbey court amid waving of caps, and congratulatory shouts, and a wild welcome uttered in chorus by a hundred tongues. Brustafurs spoke not a word in reply, but through a bright glance over the crowd, and then went straight up to the Abbot. The holy man was paralysed. He gazed in utter astonishment upon the good night, then upon his prisoner, and lastly upon his esquires. When, however, he was convinced of the reality of what he saw, when, by the existence of his senses, he became certain that the four now grouped in his presence composed the whole attendance of his redoubted vassal, astonishment gave place to anger, anger too great to find expression in words. All that he could say was, Monsignor St. Nicholas Adus, in a manner so ludicrously plaintive as to bring a smile on the lips of Brustafur. I said he, my Lord Abbot, I trust he will help us, for we lack his aid. And, if legends tell the truth, he was a rude adversary in his day. Do you know with whom you have yet to deal? As no one answered the question he continued, If all the fiends of hell were let loose saving your presence, my reverend friend, they could have no more fitting leader. Then the master spirit of that murdering and pillaging horde, as I rode in I chanced to light on this villainous route here, overthrew him horse and man, and got from him all the news he could furnish. I am ill at telling his stories, so the sum of the whole is this. All the sea kings, as they are pleased to call themselves, are collected in one band to fall upon us, and at their head is that devil incarnate, Jean-la-Cauchure, who flays his captives alive. There was nothing simulated now in the dead silence that fell upon the crowd. The chanting of the charge's bits sounded loud and harsh in the interval of that awesome pause. It seemed a sentence of death so stern was the intelligence, and so crushing in its effects. It were as though one of those avenging seers of old had descended suddenly, with a message from on high, and had proclaimed, Thus saith the Lord, saith thine house in order, for thou shalt die and not live. Brastafur alone appeared utterly unconscious of the heavy nature of the tidings he had brought. Springing lightly from his cell, he gave his steed to one of the esquires, and broke the spell by crying in a loud, hearty tone. To the rampants, my merry men, to the rampants! And ye would not have this bloodsucker make a meal of us. And he was turning away for the purpose of ascending the flight of steps leading to the walls, when he was arrested by the abbot who now, for the first time since the night's coming, found the power to speak. Tarry, while so Brastafur, said he, for I would fain question you, if it be soothed that the fiend, La Cauchure, whom God and St. Nicholas confound, hear the abbot piously crossed himself, bebound hitherward and seeks to lay his sacrilegious hands upon the patrimony of the Blessed Church, wherefore does it chance that her first vassal, Sir Drew de Barenton, rides to her defence with such a scanty train, is it possible that he comes alone and not as of old, with banner displayed and a goodly power of bowmen and spearmen, and with all the strength of carnal war? It is even so, my reverend friend, replied Sir Drew, or rather, as he was commonly called, Brastafur, indifferently, while his skilful eye took in at a glance all that was passing, with the troops posted above, it is even so, all my gathering consists of, but myself, with Richard and Anthony Yonder, unless you would count Bayard in the role. False man and false knight shouted the churchmen, who began to lose both patience and his senses at once under this new shock. I read you to know that St. Nicholas can resume his grand's eye, and he shall do it. Did we not give the lance, wide and fair, to hold of the abbey by Bridelan spear, and art thou not, as leels servant of the church vowed to bring, to her aid, whenever, and by whom so ever attacked, ten men at arms, each of them fully equipped and followed by two bowmen, and a jackman? Where be they, thou faithless Vavasaur? God and St. Nicholas help us in our extremity for, of a verity we perish, and there is none to succour us. During the first part of this speech, Brastafur had been leisurely scanning the military preparations, going on under the ordering of William LaPaure, and had evidently paid but slight attention to the angry priest, but the tone of anguish that marked this closing sentence touched him, kindly laying his hand on the abbot's arm, he said to him in a voice of singular gentleness and feeling, Pause, my good old friend, ere you condemn me. I must be brief, for I am sadly wanted Yonder, but the matter stands thus. Last night, when I received tidings of this pestilent invasion, I sent out, as was my duty, to summon to my standard all and more than all, who were bound to bear arms in your defence. By sunrise this morning the whole were reported by my mustermaker to be in waiting and ready to set out, but, as untold fortune would have it, the lady clawed my wife, was taken by labour throws. I could not move her hither, nor could I leave her unguarded at home. I did what necessity compelled me to do. To defend my castle of Enor, and her I left my contingent, and surely it is a feeble garrison enough, but hither I came, myself as bound in honour, and so in my devour to fight, and if need be to die, in your cause, so courage, my dear lord, which I'll beat off these routiers. Stout knaves, though they be, and with the more credit, seeing the feebleness of our means of defence. The abbot groaned in spirit most dismally. Ever have I found, he sighed, that a woman is at the bottom of all evil or mischants. For what sayeth a certain father, Ubi Feminina, Ebi Diabolus? And as for the glory of which you speak, my fair son? Would that, in its place, we have the two score soldiers who are now waiting the pleasure of Lady Claude? Sithet may not be mended, answered Baras de Ferre, as he prepared to depart. We must endure as well as we can, which is a piece of philosophy taught me by old Freud's art. Yet cheer up and fear not, I am no braggart, God knows, still be think thee, that perchance my arm, and my leading may well balance I and our way, the services of a few hirelings. There are in silly scores of such to be had for the buying, but there is only one, Baras de Ferre, so saying he ascended the steps, leading to the outer rampart, and left the abbot alone. The latter felt the justice of the remark, Baras de Ferre, as a leader, had a reputation of the highest order, his military skill and judgment were unrivaled. Yet to lose the best contingent of the house was mortifying enough. Surely, quote the priest, so Baras de Ferre hath reason on his side, the best lanes in merry England is worth the score of common men, I would, however, that his fair wife had chosen her time better. She is a woman, and it is ill-dealing with that troublesome sex, as old Sir John hath it, we must remedy it as best we may. And the abbot walked slowly after Baras de Ferre, saw the vexed in spirit, but the presence of his warlocked vassal had inspired him with something like confidence. He sought the ramparts to look around on what was passing, not indeed in a cheerful mood, but less downcast than before. So, true it is, that the courage and high qualities of one man will often fill a host of waverers with hope and alacrity, and infuse into their bosoms the energy that is all his own. No sooner had Baras de Ferre taken the command, than he proved how correct was his estimate of his own value. All the vassals capable of bearing arms were mustered and passed in review, and were told off in divisions, each of which was placed under the leadership of some veteran soldier. The archers and crossbermen were posted on the walls, which were both crenolated and machi-calated, and preparations were made for pouring melted pitch and boiling water on the heads of the assailants, in case they should attempt a storm. The pontlevis was raised and between it, and the great gate, a wicket of which only was allowed to be open, there was constrained a semicircular embankment or breastwork, one end of which terminated at the wall, and the other joined the hillside. It was the height of a man's shoulders, and defended by ten-picked crossbermen. It could only be approached in front, as the ground on the right was precipitous, and on the left the slope was swept, and commanded by the great tower. The best and most disciplined of the whole array were drawn up in reserve in the Abbey Court. Thus having put everything in train, Brastafur ordered a mansion of bread and beef with a good blackjack of humming ale, to be served out to every man under arms, and then cautioning all to be on their guard, and to quit themselves like men, and faithful children of the church he sought the abbot, who was gazing fearfully abroad. The scene that met their eyes was when a stirring interest to a mere spectator, though to those then looking upon it it possessed a sterner and more terrible character, at the end of the wide slope before them, as it rose from the valley under Briar Hill, was seen advancing with some pretence of discipline a vast body of men. They were marshaled in several divisions, and each headed by its own leader. They consisted, as might have been expected, principally of foot, a few only being mounted on the small active horses called Hobbes, from which their riders in the military language of the time, were called hobblers or hobblers, and whence also we derive a name of Cobb. They were preceded by numbers of bowmen who acted as scouts and explored the ground, generally speaking their equipments were heterogeneous and dimmed by use, but the experienced eye of brass deferre remarked that the spearheads were bright and clean, from which he augured that however rusty their defensive armor might be their weapons of offence would be found serviceable enough. In the rear of several of the columns was beheld a mixed multitude, together with some captives and a few carts charged already with plunder, at the head of the hole, clad in complete steel, rode the redoubtable ecoture. He was followed by a man at arms who filled the office of an esquire and bore his lance. His arms were handsome, and his whole bearing was that of one who affected some degree of state, either from vanity, or as a means of overroaring others by that pomp and show, which always has its effect upon the multitude. As soon as he had arrived within two bow shots of the abbey, he halted his men and drew them up in regular order, as well as the inequalities of the ground would allow, he then rode forward alone, taking care to keep out of the reach of the enemy's arrow, after making a careful survey of the place, he paused exactly opposite to that part of the walls, on which were the abbot and brass deferre. The latter, who had been watching his adversaries' movements with great interest, came to the edge of the parapet and stood there erect and still, so that the whole of his gigantic proportions were visible to the besiegers. The two celebrated champions remained for a time face to face, neither of them speaking a word, and the eyes of all men being directed on them alone. Those who were near to accouture might behold a shade of disappointment and vexation across his brow, but in no other way did he betray his annoyance at finding himself, thus confronted by one of the boldest warriors of the day. Brass deferre on his part looked with curiosity on the chief, whose name had become invested with so much unenviable notoriety. The silence which followed this reciprocal survey was first broken by the ratier, who, advancing a few paces nearer to the abbot, summoned it loudly and preemptorily to surrender. And what have we like it not, sir? inquired Brass deferre. Death to every living soul within the walls, was the reply. Death to all alike, but as you other leader, a higher bow for your hanging. Grimersi, for your courtesy, sir, routier, said Brass deferre. The walls of St. Nicholas are high, and his servid stout of heart, so we will strike a stroke in defence of holy church. The more readily, too, since we like not to trust to your word should we yield ourselves to your mercy, and crave grace. May it please you then, sir flayer, to retire out of arrow flight, for if you remain longer where you are, we may try the temper of your course-flit. Shoot, men, shoot. Arrows to the head. Shoot, trebuchet. St. Nicholas to the rescue, and set on. It was well at that moment, for l'écouture, that he took Brass deferre's advice. He escaped unharmed himself, but two arrows struck his charger, which bounded furiously and nearly dismounted its rider. He became livid with passion and gave orders instantly to commence the attack, while the manner in which his commands were carried into effect showed the defenders of the Abbey that they were dealing with no common foe. A number of men first advanced, bearing before them large pavoises, or pavises, which were used in opening approaches against a fortified place. These were shields of about the soldier's height and broad enough to cover him completely. Being of stout wicker work, bound over with leather, there was sufficiently light to be manageable. Behind this shelter, which was borne by one man, followed an archer or crossberman, keeping himself protected from the hostile shot, and looking warily out for an opportunity of sending an arrow or bolt at those who manned the walls. Several large vans or movable towers, which could be taken to pieces or joined together at pleasure, succeeded these, and as soon as they were well posted, manganelles and machines for throwing large stones were brought forward. A sharp fire was maintained without intermission for nearly half an hour, at the end of which time there was a pause, as if by mutual consent both parties, as it were, drew off to ascertain their respective damages and to prepare for a fresh onset and defence. The result of the inquiry was in favour of the Abbey. Not a man on the walls had been hurt. Two or three of the noncombatants, huddled together in the precincts and courts, had been slightly touched by spent shafts, but no serious casualty had occurred. On the side of the besiegers, the list of wounded was far heavier. Nearly a dozen had been killed or severely injured by the Abbey men, who shot coolly from under cover. The bodies of the slain and those pierced by arrows, as they were carried or as they staggered to the rear were, in the eyes of both parties, an omen of success or failure. The defenders were animated with hope and courage, and the attacking forces were equally dispirited and depressed. Jean Le Accure himself, who was utterly unaccustomed to reverses, actually foamed with rage, he was beside himself. He shook his clenched fist at the Abbey, and addressed its guardians with the foulest blasphemies. At the same time, he directed his men to begin the assault anew. Long ladders were prepared and brought to the front, while a fresh band of archers came forward, and watched every portion of the walls. While this was passing without, Brastafur was not idle within his eye, and overlooking care were everywhere. Amid a hail of arrows, he seemed to bear a charmed life. Armed cappipede, a bright and lofty mark, he moved from post to post, advising some, cautioning others, and speaking to all in that clear, bold tone of confidence which a soldier loves. At last he came to the spot where, sheltered by a corner-tower, the abbot stood to watch the progress of the fray. What, thank you, Sir Brastafur, said he, as the night rejoined him. How speed's the day with those sons of Balile? And they succeed no better than hither, too, answered the night. Theirs is but a labour thrown away, not a step has been gained yet. But they have lost some of their best men. Courage, my reverend friend! The Abbey of St. Nicholas will be a virgin fortress still. But what is this, he added, pointing to a figure on the ramparts, at no great distance from them. On nearer approach it was seen to be the abbot's favourite dwarf, dragging after him with difficulty a weapon of antique form, and enormous size and weight. The sight seemed to rouse the abbot's indignation and surprise to the highest pitch. Anathema maranatha, he cried, the profane imp of evil has laid his sacrilegious hands upon the feudal arbalet of the blessed Monsignor St. Nicholas, which he wrestled from the Cornish giant, who robbed lombard merchants coming hither to traffic, and pious pilgrims as they crossed the Abbey lands. Yea, and slew the heathen with his own bow, thou mis-shape and knave, knowest thou not the sanctity of that consecrated weapon, answer me, thou misbegotten and mischievous vallet? And knowest thou not, Lord Holy Abbot, replied the dwarf, that a bolt from it half pierced a coat of Spanish mail at five hundred good paces? With these words much to the amusement of Brustifer and to the roth of the abbot, he proceeded to drag his load to the parapet, on which with much trouble he rested it. He then attempted to string it, but in vain the bow and cord alike of steel resisted his efforts, and he chafed with rage at seeing himself thus foiled. Brustifer walked up to his side, and watched him, as well as the weapon, with a curious eye. While the scene was passing within, the attack without was recommenced more hotly than ever. Jean-la-Ecocheur stormed with fury like a fiend. He rode in among the bevoises, cursing and shouting to his men, who exerted themselves desperately in hopes of gaining distinction under the eye of a leader who never awarded with a niggard hand. Their shot flew thick and fast and wounded some of the besieged, at last he aspired the abbot in his place of safety. The sight of the good priest almost seemed to drive him mad. He overwhelmed the abbot and all connected with it with the vilest abuse, raising himself in his stirrups and shaking his mailed hand at the walls. He bade their defenders yield instantly and be at his mercy. Thou, dog of an abbot, he cried, for the slaughter of my men, I will take with thee a reckoning that shall deter others from following thy example. By all the fiends in hell I will roast together in a slow fire thee and the image of thy mock saint Nicholas, whom may bezel-bub. The rest of the sentence was never spoken. Fword passed not those brutal lips again. Brastafur, as was related above, stood by the dwarf and watched his abortive efforts to bend the mighty bow of Saint Nicholas. Suddenly an idea seemed to strike him. Pushing the little man gently aside, he seized the string and drew it to the spring, as lightly as though it were a silken cord. Then he adjusted a bolt to the groove and took a deliberate aim, and at the very moment when Le Accourt Cher was pouring forth his blasphemies against Saint Nicholas. The bow of Saint Nicholas avenged him. The bolt entering his mouth passed into his brain, and the routier, springing convulsively up into the air, fell upon the plane a lifeless course. Quote, As it crashed through the brain of the infidel, round his spun and down he fell, ere his very thought could pray, unannealed he passed away, without a hope from mercy's aid, to the last a renegade. Well shot quarrel, cried the exulting dwarf, but Brastafur preserved a stone and thoughtful silence. He waved with his hand a signal for his men to cease their discharge, and then stood watching the effect of his blow. That effect was indeed decisive. Le Accourt Cher, like Brastafur, was a leader, who had no second to supply his place. At first there was a confused rush to the spot where his body lay, but when he was discovered to be past all aid a panic fell on the great host, that had so lately obeyed him as one man, and it began to melt away like the mists on a mountainside. All the military train, with the plunder, was left standing before twilight came down. Not a routier was in the island of Tresco. Their white cells gleamed upon the waves. The deliverance of the abbey was complete. Brastafur, with the priest, watched their rapid and disorderly retreat along the margin of the broad lake, which then, as now, occupied the valley. Thine was a happy shot so night, said the abbot. Surely it was a blessed deed, so Nicholas served thy arm to smite that spoiler, hip and thigh, thou hast slain the accursed Philistine, even while he railed against the servant of God. Sir Monk replied, Brastafur, with unusual gravity. I do not gainsay you. Neither do I deny that the fall of Jean Le Acature by my hand has preserved your abbey. I cannot expect you to feel as a soldier feels, but this I will say. Whom, whom men call the flayer, routier as he was, still was a valiant soldier. Truly I slew him, and I did it in good cause, yet he and I have ridden together under the same banner and fought in many a bloody field. It would have pleased me better had we met, on yonder open plain, horse to horse and man to man, in fair and nightly strife. As it is I smote him, after the fashion of the simple dwarf, from under cover, as I have heard in your holy book that Abbey Melick, a stout Jewish captain, was stricken by the hand of a woman, me seemeth it was not thus that Brastafur should have conquered in your cause. Touch my son, said the Abbot impatiently. These be silly questions of what is called honour. What matters it, so long as the mad wolf be killed, by what hand or by what weapon he falls? True, Father, replied Brastafur, I believe you are in the right, after all our little friend here deserves more credit than I. God inspired him with the idea which I put in practice. He conceived and I only executed thus, God rebukes our pride, for he made Brastafur second to this feeble child. It is God alone who is our deliverer. To him and to his name be praise. Chapter 10 Manawar and the East Niles Sail on a fine day down New Grimsby Channel, and you will enjoy a view as rugged and as romantic as any that you have hitherto found. Oliver's castle is on your right, and above it is the gray ruin bearing the name of the unhappy martyr. As you gain the open sea you will probably have a swell, the deep water generally heaves lazily, as if with a consciousness of its power even when at rest. Sharks are not unfrequently met here, and the air, especially in the breeding season, echoes with the cries of the numerous waterfowl for which Silly is so famous. Leaving Piper's Hole on the right we steered towards Manawar, but the wash on the rocks was so heavy that we were unable to land. We contrived, however, to get on Round Island, and picked up a basket of Cormorant's eggs. On the highest point of the island is a fine barrow in circle. The old sea king has apparently not been left undisturbed in his solitary abode. Some idler like myself has turned aside to wrong the quiet of the dead. The puffin breeds here and at Manawar, in great numbers, and we saw their parrot-like forms wheeling around us as they watched our intrusion on their domain. The young Cormorants were so tame that they fought each other before us and would hardly get out of our way. Leaving Round Island, you cross St Helen's Pool and reach the island of that name. Here there was once a church and probably a monastic establishment, now it is utterly deserted. Some deer and goats were placed upon it a few years since, but only one of the former is left, and he goes backwards and forwards between this place and Teane. There are still standing the walls of the ancient Pest House. We next visited Teane or St Theona, which is equally uninhabited, though at both there are walls and parts of buildings, some of the enclosures running firing to the sea and giving incontrovertible proof of the former union of many, if not all, of these now disjointed in separate rocks. Leyland speaks of this portion of the group as especially dedicated to religion. St Lides, where of old, was great superstition. Some think that St Lide is a corruption of St Elid, and that, again, another form of St Helen. Others believe it to be Rat Island. Teane or Theona, which the erudite historian, much renowned for Greek, makes to be derived from that language, is now inhabited only by white rabbits, which are very beautiful and remarkable for their long and silky fur. There is a druidical circle on a hill called Yellow Khan. The whole place is very picturesque, and though it's extended to 35 acres, it consists entirely of hill and dale, and has many enchanting views. We sailed from it round St Martins for the Eastern Isles. The sound is studded with rocks terribly near the surface. A short time since, a box was here washed up, bearing, I think, only the name of Agnes Ewing. The vessel so called was a large indiumen that had left Liverpool for Calcutta. She was never heard of more, nor could any guess be made at her fate, save for this fragment, which was was to sure a teen. What a dreadful reply will be given when the trumpet shall sound, and the angels' voice go forth, Give up thy dead thou sea. As we passed through St Helen's Sound, I asked why the passage, which faces the harbour, was built in a situation so exposed to a cold quarter. The reason was particularly Selonian. Everyone formally smuggled here, and, among others, the then clergyman. The cellars of the building are far larger than is necessary for a very obvious reason, and the house was made to face northeast in order that the worthy incumbent might watch the shipping in the pool. And receive and reply to any signal. He was obliged to run away, from having been detected in some gross smuggling affair. His sister, who was as great an oddity as himself, died of starvation, though fifty pounds were found in her possession. At her funeral, the parson's cellar was unceremoniously invaded, and a scene ensued only to be equaled at an Irish weight. Troutbeck, the amusing historian of Silly, whose work is most interesting, left the islands, it is said, from fear of the consequences of a similar offence. In fact, I believe that had the queen then lived at Silly, she would have smuggled like other people. Doubling St. Martin's, we enter Crow Sound and steered direct for the Eastern Isles. These are numerous, and some of them large. One, Great Gannily, containing upwards of sixteen acres. They are distinguished by various names for which, and for all local particulars, both here and elsewhere, I must beg to refer to North's laborious and exact encounters, only seek to record my impressions, and not the details of what I see. We landed on the Arthur's, there being three of that name. On Great and Middle Arthur are several barrows, one large and capable of containing many persons. The remains of enclosures are visible, but there is nothing now living, but lobbyid rabbits and rats. Where we embarked, I fancied that I could trace the outline and materials in anti-peer. Footnote, I was not mistaken. A patriarch nearly ninety years old tells me that this place was formerly called Arthur's Key, and that according to ancient tradition, whenever one of its stones was by chance removed, some invisible hand always replaced it by night. Footnote ends. The walls too appeared to be very old. Almost, as it seemed to me, connected with the circles and barrows. It is really painful to see these vestiges of life and labor, like the dead bones spoken of by the Prophet, once instinct with life. There is nothing remarkable in any of the other rocks except their picturesque roughness of form, and the fine contrast of the surf, flashing over the deep blue, upon their grey stones, and bright bays of sand. From them you emerge into the great ocean. The light ship of the ridge, called the Seven Stones, is before you. On a clear day, you can see the land's end, and you may lie in the stone of your boat and muse about the lioness. The day is calm. A pair of sea-pies scream at you as you pass, so transparent is the water that fathoms deep beneath you. You can distinguish rock from sand. All is repose and beauty and tranquility. You are gliding by Arthur and look upon its grey boulders. There, however, is a memorial of a different scene. Part of the Mastervalard's ship lies broken and forgotten on the shore. Why is it left there unclaimed? Ask the Tempest. Ask the great green monster over whose bosom you sweep, as it lies smiling and murmuring in the sunlight below. End of Chapter 10, recording by Timothy Ferguson, Gold Coast, Australia. Chapter 11 of Silly and Its Legends by Henry James Whitfield. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Timothy Ferguson. Tresco No. 2 There is in Tresco so much that is interesting and beautiful that it deserves a residence of some days to be devoted to exploring it, considering its very limited size, one is surprised at the variety of its scenery. On landing at the harbour, and passing the palace, so-called from the place used for drying pilchards, as is usual hereabouts, you ascend a slope and reach the pretty little passnage. From thence the view is lovely, Old Grimsby Harbour and St Helen's Pool lie below you, with Dolphin Town, and the neatly arranged church and the excellent schools. You are surprised at the appearance of all around you. It is not picturesque alone for the island of sky could be that, with all its misery. It is not only retired and undisturbed, it was so in the days of Wreckers, when passens smuggled, and when gauges and duties were unknown. But there is everywhere an air of comfort and an aspect of content, which I never saw elsewhere. The fields are highly cultivated and the gardens attended carefully. The people are well dressed, and there is not one man poor in all their tribes. Go into the little quasi-cruciform church. You will see there probably as dense and as attentive a congregation as you overbeheld. Ask a man to do any service for you, and you will fail in procuring one for all are employed. There is no union here, for there are no paupers to fill it. In this thought is a charm greater than that of the smiling prospect before our eyes, enchanting though it be. Read Woodley's account of these islands that he years ago, and look at them now. There is under God, the work of one English gentleman accomplished in 17 years, in spite of the Celtic spirit and the old inveterate habits and wrecks, and the Duchy of Cornwall. Footnote. The very front of the gallery of the pretty church at Tresco is formed of a part of a wreck, and the gallery itself, from a mere nautical spirit of imitation, is placed so low after the pattern of ship's cabin that you must stoop in passing under it. Most of the old houses instantly have their rooms built like cabins, the ceilings being wood and not more than six feet high. Footnote ends. Crossing the downs to the left of the passage you arrive are Charles's walls consisting of a few ruins well and boldly placed. Below it is Cromwell's castle so called according to the rule of Theodore Hook's song, and then he saved an emperor where no emperor was near, sir. It is still kept in good order by the Board of Ordinance, and as it commands New Grimsby Channel would be useful in beating of privateers in times of war. From hence round the bluff to Piper's Hole is a very pleasant walk, and the cave itself is well worth a visit. Preparation must be made for it by procuring the boat in which to cross the pool within and by taking blue lights to burn when there. Footnote, this must be done cautiously. Some sappers and miners lately kindled a fire in the cave and were in great danger. One of the party was carried out insensible. Footnote ends. I wonder what is the foundation of the tradition of the Piper and his wild music dying away in the distance until it is heard and seen no more. Go where you will, you will meet with it. It resembles the tale of the traveller who set out in a boat to explore the reservoir of a thousand columns at Constantinople and who never returned. If it were but true what a life of agony must have been compressed in those short hours. We are reminded of the person who, in cautiously, left his guide in the Imperial Vault at Vienna. The rats are there seen not by hundreds but by millions. His fate was only known by the section finding a few scattered bones in the corner of the crypt and some brass buttons which were recognised as having been his. These dark scenes are terribly oppressive. Let us come out into the open air and leave the ghost of his Piper in his funereal cave. God's sunlight is glimmering over the calm sea that breaks in low, solemn music upon the rocks at our feet. Listen for a moment to a tale of the civil wars connected with that shattered peel above and with this dismal subterranean vault below. The incidents mentioned in it took place principally here. We will therefore call it A Legend of Piper's Hole End of Chapter 11 Recording by Timothy Ferguson Gold Coast, Australia Section following Chapter 11 of Silly and Its Legends by Henry James Wittfeld This LibriVox recording is in the public domain Recording by Timothy Ferguson A Legend of Piper's Hole In the spring of 1651 there was sorrow and confusion of face at Silly Blake and Ersketh, the rebel leaders, were approaching with the sea and land forces of the parliament to rest the islands from the gallant Surgeon Grenville, the kinsmen of that Bevel Grenville who died so nobly for his king on lands down Heath. The remains of the Royal Army composed chiefly of officers and gentlemen of blood prepared to meet the storm which they did not hope to resist with success. Had they been like their enemies, men who preferred their own selfish interests to those of their country, they would have treated with Van Tromp who made them the most tempting offers on the condition of their ceding the islands to him. But the Cavaliers knew that their duty was to contend against treason, not to imitate it. They refused even to listen to his proposals or to convey to the stranger any portion of the old realm of England. They look forward to the last act of that long agony. Ready to meet face to face a superior force, ready if need be, to die in harness, or if doomed to be the survivors of that dreadful ordeal, ready to endure to the end, to go forth from a country where they could no longer find it in their hearts to abide, and to bear their honorable scars to a land in which they could dwell until, in the expressive language of Scripture, this tyranny be overpast. It was in Tresco, as it then began to be called, that the swords of the opposing parties first crossed each other. We well know how many causes had combined to add bitterness to the ordinary fierceness of war. The Puritan and the Cavalier not only waged a religious strife and felt a religious hatred, they had not alone the exasperation of personal motives of wrong and injury on the one side and have contempt and loathing on the other, to sting and urge them on, but there was in both the spirit yet darker and more ruthless than these. Those who murdered the band Charles Stuart were likely to show scant mercy to the malignants who wore upon their bosoms a likeness or a bloody relic of the martyred king. Footnote One of these is in possession of my family. It was worn by my ancestor, Sir Ralph Whitfeld of Whitfeld, a faithful servant and minister of King Charles, and is a beautiful miniature of the martyr with the axe on the reverse. Footnote ends. So with these feelings both parties made their dispositions for the coming shock, and as Tresco was the first object of attack, Sir John Gredville employed all the means at his disposal to put it into a respectable state of defence. It was now protected by a fort situated on the heights above New Grimsby and called Charles's Castle. The principal garrison of the royalists was there, but the ancient abbey of St. Nicholas was also entrenched and fortified and batteries were established on all the commanding positions round the coast. There was no luck of volunteers in such a cause, a bend of fiery use, the full hope misnamed forlorn. Watched the approach of the hostile fleet and many a bold passage of arms seemed destined to take place and many a desperate encounter to occur, Tresco should be lost and won. The command of the whole place was entrusted to a young gentleman named William Edgecombe of a noble house in the west of England. His years indeed were not many, but those were times when capacity for service was not measured by years. In those trying and terrible days the boldest and the worthiest came out involuntarily from the common herd and took the lofty place assigned to them as the nobility of intellect and of mind. The instinct of heaven's patent was recognised at once and many a young man like Graham of Montrose passed over the heads of white-haired veterans and was cheerfully followed and obeyed. So was it in this instance William Edgecombe was but a child when a few years before he had left his home in Devonshire to draw, for King Charles, a sword almost too weighty for his arm. Since then he had ridden over well-nigh every field fought between the two parties and had gained experience in one distinction in all and now a youth in age but a leader of high and approved qualities he was placed by Sir John Grenville in the post of honour and of danger at Trescoe. He was selected to meet the first onset of those bands whose iron discipline had stemmed and rendered vain, the dashing and devoted bravery of the Cavaliers, the task assigned to him was hopeless, the might of the Protectorate which had stricken down the crown of England was not to be checked by a handful of zealous men on a distant and rocky isle. There was no prospect of success but though there was no chance of victory there was, on the other hand, a certainty of that which is equally dear to a proud and faithful heart. There was honour to be gained, there was duty to be done, there were dangers to be met, there was vengeance to be gratified, and, above all, to one who reverenced his moded sovereign and clung to the cause of his party and his house there was to be sought that distinction which attaches itself always to the leader amid high deeds when those he loves look on admiringly and those he hates stand before him face to face with these inducements to play his part worthily William Edgecombe had taken the chief command at Trescoe and prepared to hold it to the last. He did hold it, as he had vowed to do on the true faith of a Cavalier. The enemy first affected his landing in front of the Abbey which was attacked in force and carried by storm. The relics of the garrison were rallied by William Edgecombe in person, who collected all parties holding different detached posts, and fell so fiercely on the ribbles and maintained a fight so long and so doubtful that he was on the point of recovering the Abbey itself. In the midst of the bloody contest when success hung in the balance the building took fire and was soon in a blaze. William Edgecombe sullenly withdrew his men and fell back upon his last stronghold, the ancient castle, named after his honoured master Charles. There he organised his means of defence and prepared proudly and silently for the last closing scene. The shock was not long in coming and when it came it was irresistible. Blake in person bought his ships into New Grimsby and directed their fire upon the position of the royalists. On the landside the attack was conducted by Colonel Fleetwood, a stout and tried soldier. The strife was stubborn but its conclusion was such as might have been anticipated from the inequality of the contending parties. The fortress was captured by a sudden desperate assault. When the rebel forces were fairly in possession of the place and the day was evidently lost the governor, faithful to his charge, disdain to surrender or to accept the honourable terms offered by Fleetwood, he descended to the magazine, laid a train of powder on the ground, took a pistol from his belt and Cooley exclaiming, God save King Charles pulled the trigger and assayed to bury the old fortiless with its mingled crowd of true men and traitors in one common ruin. The earth shook as with an earthquake that was a breathless lull and after that torrent of flame and then men looked in each other's faces with a mute inquiry of horror and dismay. When these feelings had in some degree subsided and measures could be taken for restoring order and for retaining what had been so fearfully won it was found that though the roof was blown off the walls were comparatively uninjured some hasty repairs were therefore affected in the breaches caused by the previous attacks. Two hundred parliamentarians were quartered within the place under the command of Colonel Fleetwood and finally the dead were gathered together to be buried in a soldier's grave. It was however remarked that the body of the governor was not found after the closest search. A flag of truce on the part of Sir John Grenville from St. Mary's had come to demand it for internment. The young Cavalier was dear to his general and to his comrades and all ranks were anxious to pay the last honours to one whom all respected and loved but their wish was ungratified. They doubted not that he had perished with so many others by his own devoted act. They sought for him sorrowing but found him not. Every faculty was given to their inquiries but to the strictest investigation there was only one result they found him not. In a couple of days matters resumed their usual course at Tresco. The island being wholly occupied by the forces of the Commonwealth only the usual military precautions were taken and people went about their ordinary businesses before. The inhabitants were attached to the royal cause and loved little the steeple-hearts and grotesque manners of the newcomers. They dared not show these feelings saved by tacit dislike and by avoiding as much as they possibly could. All intercourse with the rebels it is said that at Silly women govern the men and in this case it was the gentler sex that took the lead in manifesting their aversion to the Puritans. They could not indeed be a stronger contrast between two classes of men sprung on the same soil than existed betwixt the sour independence with their grimaces and their cant and those high-born and graceful youths whose very failings of gallantry and reckless profusion only endeared them to the Salonian damsels. So there arose between the conquerors and the conquered that silent war which is so galling and so difficult with all to be conducted with success. The soldiers of the Lord as they styled themselves found their claims held very cheap among the Delilas of Tresco. Their most unctuous compliments had tendrous snuffles only excited contempt or ridicule so the Puritans confined themselves to their quarters singing their their psalms out of tune in their own way and devoting the Moabetish maidens to Satan whose children the Cavaliers they were so ill advised as to prefer to the saints and lights of Israel. There was one exception to the general character of the victors the young daughter of Colonel Fleetwood had accompanied the expedition and had joined her father at the fort after its storm and capture. She had no mother for the Colonel had been early left to widower so that her home was with him. Most men have a weak point in their hearts and that of Colonel Fleetwood was excessive fondness for his child. The love he had borne to her mother was transferred and strengthened by its transference to the only pledge that love had given him. Nor was the object of that beautiful idolatry unworthy of it she was very fair with a broad brow of modest intelligence and an arched spirit in her hazel eye that's somewhat protested against her starched wimple and the discreet amplitude of fold in which a godly maiden then wrapped her charms from profane eyes. She was romantic too like most of the lovely and the young and was not prevented from indulging in her tastes by her doting father he was perhaps fonder of her from the very difference that existed between her habits and his own. The ascetic gloom of his personal and party manners could not withstand the sunshine which her face threw upon his path. He had not the heart to cloud it by severity or rebuke. Many there were of those zealous for the Lord who thought the Dems will know better than one of the Babylonian sisterhood or as one of those daughters of men who seduced the sons of God to sin. They predicted evil of her as with her gay laugh and merry jest she wanted abroad even where she listed nay they resented either her levity or her scoff so openly and so warbly as to take up their parable against the stout old colonel and to make sundry unsavory comparisons between his daughter and a lady who delights in scarlet robes. One Habakkuk plead with the Lord counseled his hearers in a sermon especially directed to this subject to make known their sentiments before the congregation. Which piece of advice being carried into effect rather unconsciously was construed into mutiny by the colonel who incontinently hung the reverend Mr. Plead with the Lord and five of his audience on the rock since from their fate called Hangman's Isle and thenceforth the fair Mildred Fleetwood was suffered to range alone over the downs and cairns sitting and dreaming away many an hour with their eyes fixed upon the sea and her heart perchance lost in its aimless search for that love which is the sole object of a woman's existence. She was once thus occupied yearning unconsciously after the unknown and per adventure the unattainable and resting lost in these musings amid the wildest portion of the Belt of Rocks which girds all that side of Trescoe. The time was suited to the spirit of the place and of her who visited it for the summery was just melting into twilight and the sea below lays slumbering in a waveless calm. She had descended a steep ledge of granite and was seated in a little cove near the mouth of an ancient cavern called Piper's Hole. It had an evil reputation in the neighborhood. It had taken its name from some mysterious tale of death connected with one who had penetrated too far into its labyrinths and who had never returned. It was said indeed to pass under the sea and join a cave of the same name near Penenes Head in St. Mary's. The common people shunned it with superstitious awe at that period no one doubted that phantoms were permitted to appear on earth and tales of possession and witchcraft were circulated as articles of faith. The most learned and most religious men were not exempt from this weakness as good old Richard Baxter's book abundantly testifies. The Piper's Hole enjoyed and maintained its supremacy of ghostly visitations nor was this belief confined to the studios of the week. It was held also by those who were counted the first soldiers in Europe. A Puritan sentinel placed here on outpost duty a word that he saw issuing from the bosom of the earth a grim figure clothed in white that shook its finger at him with a menacing gesture and so frightened him that he fell flat upon his face and when he regained his senses the ghastly form was gone. Little however wrecked fair mildred fleetwood of these tales of horror perhaps they were not even displeasing to her they gave food to her morbid appetite for novelty they excited her romantic feelings so as was often her want she strayed to the haunted spot and their sate in her musing mood thinking how fair were all the objects around and being unconsciously herself the fairest there. A sudden noise as it seemed close to her made her start and turn around she saw almost at her side that which perhaps would possess no terrors for a maiden's heart and which yet was more dangerous to her tranquility than all the phantoms of the tomb. The stood by her the figure of a young man whose appearance pleaded eloquently in his favour even though he spake not a word for his handsome features were pale and wasted and his frame seemed bowed down with pain and feebleness. In his whole bearing in manner was the unmistakable impress of gentle blood his brow was bound round with a scarf as if to cover a wound. His attire was though rich torn and stained and his figure was bent and full of weakness and lassitude. Mildred Fleetwood gazed on him with timid and speechless surprise there are some men whom women instinctively trust and the stranger was one of these. She looked upon him then with astonishment but without a particle of fear. Puritanness she was she was a lady by birth and felt a somewhat ungodly pride in the six marplets of her father's shield. She knew instinctively that she was in the presence of a gentleman and she trusted in his claims and in her own. The unknown spoke first and addressed her thus. Fair lady whose features belie that vile garb who are you and how is it that you do not fear to approach this haunted spot from which the very boldest shudder and turn away. Iron Mildred Fleetwood replied she timidly why should I having done no evil and meaning none dread to venture here but you went to you come and why are you in this place and where is your abode. The young man looked at her for a moment thoughtfully and his face assumed by degrees a gentler and even a tenderer expression. Still he did not speak until emboldened by his silent she repeated the last question when he replied to her simply if you have the courage come and see. He yelled out to her his hand and after a moment's hesitation the love of the marvellous and womanly curiosity and perhaps a rising feeling of pity and partiality prevailed. She took the hand extended to her and supported by her guide advanced towards the mouth of Piper's hole. It were difficult to describe her sensations as they proceeded in silence towards the cavern of ill repute. They were not exactly fearful but more like a thrill of absorbing interest mingled with romance and with a strange trust in her pale and graceful guide. They moved slowly until they reached the low browed entrance of the vault when the youth entreated her courteously and with a respect befitting one who addressed to Queen to pause while he went on alone. He apparently kindled a torch for a quick light streamed up in the dim chasm and gilded his form as he returned. He again took her hand and invited her onward and she once more complied. Stooping lowered intervals they passed the root portals of the cavern and found themselves within its precincts. Few there were at that epoch who would not have feared to tread the pavement of that dread spot as night was falling around but to say the courage of the young maiden will dare many perils especially with one she trusts sharing those perils by her side. It was a place to charm and fascinate a lover of nature. The cave rose to a lofty height growing higher as they proceeded and terminating as it appeared at a distance of about fifty paces in a dark and fathomless pool on which floated a small boat. You have done much lady said the youth when they reached it. Will you now turn back or even venture on and solve the mystery of Piper's hole? He offered his arm to a sister in entering the skiff and after a natural pause and a momentary tremor she rested on it and stepped over the side. A few strokes of an aura sent the little vessel flying along the dim pool and it soon grounded on the sand at the opposite extremity. Leaping lightly on the shore he went forward and again kindled a torch which he brought with him in his hand and held down to guide her steps as she disembarked and followed him. She found herself in a vaulted room of considerable extent bounded on three sides by the solid rock and on the fourth by that black lake which had just born them thither. In one corner was a bed covered with a soldier's cloak. Some arms lay beside it and there were scattered around many boxes and packages of various sizes and some provisions were seen in an open basket by the head of Couch. All these things Mildred Fleetwood took in womanlike at a glance. She then turned and gazed earnestly upon her mysterious companion. He smiled at her look of inquiry and said in a gentle voice such as a woman loves to hear for it is the tribute of strength to her weakness. Well, lady. You have learned the secret of my abode and you have a right to know the rest. You have told me your name and I will require your confidence by entrusting you with mine. Yet it must sound strangely to the ears of your father's daughter. I am William Edgecombe. The fair Puritan started but not with fear. It was indeed the famous leader of the royalists so long deemed dead and so sincerely mourned who now stood beside her in that solitary cave. The tale of his escape from death was soon told. He had been flung to a considerable distance by the explosion that destroyed the fortress but after a long swoon he had recovered to find himself though bruised and weak almost without a wound. In the confusion that followed the capture the place he had managed to crawl away unseen favoured by the shadows of evening and had gained Piper's Hole which had been formally used under his directions as a hiding place for stores. There he had remained awaiting an opportunity of escape from the island and subsisting partly on what had been placed there by his orders and partly on food conveyed to him by a fisherman whom he had employed and to whom he had confided the place of his retreat. They had contrived and put into practice the little spectral delusions which coupled with the bad reputation of the locality had served to drive away all intruders from the spot until Mildred Fleetwood had ventured there. These things were told in a manner that went to the maiden's heart. She listened and pitted and looked wistfully upon the face of him who had done high deeds but spake of them so modestly and there was a tear in her eye when she parted from him as he prayed her that she would meet him yet once more and she went not without a low whispered promise to return. She came again according to her pledge and many with a long hours spent in sweet communings within that cavern and many of our constancy was given and received and as his eye regained its fire and his step its buoyancy her brow began to grow thoughtful and her soft cheek waxed pale at last one evening at the tristing place he informed her of the arrival of that hour which she had so much dreaded. A boat was even then in readiness to take him in the disguise of a fisherman past the cruisers of the rebels to St. Mary's. He pressed her to fly with him and to become his bride. The struggle between love and duty in her heart was a sore one whism swelled almost to bursting and her brain burned but if for a second she wavered it was for a second only. She subtly refused to fly. She was trusted, loved, idolised by her father. He was alone in his old age. His life was scented in her. It broke her heart apart from her lover but she knew that it would break her parents' heart to part from her and her choice was made. She bade her love of Godspeed and charged him to remember her and to expect happier times. It was now her turn to soothe and support him. The tender girl became the comforter of the high-born and high-spirited man. He felt the justice of her pleading and acquiesced in her decision though man's innate selfishness could not but chafe against it. Finally they parted after a long embrace he went to suffer for his faith in exile and she remained to return day after day to the scene of her vanished happiness and to pray for him who was a far off and who, by being faithful to his God and to his King, gave an earnest of his fidelity to her. Years passed by, long weary years for them both. At intervals sure and far between they had communicated with each other but had no hope of meeting until the shadow of the protectorate fleeted away amid derision and contempt and Charles II was restored. Then indeed a change came over their fortunes honoured and trusted by the monarch William Edgecombe returned in his train to England. He had no difficulty in protecting Colonel Fleetwood who was permitted to retire to his estate in Buckinghamshire and there end his days in peace and tranquillity. His old antagonist and present benefactor became his son-in-law and he lived to see around his hearth children sprung from that mixture of loyal and republican blood. He ceased even to wonder at the change in his own sentiments when he felt more inclined to smile than to shake his head at the romantic adventure of Piper's Hole and his eye actually lightened with pleasure when he heard that among the beauties of the court one of the fairest, the merriest and the most virtuous was the daughter of the old Puritan officer Mildred Edgecombe End of section recording by Timothy Ferguson Gold Coast Australia