 Chapter 50 of St. George and St. Michael, Volume 3 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. St. George and St. Michael, Volume 3 by George McDonald. A Sally. Meantime Mr. Haywood had returned home to look after his affairs and brought Richard with him. In the hope that peace was calm they had laid down their commissions. Hardly had they reached redware when they heard the news of the active operations at Raglan and Richard rode off to see how things were going. Not a little anxious concerning Dorothy and full of eagerness to protect her, but entirely without hope of favor either at her hand or her heart. He had no inclination to take part in the siege and had had enough of fighting for any satisfaction it had brought him. It might be the right thing to do, and so far the only path towards the sunrise. But had he ground for hope that the day of freedom had in himself advanced beyond the dawn, his confidence in Milton and Cromwell, with his fathers, continued unshaken. But what could man do to satisfy the hunger for freedom which grew and nod within him? Neither political nor religious liberty could content him. He might himself be a slave in a universe of freedom. Still ready, even for the sake of mere outward freedom of action and liberty of worship, to draw the sword, he yet had begun to think he had fought enough. As he approached Raglan he missed something from the landscape, but only upon reflection discovered that it was the church tower. Entering the village he found it all but deserted, for the inhabitants had mostly gone, and it was too near the gates and too much exposed to the sudden sallies of the besieged for the occupation of the enemy. That day, however, a large reinforcement sent from Oxford by Fairfax to strengthen Cromwell Morgan, having arrived at Yandany, some of its officers, riding over to inspect the Captain Hooper's operations, had halted at the White Horse, where they were having a glass of ale when Richard rode up. He found them all acquaintances and sat down with them. Almost evening when he arrived it was quite dusk when they rose and called for their horses. They had placed a man to keep watch towards Raglan, while the rest of their attendants, who were but few, leaving their horses in the yard, were drinking their ale in the kitchen. But seeing no signs of peril and growing weary of his own position and envious of that of his neighbors, the fellow had ventured, disciplined being neither active nor severe, to rejoin his companions. The host, being a tenant of the Marquis, had decided royalist predilections, but whether what followed was of his contriving I cannot tell. News reached the castle somehow that a few parliamentary officers with their men were drinking at the White Horse. Raglan was in the chapel, listening to the organ, having in his illness grown fond of hearing Delaware play. The brisker the cannonade, the blind youth always praised the louder, and had the main stops now in full blast. But through it all, Scudamore heard the sound of horses feet on the stones, and running along the menstrual's gallery and out on the top of the porch, saw over fifty horsemen in the court, all but ready to start. He flew to his chamber, caught up his sword and pistols, and without waiting to put on any armor, hurried to the stables they'd hold of the first horse he came to, which was fortunately saddled and bridled, and was in time to follow the last man out of the court before the gate was closed behind the issuing troop. The parliamentary officers were just mounting, when there sent an all, who had run again into the road to listen. For it was now too dark to see further than a few yards, came running back with the alarm that he heard the feet of a considerable body of horse in the direction of the castle. Richard, whose mare stood unfastened at the door, was on her back in a moment. Being unarmed, saved a race of pistols in his holsters, he thought he could best serve them by galloping to Captain Hooper and bringing help, for the castle party would doubtless outnumber them. Scarcely was he gone, however, and half the troopers were not yet in their saddles when the place was surrounded by three times their number. Those who were already mounted escaped and rode after Haywood, a few got into a field where they hid themselves in the tall corn, and the rest barricaded the indoor and manned the windows. There they held out for some time, frequent pistol shots being interchanged without much injury to either side. At length however the Marquis men had all but succeeded in forcing the door when they were attacked in the rear by Richard with some thirty horse from the trenches and the runaways of Colonel Morgan's men who had met them and turned with them. A smart combat ensued, lasting half an hour, in which the Parliament men had the advantage. Those who had lost their horses recovered them and a royalist was taken prisoner. From him Richard took his sword and rode after the retreating Cavaliers. One of their number, a little in the rear, supposing Richard to be one of themselves, allowed him to get ahead of him and, facing about, cut him off from his companions. It was the second time he had headed Scudamore, and again he did not know him, this time because it was dark. Rowland, however, recognized his voice as he called him to surrender and rushed fiercely at him, but scarcely had they met when the Cavalier, whose little strength had aired this all that given way to the unwanted fatigue, was suddenly overcome with faintness and dropped from his horse. Richard cut down, lifted him, laid him across Lady's shoulders, mounted, raised him into a better position and, leading the other horse, brought him back to the inn. There first he discovered that he was his prisoner whom he feared he had killed at Naysby. When Rowland came to himself, are you able to ride a few miles, Mr. Scudamore, asked Richard? At first Rowland was too much chagrin, finding in whose power he was, to answer. I am your prisoner, he said at length. You are my evil genius, I think. I have no choice. Thy star is in the ascendant, and mine has been going down ever since first I met thee, Richard Haywood. Richard attempted no reply, but got Rowland's horse and assisted him to mount. I want to do you a good turn, Mr. Scudamore, he said, after they had ridden a mile in silence. I look for nothing good at thy hand, says Scudamore. When thou findest what it is, I trust thou wilt change thy thought of me, Mr. Scudamore. Sir Rowland, and a pleasure, said the prisoner, his boyish vanity roused by misfortune, and passing itself upon him for dignity. Your ignorance must be pardoned, Sir Rowland, return Richard. I was unaware of your dignity. But thank you, Sir Rowland, you do well to ride on such rough errands, while yet not recovered, as is but too plain to see, from former wounds. It seems not, Mr. Haywood, for I had not else been your prize, I trust. The wound I caught at Naysby has cost the king a soldier I fear. I hope it will cost no more than is already paid. Men must fight, it seems. But I, for one, would gladly repair, and I might, what injuries I had been compelled to cause. I cannot say the like on my part, return Sir Rowland. I would, I had slain thee. So would not I, concerning me, in proof or love, do I now lean thee to the best leech I know. One who brought me back from death's door, when through thee, if not by thy hand, I was so wounded. With her, as my prisoner, I shall leave thee. Seek not to make thy escape, lest, being a witch, as they saw of her, she chain thee up in alabaster. When thy art restored, go thy way with her thou pleasest. It is no longer as it was with the cause of liberty. A soldier of hers may now afford to release an enemy for whom he has a friendship. A friendship, exclaimed Sir Rowland, and wherefore, prithee, Mr. Haywood, onward ground. But they had reached the cottage, and Richard made no reply, having helped his prisoner to dismount, let him through the garden and knocked at the door. Here, mother, he said, as Mistress Rhys opened it, I have brought the a king's man to cure this time. Praise God, returned Mistress Rhys. Not that a king's man was wounded, but that she had him to cure. She was an enthusiast in her art. Just as she had devoted herself to the Puritan, she now gave all her care and administration to the royalist. She got her bed ready for him, asked him a few questions, looked at his shoulder, not even yet quite healed. Senate had not been well managed, and prepared a poultice, which smelt so violate it Rowland turned from it with disgust. But the old woman had a singular power of persuasion, and at length he yielded, and in a few moments was fast asleep. Calling the next morning, Richard found him very weak, partly from the unwanted fatigue of the previous day, and partly from the old woman's remedies, which were causing the wound to threaten supuration. But somehow he had become well satisfied that she knew what she was about, and showed no inclination to rebel. For a week or so he did not seem to improve. Richard came often, sat by his bedside, and talked with him. But the moment he grew angry, called in names, or abused his party, would rise without a word, mount his mare, and ride home, to return the next morning as if nothing unpleasant had occurred. After about a week the patient began to feel the benefit of the wise woman's treatment. The supuration carried so much of an old, ever-haunting pain with it, that he was now easier than he had ever been since his return to Ragland. But his behaviour to Richard grew very strange, and the round head failed to understand it. At one time it was so friendliest to be almost affectionate. At another he seemed bent on doing and saying everything he could to provoke a duel. For another whole week, aware of the benefit he was deriving from the witch, as he never scrupled to call her, nor in the least offended her thereby, apparently also at times fascinated in some sort by the visits of his enemy, as he persisted in calling Richard, he showed no anxiety to be gone. Hangwood, he said one morning suddenly, with quite a new familiarity, does that consider Iodhi an apology for carrying off thy mare? Tell me what looked the thing bareth to thee. Put thy case, good Amor, return Richard. And Sir Roland did put his case, starting from the rebel state of the owner, advancing to the natural outlawry that resulted, going on to the necessity of the king, etc., and ending thus. Now I know thou regardless neither king nor right, therefore I ask thee only to tell me how it seemeth to thee I ought on these grounds to judge myself, since for thy judgment in thy own person and on thy own grounds, or rather no grounds, I care not at all. Come then, let it be but a question of casuous tree, yet I fear me it will be difficult to argue without breaking bounds. Would my Lord Marquis now walk forth of his castle at the king's command, as certainly as he will at the voice of the nation, that is, the cannons of the parliament, the cannons of the cursed parliament are not the voice of the nation, our side is the nation, not yours. How provost thou that? We are the better born to begin with. Ye have the more titles I grant ye, but we have the older families. Let it be, however, that I was, or am, a rebel, then I can only say that in stealing. No, I will not say stealing, or thou didst it with a different mind. All I will say is this, sir Rowland, that I should have scorned so to carry off thine or any man's force. Ah, but thou wouldst have no right being better rebel. Be think thee, thou must judge on my grounds when thou judges me. True, then am I driven to say thou was made of the better earth. Curse thee, I am ashamed of having taken thy mare, only because it was in a half-friendly passage with thee I learned her words. But hang me, it was not through thee I learned to know my cousin, Dorothy Vaughan. The recoiling blood stung Rager's heart like the blow of a whip, but he manned himself to answer with coolness. What then of her, he said, hath thou been willing her favour, sir Rowland? Thou woest me nothing there, I admit, even had she not sent me from her. Besides, I am scarce one to be content with a mistress whose favour depended on the not coming between of some certain other, known or unknown. This I say not in pride, but because in such case I were not the right man for her, either she the woman for me. Then thou bearest me no grudge in that I have sought the prize of my cousin's heart? None answered Richard, but could not bring himself to ask how he had spent. Then while I am under thee that I have gained this little, I will met myself telling thee, whom I hate, and to thy comfort, that she despises me like any virgin or slave. Nay, then I am sure she doth not, she can despise nothing that is honourable. Doth thou then count me honourable, Haywood, says Goudemore, in a voice of surprise, putting forth a thin white hand, and placing it on Richard's where it lay huge and brown on the cover then. Then honourable I will be, and in that resolve, art, sir Rowland. I will be honourable, repeated Goudemore angrily with flesh and cheek, and hard yet plashing eye, because thou thinkest me such, although my hate would, and it might, damn thee, to lowest hell. Nay, but thou wilt be honourable for honour's sake, said Richard. Be think thee, when first we met. We were but boys, now are we men, and must put away boyish things. Doth call it a boyish thing to be madly in love with the fairest and noblest and bravest mistress that ever tried the earth, though she be half a Puritan, alak? She half a Puritan, is claimed, Haywood. She hates the very wind of the word. She may hate the word, but she is the thing. She hath bred me such lessons as none but a Puritan could. Were they not then good lessons, that thou joinest with them a name hateful to thee? I, truly, much too good for mortal like me, or the either, Haywood, they are but hypocrites that pretend otherwise. Callest thou thy cousin a hypocrite? No, by heaven, she is not. She is a woman, and it is easy for women to say prayers. I never wrote into a fight, but I said my prayer, returned Richard. Nonetheless, art thou a hypocrite? I should scorn to be for ever begging favors as thou. Does thank God hear of such prayers as thine? Not if he be such as thou, Sir Rowland, and not if he who prays be such as thou thinkest him. Prithee, what sort of prayer think as thou? I pray ere I ride into the battle. How should I know? My Lord Marquis would have had me say my prayers at such a time. But good soothe, I always forgot. And if I had done it, where would it have been the benefit thereof, so long as thou, who was better used to the work, was praying against me? I say there's a cowardly thing to go praying into the battle, and not take that fair chance as other men do. Then will I tell thee to what purpose I pray? But first of all, I must confess to thee that I have had my doubts, not whether my side were more in the right than thine, but whether it were worthwhile to raise the sword even in such cause. Now, still when that doubt cometh, ever it taketh from my armed strength, and going down into the very legs of my mare, causest that she goeth dull, although willing, into the battle. Moreover, I am no saint, and therefore cannot pray like a saint, but only like Richard Haywood, who hath got to do his duty, and is something puzzle, therefore pray thus or to this effect. O God of battles, who, thyself dwelling in peace, beholdest the strife, and workest I will thereby, what that good and perfect will of thine is I know not clearly, but thou hast sent us to be doing, and thou hateest cowardice. Thou knowest I have sought to choose the best, so far as goeth my poor kin, and to this battle I am pledged. Give me grace to fight like a soldier of thine, without wrath and without fear. Give me to do my duty, but give the victory where thou pleasest. Let me live if so thou wilt. Let me die if so thou wilt. Only let me die in honor with thee. Let the truth be victorious, if not now, yet when it shall please thee. And, oh, I pray, let no deed of mine delay its coming. Let my work fail, if it be unto evil, but save my soul in truth. And in truth, sir Roland, it seemeth to me then as if the God of truth heard me. Then say I to my mare, Come, lady, all is well now, let us go, and good will come of it to thee also, for how should the Father think of his pharaohs and forget his mares? Doubtless there are of thy kind in heaven, else how should the Apostle have seen them there? And if any, surely thou, my lady, so ride we to the battle, merry and strong, and calm, as if we were but riding to the rampart of the celestial city. Rowland lay gazing at Richard for a few moments, then said, By heaven, but it were pity you should not come together. Surely this same spirit dwelleth in you both. For me, I should show but as the shadow cast from her brightness. But I tell thee, roundhead, I love her better than ever roundhead could. I know not, Scootamore, nor do I mean to judge thee when I say that no man who loves not the truth can love a woman in the grand way a woman ought to be loved. Tell me not, I do not love her, or I will rise and kill thee. I love her even to do what my soul hated for her sake. Damned, roundhead, she loves thee. The last words came from him almost in a shriek, and he fell back panting. Richard sat silent for a few moments, his heart surging and sinking. Then he said quietly, It may be so, sir Rowland. We were boy and girl together. Fed rabbits, flu kites, planted weeds to make flowers of them, plaited marbles. She may love me a little, roundhead as I am. By heaven, I will try her once more. Who knows the heart of a woman? said Rowland through his teeth. If thou should gain her, Scootamore, and afterwards you should find the unworthy? She would love me still, and break her heart for thee, and leave the young Timurian other, while I, he laughed aloh, strangely musically aloh, and ceased, then resumed. But what if, instead of dying, she should learn to despise thee, finding thou hath not only deceived her, but deceived thy better self, and should turn from thee with loathing, while thou didst love her still, as well as thy nature could? What then, sir Rowland? Then I should kill her. And thou lovest her better than any roundhead could? I will find thee man after man, from amongst irritons or promulose horse. I know not the foot so well. Fanatic enough they are, God knows, and many of them fools enough to boot. But I will find thee man after man, who is fanatic or full to know, which thou wilt, to love better than thou, thou poor Adam of solitary selfishness. Rowland hath flung himself from the bed, seized Richard by the throat, and with all the strength he could summon did his best to strangle him. For a time Richard allowed him to spend his rage, then removed his grasp as gently as he could, and holding both his wrists in his left hand, rose and stood over him. Sir Rowland, he said, I am not angry with thee that thou art weak and passionate, but bethink thee, thou liest in God's hands a thousandfold more helpless than now thou liest in mine, and like Saul of Tarsus, thou wilt find it hard to kick against the pricks, for the maiden do as thou wilt, for thou canst not do other than the will of God. But I thank thee for what thou hast told me, though I doubt it meaneth little better for me than for thee. Thou hast a kind heart, I almost love thee, and will when I can. He let go his hands and walked from the room. Can'ting hypocrite cried Sir Rowland in the wrath of impotence, but knew while he said the words that they were false. And with the words the bitterness of life seized his heart, and his despair shrouded the world in the blackness of darkness. There was nothing more to live for, and he turned his face to the wall. California, United States of America St. George and St. Michael Volume 3 by George MacDonald Under the Moat It was some time ere they discovered that Scudamore was missing from the castle, but there was the hope that he had been taken prisoner, and things were growing so bad within the walls that there was little leisure for lamentation over individual misfortunes. Unless some change as entire as unexpected, for there seemed no chance of any except the king should win over the Scots to take his part, should occur. It was evident that the enemy must speedily make the assault, nor could there be a doubt of their carrying the place, in anticipation which, as the inevitable drew nearer, became nothing less than terrible to both household and garrison. True, their conquerors would be of their own people, but battle and bloodshed, and victory, and worst of all, party spirit. The Marquis knew, destroy not nationality merely, but humanity as well, rousing into full possession the feline beast which has his lair in every man. In many it is true, dwindled to the household cat, but in many others a full-sized, only sleepy tiger. To what was he about to expose his men, not to speak of his ladies and their children? On the other hand, ever since the balls had been flying about his house, and the stones of it leaving their places to keep them company, the loyalty of the Marquis had been rising, and he had thought of his prisoner king, ever with growing tenderness. Of his faults, with more indulgence, and of the wrongs he had done his family, with more magnanimity and forgiveness, so that, for his own part, he would have held out to the very last. And truly, were it not better to be well buried under the ruins, he would say to himself, looking down at the side his great bulk, which added so much to the dismalness of the prospect of being, in his seventieth year, a prisoner or a wanderer. The latter a worse fate, even than the former, to be no longer the master of his own great house, of many willing servants, of already appliances for liberty and comfort, while the weight of his clumsy person must still hang about him, and his unfitness to carry the same go-on, increasing with the bulk to be carried. Such a prospect required something more, than loyalty to meet it with equanimity. To the young and strong, adventure ought always to be more attractive than ease, but none save those who are themselves within sight of old age, can truly imagine what an utter horror the breach of old habits and loss of old comforts is to the aged. But to the good Marquis it was consolation enough to repeat to himself the text from his precious Vulgate, skim his innum. For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved we have a building of God, and house not made with hands eternal in the heavens. For the ladies, so long as their father chief was with them, they were at least not too anxious. Whatever was done must be the right thing. And in the midst of tumult and threat they were content, if only their Edward had been with them too. But surrender, even when the iron shot was driving his stately house into showers of dirt, the Marquis found it hard indeed to contemplate. The eastern side of the stone court was now little better than a heap of rubbish, and the hour of assault could not be far off, although as yet there had been no second summons. But he could not forget that. Though the castle was his, it was not for himself, but for his king, he held it garrisoned. And how could he yield it without the approval of his sovereign? The governor shared in the same chivalry with his father, and was equally anxious for a word from the king. But that king was a prisoner in the hands of a hostile nation, and how was he to receive message or return answer? Nay, how were they to send message or receive answer, not knowing with certainty where his majesty was? And but presuming that he was still at Newcastle? And not to mention difficulties at every step of the way. Their house itself was so beset that no one could issue from these gates without risk of being stopped. Search detained until it should have fallen. For the besiegers knew well enough that Lord Glamorgan was still in Ireland, straining his utmost on behalf of the king. And what more likely than that he should, with the men he was still raising in Ireland, make some desperate attempt to turn the scales of war, striking first it might well be, for the relief of his father's castle? These things were all pretty freely spoken of in the family, and Dorothy understood the position of affairs as well as any one. And now at length it seemed to her that the hour had arrived for attempting some return for Raglan's hospitality. No service she had hithero stumble upon had any magnitude in her eyes but now, to be the bearer of dispatches to the king. It would suffice at least, even if it turned out a failure, to prove her not ungrateful. But she too had her confidant, and in the absence of Lord Glamorgan would consult with Caspar. Meantime the Marquis had made matters worse by sending a request to Colonel Morgan that he would grant safe passage for a messenger to the king, without whose command he was not at liberty to surrender the place. The answer was to the effect that they acknowledged no jurisdiction of the king in the business, and that the Marquis might keep his mind easy, as far as his supposed duty to his majesty was concerned, for they would so compel a surrender that there could be no reflection upon him for making it. Caspar, fearful of the dangers she would have to encounter, sought to dissuade Dorothy from her meditated proposal. But feebly for every one who had anything noble in his nature, and Caspar had more than his share, was influenced by the magnanimity that ruled the place. Indeed, he told her one thing which served to clench her resolution, that there was a secret way out of the castle, provided by his master Glamorgan for communication during siege. More he was not at liberty to disclose. Dorothy went straight to the Marquis and laid her plan before him, which was that she should make her escape to Wyfern, and thence, tended by an old servant, set out to seek the king. There is no longer time, alas! returned to the Marquis. I look for the final summons every hour. Could you not raise the report, my lord, that you have undermined the castle, and laid a huge quantity of gunpowder, with the determination of blowing it up the moment they enter? That would make them fall back upon blockade, and leave us a little time. Our provisions are not nearly exhausted, and when fodder fails we can eat the horses first. Thou art a brave lady, cousin Dorothy, said the Marquis, but if they caught, and searched thee, and found papers upon thee, it would go worse with us than before. Please, dear lordship, my lord Glamorgan once showed me such a comb as a lady might carry in her pocket, but so contrived that the head thereof was hollow and could contain dispatches. Me, thinks Caspar, could lay his hand on the comb. If I were but at Wyfern, and thither my little horse would carry me in less than an hour, giving all needful time for caution to my lord. By George, thou speakest well, cousin, said the Marquis, but who should attend thee? Let me have Tom Fool, my lord, for now have I thought of a betterment of my plan. He will guide me to his mother's house, by byways, and hence I can cross the fields to my own, as easily as the Great Hall, my lord. Tom Fool is a mighty coward, objected the Marquis. So much the better, my lord, he will not get me into trouble through displaying his manhood before me. He hath besides a face long enough for three round heads, and a tongue that can utter glibly enough what soundeth very like their jargon. Tom is the right fool to attend me, my lord. He can't ride, he never backed a horse in his life, I believe. No, no, Dorothy. Shafto is the man. Shafto is much too ready, my lord, he would ride over my hounds. I want Tom no farther than his mother's, and there will be no need for him to ride. Well, it is a brave offer, my child, and I will think thereupon, said his lordship. All the rest of the day the Marquis and Lord Charles, with two or three of the principal officers of House and Garrison, were in conference, and letters were written both to His Majesty and Lord Glamorgan. Before they were finally written out in cipher, Caltoff was sent for. The comb found, its contents gauged, and the paper cut to suit. About an hour after midnight, Dorothy, Lord Charles, and Caspar stood together in the workshop, waiting for Tom Ful, who had gone to fetch Dick from the stables. Dorothy had the comb in her pocket, she looked pale, but her gray eyes shone with courage and determination. She carried nothing but a whip, a keen little lamp borne by Caspar, was all their light. Presently they heard the sound of Dick's hooves on the bridge. A moment more and Tom led him in, both men and horse looking somewhat scared at the strangeness of the midnight proceeding. But Tom was notwithstanding, glad of the office, and ready to risk a good deal in order to get out of the castle, where he expected nothing milder at last than a general massacre. Lord Charles himself lifted foot after foot of the little horse to be satisfied that his shoes were sound, then made a sign to Caspar and gave his hand to Dorothy. Caspar took Dick by the bridle and led him up the wall, near the door. Lord Charles and Dorothy followed, but Tom, observing that they placed themselves within a chalk-drawn circle, hung back in terror. He fancied Caspar was going to raise the devil, yet he knew that within the circle was the only safety. A word from Dorothy turned the scale, and he stood trembling by her side. Nor was he greatly consoled to find that. As he now thought, instead of the devil coming to them, they were going to him. As, with the circle upon which they stood, they began to sink through a stone-faced shaft, slowly into the foundations of the keep. Dick also was frightened, but happily his faith was stronger than his imagination, and a word now and then from his mistress, and an occasional pat from her well-known hand, sufficed to keep him quiet. At the depth of about thirty feet they stopped and found themselves facing a ponderous door, studded and barred with iron. Caspar took from his pocket a key, about the size of a goose quill, felt about for a moment, and then with a slight movement of finger and thumb threw back a dozen ponderous bolts with a great echoing clang. The door slowly opened, and they entered a narrow vaulted passage of stone. Lord Charles took the lamp from Caspar and led the way with Dorothy. Tom Fool came next, and Caspar followed with Dick. The lamp showed, but a few feet of the walls and roof and revealed nothing in front until they had gone about a furlong, when it shone upon what seemed the live rock ending their way. But again Caspar applied the little key somewhere, and immediately a great mass of rock slowly turned on a pivot and permitted them to pass. When they were all on the other side of it, Lord Charles turned and held up the light. Dorothy turned also and looked. There was nothing to indicate once they had come. Before her was the rough rock, seemingly solid, certainly slimy and green, and over its face was flowing a tiny rivulet. See there, said Lord Charles, pointing up. That little stream comes the way thy dog Marky and the roundhead Haywood came and went, but I challenge anything larger than a rat to go now. Dorothy made no answer, and they went on again for some distance in a passage like the former. But soon arrived at the open quarry. Whence Tom knew, the way across the fields to the high road as well, he said, as the line of life on his own palm. Lord Charles lifted Dorothy to the saddle, said good luck and good-bye, and stood with Caspar watching as she rode up the steep ascent, until for an instant her form stood out dark against the sky, then vanished. When they turned and re-interred the castle. The Untoothed Some Plum It was a starry night with a threatening of moon-rise, and Dorothy was anxious to reach the cottage before it grew lighter. But they must not get into the high road at any near point than the last practicable, for then they would be more likely to meet soldiers, and dick-sweet to betray their approach. Overfield after field, therefore they kept on, as fast as Tom, now and then stopping to peer anxiously over the next fence or into a boundary ditch, could lead the way. At last they reached the place by the side of a bridge, where Marquis led Richard off the road, and there they scrambled up. Oh, Lord! cried Tom, and waked a sentry dozing on the low parapet. Who goes there? he cried, starting up and catching at his carbine, which leaned against the wall. Oh, Master! began Tom in a voice of terrified appeal, but Dorothy interrupted him. I am an honest woman of the neighborhood, she said. And thou wilt come home with me, I will afford thee a better bed than thou hast there, and also a better breakfast, I warn't thee, than thou had a supper. That is, and thou be one of the godly, supplemented Tom. I thank thee, Mistress, returned at the sentinel, but not for the indulgence of carnal appetite will I forsake my post. Who is he goeth with thee? A fellow whose wit is greater than his courage, and yet he goeth with many for a borne fool. A parlous coward he is, else might he now be fighting the malachites, with the sword of the Lord and of Gideon, yet in good soothe he serveth me well for the nonce. The sentry glanced at Tom, but could see little of him, except a long white oval, and Tom was now collected enough to put in exercise his best wisdom, which consisted in holding his tongue. Answer me, then, Mistress, how, being a godly woman, as I doubt not from thy speech thou art, thee rides thus late with none but a fool to keep the company? Knowest thou not that the country is full of soldiers? Whereof some, though that they be all true-hearted and right-minded men, would not may have carried themselves so civil to a woman as Corpo Bear Banner? And now I bethink me thou comest from the direction of Raglan. Here he drew himself up, summoned a voice from his chest, a story or two deeper, and asked in madge of sterile tone, Whence comest thou woman? And on what business gattest thou so late? I am coming from visiting at a friend's house, and I am now almost on my own farm. Answered Dorothy. The man turned to Tom, and Dorothy began to regret she had brought him. He was trembling visibly, and his mouth was wide open with terror. See, she said, how thy gruff voice terrifyeth the innocent, if now he should fall in a fit thou wert to blame. As she spoke she put her hand in her pocket, and taking from it her untoothsome plum popped it into Tom's mouth. Instantly he began to make such strange uncouth noises that the sentinel thought he had indeed terrified him into a fit. I must get him straight away home. Good night, friend. Said Dorothy, and giving Dick the rain, she was off like the wind, heedless of the shouts of the sentinel, or the feeble cries of pursuing Tom, who, if he could not fight, could run. Following his mistress at great speed, he was instantly lost in the darkness, and the sentinel, who had picketed his horse in a neighboring field, sat down again on the parapet of the bridge, and began to examine all that Dorothy had said, with a wondrous inclination to discover the strong points in it. Having galloped a little way, Dorothy drew bridle and halted her Tom. As soon as he came up she released him, and telling him to lay hold of Dick's mane and run alongside kept him at a fast trot all the way to his mother's house. The moon had risen before they reached it, and Dorothy was therefore glad, when she dismounted up the gate, to think she need ride no further. But while Tom went into Rouse's mother, she let Dick have a few bites of the grass before taking him into the kitchen. Lest of the roundheads should find him. The next moment, however, out came Tom in terror, saying there was a man in his mother's closet, and he feared the roundheads were in possession. Then take care of thyself, Tom, said Dorothy, and mounting instantly she made Dick scramble up into the fields that lay between the cottage and her own house, and set off at full speed across the grass in the moonlight, in ethereal pleasure, which not even an anxious secret could blast. Through a gap in the hedge she had just popped into the second field, when she heard the click of a flintlock, and a voice she thought she knew ordering her to stand, within a few yards of her was again a roundhead soldier. If she rode away he would fire at her, that mode of escape therefore she would keep for a last chance. The moon by this time was throwing an unclouded light from more than half a disc upon the field. Keeping a sharp eye upon the man's movements, she allowed him to come within a pace or two. But the moment he would have taken, Dick by the bridle, she was three or four yards away. Bright not my horse-friend, she said, but how, she added, suddenly remembering him, is it possible? Master up still. Gently, gently little Dick, Master up still is an old friend. What, hast thou to turn soldier? Left thy last and lap stone and turned soldier, Master up still? I have left all and followed him, Mistress, answered Castown. Art sure he called thee, Master up still? I heard him with my own ears. Called thee to be a shedder of blood, Master up still? Called me to be a fisher of men, and thee I catch, Mistress. Thus returned the man, stepping quickly forward and making another grasp at Dick's bridle. It was all Dorothy could do to keep herself from giving him a smart blow across the face with her whip and riding off. But she gave Dick the cut instead, and sent him yards away. Poor Dick, poor Dick, she said patting his neck. Be quiet, Master up still, we'll do thee no wrong. Be quiet, little man. As she thus talked to her genet, up still again drew near, now more surly than at first. Say, what manner of woman art thou? He demanded with pompous anger. Whence comes thou and withered does thee go? Home, answered Dorothy. What place calls thee home? Why, does not know me, Master up still? When I was a little one, thou didst make my shoes for me. I trust it will be forgiven me, Mistress. Truly, I had nair made shoe for thee, and I had foreseen what thee would come to. For I make no farther doubt, thou art a consortor with malignance, harlots, and pappas. Again he clutched at her bridle, and this time, whether it was Dorothy or Dick's fault, with success, Dorothy dropped the bridle down, put her hand in her pocket, struck Dick smartly with her whip, and as he reared in consequence, drew it across up still's eyes, and so found the chance of administering her bolus. It was thoroughly effective. The fellow left his hold of the bridle, and began a series of efforts to remove it, which rapidly grew wilder and wilder, until it lasted gestures for those of a maniac. There, she cried, as she bounded from him, take thy first lesson in good manners. No one can rid thee of that mouthful, which is as thy evil words returned to choke thee. Thou hadst better keep me in sight, she added, as she gave Dick his head, for no one else can free thee. Up still ceased his futile efforts, caught up his carbine, and fired, not without risk to Dorothy, for he was far too wrathful to take the aim that would have ensured her safety. But she wrote on unhurt, meditating how to secure up still, when she got him to waifern. Whether she doubted not, he would follow her. Her difficulties were not yet passed, however, for just as she reached her own ground, she was once again met by the order to stand. This time it came in a voice which, notwithstanding the anxiety it brought with it, was almost as welcome as well known, and yet made her tremble for the first time that night. It was the voice of Richard Haywood. Dick also seemed to know it, for he stood without a hint from his mistress, while, through the last hedge that parted her from the little yet remaining of the property of her fathers, came the man she loved, an enemy between her and her own. The Marquis's request to be allowed to communicate with the King had been an unfortunate one. It increased suspicion of all kinds, rendered the various reports of the Landing of the Irish Army, under Lord Glamorgan, more credible, roused the resolution to render all communication impossible, and led to the drawing of a cordon around the place that not a soul should pass unquestioned. The measure would indeed have been unveiling had the garrison been as able as formerly to make sallies, but ever since Colonel Morgan received his reinforcement the issuing troopers had been invariably met at but a few yards from home, and immediately driven in again by largely superior numbers. Still the cordon required a good many more men than the besieging party could well spare without too much weakening their positions, and they had therefore sought the aid of all the gentlemen of Puritan politics in the vicinity, and of course that of Mr. Haywood. With the men his father sent, Richard himself offered his services, in the hope that, at the coming fall of the stronghold, he might have a chance of being useful to Dorothy. They had given the cordon a wide extension, in order that an issuing messenger might not perceive his danger until he was too far from the castle to regain it, and then by capturing him might acquire information. Hence it came that post could be assigned to Richard and his men within such a distance of redware as admitted of their being with their own people went off duty. This is a LibriVox recording. While LibriVox recordings are in the public domain, for more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. St. George and St. Michael, Volume 3 by George McDonald. Faithful foes. Hearing up still shot, and then dicks hosed on the sword, Richard fortunately judged well and took the right direction. What was his astonishment and delight when, passing hurriedly through the hedge in the expectation of encountering a cavalier, he saw Dorothy mounted on dick. What form but hers had been filling soul and brain when he was startled by the shot? And there she was before him. He felt like one who knows the moon is weaving a dream in his brain. Dorothy, he murmured tremblingly, and his voice sounded to him like that of someone speaking far away. He drew nearer, as one might approach a beloved ghost, anxious not to scare her. He laid his hand on dick's neck, half fearful of finding him but a shadow. Richard, said Dorothy, looking down on him benign as Diana up on endymion. Then suddenly, at her voice and the assurance of her bodily presence, a great wave from the ocean of duty broke thunderous on the shore of his consciousness. Dorothy, I am bound to question thee, he said, whence come as thou, and wither art thou bound? If I should refuse to answer thee, Richard, return Dorothy with a smile. Then must I take thee to headquarters, and be think thee, Dorothy, how that would cut me to the heart. The moon shone full upon his face, and Dorothy saw the end of a great scar that came from under his hat down unto his forehead. Then will I answer thee, Richard, she said, with a strange trembling in her voice. I come from Raglan, and wither art going, Dorothy, to Wyfern. On what business? Were it then so wonderful, Richard, if I should desire to be at home, seeing Wyfern is now safer than Raglan? It was for safety I went thither, thou knowest. It might not be wonderful in another, Dorothy, but in thee it were truly wonderful. For now are they of Raglan thy friends, and thou art a brave woman, and lovest thy friends. I would not believe it of thee, even from the mouth of thy mother. Confess thou bearest about thee, that thou wouldest not willingly show me. Dorothy, as if in embarrassment, drew from her pocket her handkerchief, and with it a comb which fell on the ground. Prithee, Richard, pick me up my comb, she said. Then, answering his question, continued, No, I have nothing about me I would not show thee, Richard. Will thou take my word for it? When she had spoken she held out her hand, and receiving from him the comb, replaced it in her pocket, but a keen pang of remorse went through her heart. I am a man under authority, said Richard, and my orders will not allow me. Besides, thou knowest, Dorothy, although it involves such questions in casuistry, as I cannot meet, men say thou art not bound to tell the truth to thine enemy. And thou be mine enemy, Richard, then must thou satisfy thyself, said Dorothy, trying to speak in a tone of offense. But while she sat there looking at him, it seemed as if her heart were floating on the top of a great wave out somewhere in the moonlight, yet the conscious dog was awake in his kennel. Richard stood for a moment in silent perplexity. Will thou swear to me, Dorothy, he said at length, that thou hast no papers about thee, neither are the bearer of news or request or sign to any of the king's party? Richard returned, Dorothy, thou hast thyself taken from my words the credit. I say to thee again, satisfy thyself. Dorothy, what am I to do? he cried. Thy duty, Richard, she answered. My duty is to search thee, he said. Dorothy was silent. Her heart was beating terribly, but she would see the end of the path she had taken ere she would think of turning. And she would, trust Richard. Would she then have him fail of his duty? Would she have the straight-going Richard's whore? Even in the face of her maddenly fears she would encounter anything rather than Richard should for her sake be false. But Richard would not turn aside. Neither would he shame her. He would find some way. Do then thy duty, Richard, she said, and sliding from her saddle she stood before him, one hand grasping Dick's mane. There was no defiance in her tone. She was, but submitting, assured of deliverance. What was Richard to do? Never men was more perplexed. He dared not let her pass. He dared no more touch her than if she had been Luna herself standing there. He would not had he dared, and yet he must. She was silent, seemed to herself cruel, and began bitterly to accuse herself. She saw his hazel eyes slowly darken. Then began the glitter. Was it with gathering tears? The glitter grew and overflowed. The man was weeping. The tenderness of their common childhood rushed back upon her in a great wave out of the past, ran into the rising billow of present passion, and swelled it up till it towered and broke. She threw her arm round his neck and kissed him. He stood in a dumb ecstasy. Then terror lest you should think she was tempting him to brave his conscience overpowered her. Richard, do thy duty. Regard not me, she cried in anguish. Richard gave a strange laugh as he answered. There was a time when I had doubted the sun in heaven as soon as thy word, Dorothy. This is surely an evil time. Tell me, yea or nay, hast thou misest through the king or any of his people? Paltr not with me. But such an appeal was what Dorothy would least willingly encounter, the necessity yet difficulty of escaping it stimulated the wits that had been overcrowded by feeling. A light appeared. She broke into a real merry laugh. What a pair of fools we are, Richard, she said. Is there never an honest woman of that persuasion near one who would show me no favor? Let such an one search me and tell thee the truth. Doubtless answered Richard, laughing very differently now at his stupidity, yet immediately committing a blunder. There is Mother Reese. What a baby thou art, Richard, Richard and Dorothy. She is as good a friend of mine as of thine and would doubtless favor the wiles of the woman. True, true, thou wast always the keener of wit, Dorothy, as we come with the woman. What saith thou then to dame up still? She is even now at the farm there, when she watches over her husband while he watches over Raglan. Will she answer thy turn? She will, replied Dorothy, and that she may show me no favor. Here comes her husband, who shall bear witness against thee, shall rouse in her all the malice of vengeance for her injured spouse, whom for his evil language, as thou shalt see, I have so silenced as neither thou nor any man can restore him to speech. While she spoke, up still, who had followed his enemy as this whole hope of deliverance, drew near in such plight as the dignity of narrative refuses to describe. Up still, said Richard, what meaneth this? Wherefore hast thou left thy post? And above all, wherefore hast thou permitted this lady to pass unquestioned? Sounds of gurgling strangulation with other cognate noises was all of still's response. Indeed, Mr. Haywood said, Dorothy, he was so far from neglecting his duty and allowing me to pass unquestioned, that he insulted me grievously, avaringly I consorted with malignant rogues and pampers and worse, the which drove me to punish him as thou siest. Cast down, up still, thou hast shamed thy regiment, carrying thyself thus to a gentlewoman, said Richard. Then he fired his carbine after me, said Dorothy. That may have been but his duty, returned Richard. And worst of all, continued Dorothy. He said that had he known what I should go to, he would never have made shoes for me when I was an infant. Think on that, Master Haywood. Ask the lady to pardon the upstill. I can do nothing for thee, said Richard. Up still would have knelt, in lack of other motive petitions strong enough to express the fervor of his desires for release, but Dorothy was content to see him punished and would not see him degraded. Nay, Master Upstill, she said, I desire not that thou shouldest take the measure of my foot tonight. Prithee, Master Haywood, wilt thou venture thy fingers in the godly man's mouth for me? Here is a key of the toy, a sucket which will pass neither teeth nor throat. I warrant thee were no evil thing for many a married woman to possess. I will give thee with no merriest, Master Haywood, though, good soothe, it were hardly fair to my kind. So saying, she took a ring from her finger, raised from it a key, and directed Richard how to find his hole in the plum. There, follow us now to the farm, and find thy wife, for we need her aim, said Richard, as he drew by the key the little steel instrument from Upstill's mouth, and restored him to the general body of the articulate. Thereupon he took take by the bridle, and Dorothy and he walked side by side, as if they had been still boy and girl as of old, for of old it already seemed. As they went, Richard watched both plum and ring in the dewy grass, and restored them, putting their ring upon her finger. With better light I will one day show thee how that they worketh, she said, thanking him. Holding it thus by the ends thou seeest it will bear to be pressed, but remove thy finger and thumb, and straight upon a touch it shouldeth its stings in all directions. And yet another day, when these troubles are over, and honest fault need no longer fight each other, I will give it thee, Richard. Would that day were here, Dorothy? But what can honest people do, while St. George and St. Michael are themselves at odds? May have it but seemest so, and they bet dispute across the eulog, said Dorothy, and men down here, like the dogs about the fire, take it up and follow a whoring each other. But the end will crown all. This crown some, I fear, said Richard to himself. As they reached the farmhouse, it was growing light. Up still fetched his dame from her bed in a halo, and Richard told her, in formal and authoritative manner, what he required of her. I will search her, answer the dame from between her closed teeth. Mistress Vaughn, said Richard, if she offer the evil words, give her the same lesson thou gave us her husband. If all tales be true, she is not beyond the need of it. Search her well, Mistress, up still. But show her no rudeness, for she hath the power to avenge it in a parlous manner, having gone to school to my Lord Herbert of Raglan. Not the less must thou search her well, else will I look upon thee as no better than one of the malignants. The woman cast a glance of something very like hate, but mingled with fear upon Dorothy. I like not the business, Captain Haywood, she said. Yet the business must be done, Mistress, up still. And hark ye, for every paper thou findest upon her, I will give thee its weight in gold. I care not what it is. Bring it hither, and the dame's better scales with all. I warrant thee, Captain, she returned. Come with me, Mistress, and show what thou hast about thee. But, good soothe, I would this sun or up. She led the way to the rickyard, and round towards the sunrise. It was the month of August, and several new ricks already stood facing the east, yellow, and beginning to glow like a second dawn. Between the two, Mistress up still began her search, which she made more thorough than agreeable, Dorothy submitted without complaint. At last, as she was giving up the quest in despair, her eyes or her fingers discovered a little opening inside the prisoner bodies, and there, sure enough, was a pocket, and in the pocket a sip of paper she drew it out in triumph. That is nothing, said Dorothy, give it to me, and with flushed face she made a snatch at it. Holy Mary cried dame up still, whose Protestantism was of doubtful date, and thrust the paper into her own bosom. That paper hath nothing to do with state affairs, I protest, expostulated Dorothy. I will give thee ten times his weight in gold for it. But Mistress up still had other passions beside avarice, and was not greatly tempted by the offer. She took Dorothy by the arm and said, and thou come not quickly, I will cry that all the parish shall hear me. I tell thee, Mistress up still, on the oath of a Christian woman, it is but a private letter of my own, and beareth nothing upon affairs. Prithee, read a word or two, and satisfy thyself. Nay, Mistress, truly I will pry into no secrets that belong not to me, said the serger, who could read no word of writing or print, either. This paper is no longer thine, and mine it never was. It belongeth to the High Court of Parliament, and go astray to Captain Haywood, whom I will inform concerning the bribe wherewith thou did seek to corrupt the conscience of a godly woman. Dorothy saw there was no help, and yielded to the grasp of the dame, who led her like a culprit with burning cheek back to her judge. When Richard saw them, his heart sank within him. What hast thou found, he asked roughly. I have found that which young Mistress here would have had me cover with a bribe of ten times that your honor promised me for it, answered the woman. She had it in her bosom, hid in a pocket little bigger than a crown piece inside her bodice. Ha! Mistress Dorothy! Is this true? asked Richard, turning on her a face of distress. It is true, answered Dorothy, with downcast eyes. Far more ashamed, however, of that which had not been discovered, and which might have justified Richard's look, than of that which he now held in his hand. Prithee, she added, do not read it till I am gone. That may hardly be, returned Richard almost suddenly. Upon this paper it may depend whether thou go at all. Believe me, Richard, it hath no importance, she said, and her blushes deepened. I would thou wits believe me? But as she said it, her conscience smote her. Richard returned no answer, neither did he open the paper, but stood with his eyes fixed on the ground. Dorothy, meantime, strove to quiet her conscience, saying to herself, It matters not. I must marry him one day, and he will now have me. Have not the woman told him where the silly paper was hid? And when I am married to him, then will I tell him all, and doubtless he will forgive me. Nay, nay, I must tell him first, for he might not then wish to have me. Lord, Lord, what a time of lying it is. Sure for myself I am no better than one of the wicked. But now, Richard, slowly, reluctantly, with eyes averted, open the paper, stood for an instant motionless, then suddenly raised it and looked at it. His face changed at once from midnight to morning, and the sunrise was red. He put the paper to his lips and thrust it inside his doublet. It was his own letter to her by Marquis. She had not thought to remove it from the place where she had carried it ever since receiving it. And now, Master Haywood, I may go where I will, said Dorothy, venturing a half-rogish but wholly shame-faced glance at him. But Dame Upstale was looking on, and Richard therefore brought as much of the midnight as would obey orders, back over his countenance as he answered. Nay, Mistress, and we had found ought upon the upgrade of consequence it might have made a question, but this hardly accounts for thy mission. Doubtless thou bearest thy message in thy mind. What? Thou wilt not let me go to Wyfern, to my own house, Master Haywood? said Dorothy, in a tone of disappointment, for her heart now at length began to fail her. Not until right then is ours, answered Richard. Then shalt thou go where thou wilt, and go where thou wilt, there will I follow thee, Dorothy. From the last clause of this speech he diverted Mistress Upstale's attention by throwing her a gold noble, an indignity which the woman rightly resented, but stooped for the money. Go tell thy husband that I wait him here, he said. Thou shalt follow me no wither, said Dorothy angrily. Wherefore should not I go to Wyfern in thereby? Thou canst there watch her whom thou trustest not. Who can tell what manner a person might not creep to Wyfern, to whom there might messages be given, or whom thou mightest send, credenced by secret word or sign? Wither then am I to go, asked Dorothy, with dignity. Alas, Dorothy, answered Richard, there is no help. I must take thee to Raglan, but comfort thyself. Soon shalt thou go where thou wilt. Dorothy marveled at her own resignation the while she rode with Richard back to the castle. Her scheme was a failure, but through no fault, and she could bear anything with composure except blame. A word from Richard to Colonel Morgan was sufficient. A messenger with a flag of truce was sent instantly to the castle, and the firing on both sides ceased. The messenger returned, the gate was open, and Dorothy re-entered defeated, but bringing her secrets back with her. Tit for Tat said the marquee when she had recounted her adventures. Thou and the round head are well matched. There is no avoiding it, cousin. It is your fate, as clear as if your two horoscopes had run into one. Mind thee, hearts are older than crowns, and love outlifts all but leasing. All but leasing, repeated Dorothy to herself, and the but was bitter. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. St. George and St. Michael, Volume 3 by George McDonald. Scudamore was now much better, partly from the influence of reviving hopes with regard to Dorothy, for his disposition was such that he deceived himself in the direction of what he counted advantage. Not like Haywood, who was ever ready to believe what it matters personal but told against him. Tom Fool had just been boasting of his exploit in escaping from Rieglund, and expressing his conviction that Dorothy, whom he had valiantly protected, was safe at Wyvern, and Rowland was in consequence dressing as fast as he could to pay her a visit, when Tom caught sight of Richard riding towards the cottage and jumping up, ran into the chimney corner beyond his mother, who was busy with Scudamore's breakfast. She looked from the window and spied the cause of his terror. Silly Tom, she said, for she still treated him like a child, notwithstanding her boastful belief in his high position and merits, he will not harm me. There never was hurt in a Haywood. Treason, flat treason which cried the voice of Scudamore from the closet. Thee of all men, Sir Rowland, has no cost to say so, returned Mistress Ries, but come and break that fast while he talks to thee, and save the precious time which runneth so fast away. I might as well be in my grave for any value it hath to me, said Rowland, who was for the moment in a bad mood. His hope and his faith were ever ready to fall out, and a twinge in his shoulder was enough to set them jarring. Here comes Master Haywood anyhow, said the old woman, as Richard, leaving Lady at the gate, came striding up the walk in his great-found boots. And I pray you, Sir Rowland, to let bygones be bygones, for my sake, if not for your own, lest thou bring the vengeance of General Fairfax upon my poor house. Fairfax, cried Scudamore, is that villain come hither? Sir Thomas Fairfax arrived two days ago, answered Mistress Ries. Alas, it is but too sure a sign that for Raglan the end is near. Good morrow, Mother Ries, said Richard, looking in at the door, radiant as an apollo. The same moment out came Scudamore from the closet, pale as a dying moon. I want my horse, Haywood, he cried, dating no preliminaries. Thy horse is that red-wear, Scudamore. I carry him not in my pocket. I saw him yesterday. His flesh has swallowed a good many of his bones since I looked on him last. What wouldest thou with him? What is that to thee? Let me have him. Softly, Sir Rowland, it is true I promise thee thy liberty, but liberty doth not necessarily include a horse. Thou was never better than a shifting phonetic, cried Sir Rowland. And I served thee as befitted. Thou shouldst never see thy horse again, return Richard. Yet I promise thee that so soon as Raglan hath fallen, he shall again be dined. Nay, I care not. Tell me whither thou goest, and… Ha! Aren't thou there? He cried, interrupting himself as he caught sight of Tom in the chimney corner, and pausing, he stood silent for a moment. Wouldest thou like to hear, thou rascal, he resumed presently, that Mr. Storthy Vaughn got safe to wafer in this morning? God be praised, said Tom Foole, but thou shalt not hear it. I will tell thee better, if less welcome news, that I come from conducting her back to Raglan in safety, and have seen its gates close upon her. Thou shalt have thy horse, Sir Rowland, and not can wait for him an hour. But for thy ride to Waifern, that, thou seest, would not avail thee. Thy cousin rode by here this morning, it is true, but, as I say, she is now within Raglan walls, whence she will not issue again until the soldiers of the Parliament enter. It is no treason to tell thee that General Fairfax is about to send his final summons, ere he stormed the rampart. Then mayest thou keep the horse, for I will back to Raglan on foot, said Scudamore. Nay, that wilt thou not, for not greatly larger than a mouse can any more pass through the lines. Thus think, because I said back thy cousin, Dorothy, that she should work mischief outside the walls, I will therefore send thee back to work mischief within them. And thou art the man who professes to love Mr. Storthy, cried Scudamore with content. Hark thee, Sir Raglan, and for thy good I will tell thee more. It is but just that, as I told thee my doubts, whence thou didest draw hope, I should now tell thee my hopes, whence thou mayest do well to draw a little doubt. Thou art a mean and treacherous villain, cried Scudamore. Thou art to blame in speaking that thou dost not believe, Sir Raglan, but wilt thou have thy horse or no? No, I will remain where I am until I hear the worst. Or come home with me, where thou wilt hear it yet sooner, thou shalt taste a brownhead's hospitality. I scorn thee in thy false friendship, cried Raglan, and turning again into the closet he bolted the door. That same morning a great iron ball struck the marble horse on his proud head and flung it in fragments over the court. From his neck the water bubbled up bright and clear, like the lifeblood of the wounded whiteness. Poor Molly, said the Marquis, when he looked from his study window, then smiled at his pity. Lord Charles entered. A messenger had come from General Fairfax, demanding a surrender in the name of the Parliament. If they had but gone on a little longer, Charles, they might have saved us the trouble, said his lordship, for there would have been nothing left to surrender. But I will consider the proposal, he added. Pray tell Sir Thomas that whatever I do, I look first to have it approved of the King. But there was no longer the shadow of a question as to submission. All that was left was but the arrangement of conditions. The Marquis was aware that Captain Hooper's trenches were rapidly approaching the rampart. That six great mortars through throwing shells had been gotten to position, and that resistance would be the nearest folly. Various meetings, therefore, of commissioners appointed on both sides through the settling of the terms of submission took place. And at last, on the 15th of August, they were finally arranged and the surrender fixed for the 17th. The interval was a sad time. All day long, peers were flowing. The ladies doing their best to conceal the servants to display them. Everyone was busy gathering together what personal effects might be carried away. It was especially a sad time for Lord Lamorgan's children, for they were old enough not merely to love the place, but to know that they loved it. And the thought that the sacred things of their home were about to pass into other hands, roused in them wrath and indignation as well as grief. For their sense of property is, in the minds of children who have been born and brought up in the midst of family possessions, perhaps stronger than in the minds of their elders. As the son was going down on the evening of the 16th, Dorothy, who had been helping now one and now another of the ladies all day long, having, indeed, little of her own to demand her attention, Dick and Marquis being almost her sole valuables, came from the keep and was crossing the fountain court to her old room on its western side. Everyone was busy indoors, and the place up here deserted. There was a stillness in the air that sounded awful. For so many weeks it had been shattered with roar upon roar, and now the guns had ceased to bellow, leaving a sense of vacancy and doubt, an oppression of silence. The hum that came from the lines outside seemed but to enhance the stillness within. But the sunlight lived on sweet and calm, as if all was well. It seemed to promise that wrath and ruin would pass, and leave no lasting desolation behind them. Yet she could not help heaving a great sigh, and the tears came streaming down her cheeks. Tutt, tutt, cousin, wiped thine eyes, the drear old house is now worth such bright tears. Dorothy turned and saw the Marquis seated on the edge of the marble basin, under the headless horse, whose blood seemed still too well from his truncated form. She saw also that, although his words were cheerful, his lip quivered. It was some little time before she could compose herself sufficiently to speak. I marvel your lordship is so calm, she said. Come hither, Dorothy, you return kind me, and sit thee down by my side. Thou wast right good to my little Molly. Thou hast been a ministering angel to Ragman and its people. I did thee wrong, and thou forgaveeth me with a whole heart. Thou hast returned me good for evil tenfold, and for all this I love thee, and therefore will I now tell thee what maketh me quiet at heart, for I am as thou seest me, and my heart is as my countenance. I have lived my life and have now but to die my death. I am thankful to have lived, and I hope to live hereafter. Goodness and mercy went before my birth, and goodness and mercy will follow my death. For the elves of this life, if there was no silence there would be no music. Ignorance is a spur to knowledge. Darkness is a pavilion for the Almighty, and foiled to the painter to make his shadows. So are afflictions good for our instruction, and adversities for our amendment. As for the article of death, shall I shun to me what she lay in my bosom hath passed through? And look, you fair damsel, thou whose body is sweet and cuddling to behold, wherefore should I not rejoice to depart? When I see my house lying in ruins about me, I look down upon this ugly, overgrown body of mine, the very foundation where I'll crumble from beneath me, and I thank God it is but a tent, and no enduring house, even like this house of writhing, which yet will ere long be a dwelling of owls and foxes. Very soon will death pull out the tenpents and let me fly, and therefore am I glad. For, fair damsel Dorothy, although it may be hard for thee, beholding me as I am, to comprehend it, I like to be old and ugly as little as would as thou, and my heart, I verily think, is little older than I own. One day, please God, I shall yet be clothed upon with the house that is from heaven, nor shall I hopper with gouty feet over the golden pavement, if so be that my sins or pass not mercy. Pray for me, Dorothy, my daughter, for my end is nigh that I find at length the bosom of Father Abraham. As he ended, a slow flower of music bloomed out upon the silence from under the fingers of the blind youth hid in the stone shell of the chapel, and, doubtful at first, its fragrance filled at length the whole sunset air. It was the music of a new domestic of Palestrina. Dorothy knelt and kissed the old man's hand, then rose and went weeping to her chamber, leaving him still seated by the broken yet flowing fountain. Of all who prepared to depart, Kaspar Koltov was the busiest. What best things of his masters he could carry with him he took, but a multitude he left to a more convenient opportunity, in the hope of which, alone and unaided, he sunk his precious cabinet and a chest besides, filled with curious inventions and favorite tools in the secret shaft. But the most valued of all, the fire engine, he could not take and would not leave. He stopped the fountain of the white horse, once more set the water-commanding slave to work, and filled the cistern until he heard it roar in the waste pipe. Then he extinguished the fire, and let the furnace cool, and when Dorothy entered the workshop for the last time to take her mournful leave of the place, there lay the bones of the mighty creatures scattered over the floor. Here a pipe, there a bell, here a piston, and there a cock. Nothing stood but the furnace and the great pipes that ran up the grooves in the wall outside, between which there was scarce a hint of connection to be perceived. Mistress Dorothy, he said, my master is the greatest man and christened him, but the world is stupid and will forgive him because it never knew him. Amongst her treasures, chief of them all, even before the gifts of her husband, Lady Glamorgan carried with her the last garments, from sleeve ribbons to dainty little shoes and rosettes worn by her molly. Dr. Bailey carried a bag of papers and sermons with his doctor's gown and hood, and his best suit of clothes. The marquee, with his own hand, put up his vulgate, and left his gower behind. Ever since the painful proofs of its failure with the king, he had felt, if not a dislike, yet a painful repugnance to the volume, and had never opened it. It was a troubled night, the last they spent in the castle. Not many slept, but the lord of it had long understood that what could cease to be his never had been his, and slept like a child. Dr. Bailey, who in his loving anxiety had managed to get hold of his key, crept in at midnight, and found him fast asleep, and again in the morning, and found him not yet awake. When breakfast was over, proclamation was made that at nine o'clock there would be prayers in the chapel for the last time, and that the marquee desired all to be present. When the hour arrived, he entered leaning on the arm of Dr. Bailey. Dorothy followed with the ladies of the family. Young Delaware was in his place, and, with organ voice and voice of Psalms, praise and prayer arose for the last time from the house of Ragnon. All warrantiers saved the marquee. A smile played about his lips, and he looked like a child giving away his toy. Sir Toby Matthews tried hard to speak to his flock, but broke down and had to yield the attend. When the services were over, the marquee rose and said, Master Delaware, once more play thy newt de Mitis, and so meet me everyone in the hall. Thither the marquee himself walked first, and on the dais seated himself in his chair-state, with his family and friends around him, and the officers of his household waiting. On one side of him stood Sir Roth Blackstone, with a bag of gold, and on the other Mr. George Wharton, the clerk of the accounts, with a larger bag of silver. Then each of the servants, in turn, according to position, was called before him by name, and with his own hand the marquee dipping now into one bag, now into the other, gave to each a small present in view of coming necessities. They had the day before received their wages. To each he wished a kind farewell, to some adding a word of advice or comfort. He then handed the bags to the governor, and told him to distribute their contents according to his judgment amongst the garrison. Last he ordered everyone to be ready to follow him from the gates the moment the clock struck the hour of noon, and went to his study. When Lord Charles came to tell him that all were marshaled, and everything ready for departure, he found him kneeling, but he rose with more of agility than he had for a long time been able to show, and followed his son. With slow pace he crossed the courts and hall, which were silent as gray, bending his steps to the main entrance. The portcullises were up, the gates wide open, the drawbridge down, all silent and deserted. The white stair was also vacant, and in solemn silence the marquee descended, leaning on Lord Charles. But beneath was a gallant show, yet, for all its color and shine, mournful enough. At the foot of the stair stood four carriages, each with six horses in glittering harness, and behind them all the officers of the household and all the guests on horseback. Next came the garrison music of drums and trumpets, then the men served on foot, and the women, some on foot and some in wagons with the children. After them came the wagons loaded with such things as they were permitted to carry with them. These were followed by the principal officers of the garrison, colonels and captains, accompanied by their troops, consisting mostly of squires and gentlemen, to the number of about 200 on horseback. Last came the foot soldiers of the garrison and those who had lost their horses, in all some 500, stretching far away, round towards the citadel, beyond the site. Colors were flying and weapons glittering, and though all was silence except for the pining of a horse here and there, and the ringing of chain bridles, everything looked like an ordered march of triumph rather than a surrender and evacuation. Still there was a something in the silence that seemed to tell the true tale. In the front carriage were Lady Glamorgan and the ladies Elizabeth, Anne and Mary. In the carriage behind came their gentlemen and their lady visitors with their immediate attendants. Dorothy, manning on deck, with Marquis chain fastened to the pommel of her saddle, followed the last carriage beside her broad young Delaware and his father, the master of the horse. Open the white gate, said the Marquis from the stair as he descended. The great clock of the castle struck and with the last stroke of the twelfth came the blast of a trumpet from below. Answer trumpets cried the Marquis. The governor repeated the order and a tremendous blare followed in which the drums unbidden joined. This was the signal to the orders at the brick gate and they flung its two leaves wide apart. Another blast from below and in marched on horseback general Fairfax with his staff, followed by three hundred foot. The latter drew up on each side of the brick gate while the general and his staff went on to the marble gate. As soon as he appeared within it, the Marquis, who had halted in the midst of his descent, came down to meet them. He bowed to the general and said, I would it were as a guest I received you, Sir Thomas, for then might I honestly bid you welcome, but that I cannot do when you so shake my poor nest that you shake the birds out of it. But though I cannot bid you welcome, I will not withstanding hardly bid you farewell, Sir Thomas, and I thank you for your courtesy to me in mind. This note of right then was, I believe, the last you had to crack. Amen. Gods will be done. The general returned civil answer and the Marquis, again bowing graciously, advanced to the foremost carriage, the door of which was held for him by Sir Ralph, the steward, while Lord Charles stood by to assist his father. The moment he had entered, the two gentlemen mounted the horses held for them one on each side of the carriage. Lord Charles gave the word. The trumpets once more uttered a loud cry. The Marquis moved. The rest followed, and in slow procession, Lord Worchester and his people, passing through the gates, left forever the house of Raglan, and in his heart Henry Somerset bade the world goodbye. General Fairfax and his company ascended the great white stair, crossed them out on the drawbridge, passed under the double-port collar sent through the gates, and so entered the deserted court. All was frightfully still. The windows stared like dead eyes. The very houses seemed dead. Nothing alive was visible except one scared cat. The cannonade had driven away all the pigeons, and a tile had killed the patriarch of the peacocks. They entered the great hall and admired its goodly proportions, while not a few expressions of regret for the destruction of such a magnificent house escaped them. Then as soldiers they proceeded to examine the ruins and distinguish the results wrought by the different batteries. Gentlemen, said Sir Thomas, had the walls been as strong as the towers we should have been still sitting in Yonderfield. In the meantime the Army Commissioner, Thomas Herbert by name, was busy securing with the help of his men the papers and valuables, and making an inventory of such goods as he considered worth removing for sale in London. Having satisfied his curiosity with a survey of the place, and left a guard to receive orders from Mr. Herbert, the General mounted again and rode to Chepstow, where there was a grand entertainment that evening to celebrate the fall of Raglan, the last of the strongholds of the King. End of Chapter 54, Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona Chapter 55 of St. George and St. Michael, Volume 3 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. St. George and St. Michael, Volume 3 by George MacDonald R. I. P. As the sad shining company of the marquee went from the gates, running at full speed to overtake the rear, air it should have passed through, came Kaspar, and mounting the horse led for him, rode near Dorothy. As they left the gate, a horseman joined the procession from outside. Pale and worn, with bent head and sad face, Sir Relan Scudamore fell into the ranks amongst his friends of the garrison and with them rode in silence. Many a look did Dorothy cast around her as she rode, but only once, on the crest of a grassy hill that rose up from the highway a few miles from Raglan, did she catch sight of Richard mounted on Lady, all her life after, as often as trouble came, that figure rose against the sky of her inner world, and was to her a type of the sleepless watch of the universe. Soon, from flank and rear, in this direction and that, each to some haven or home, servants and soldiers began to drop away. Before they reached the forest of Dean, the cortege had greatly dwindled, for many belonged to villages, small towns, and farms on the way, and their orders had been to go home and wait better times. When he reached London, except the chief officers of his household, one of his own pages, and some of his daughter's gentle women and menials, the marquee had few attendants left beyond Caspar and Shaftow. It was a long and weary journey for him, occupying the whole week. One evening he was so tired and unwell, that they were forced to put up with what quarters they could find in a very poor little town. Early in the morning, however, they were up and away. When they had gone some ten miles, Lord Charles was riding beside the coach and chatting with his sisters. A remark was made not complementary to their accommodation of the previous night. True, said Lord Charles, it was a very scurvy inn, but we must not forget that the reckoning was cheap. While he spoke, one of the household had approached the marquee, who sat on the other side of the carriage and said something in a low voice. Sayest thou so? returned his lordship. Here is thou, my Lord Charles? Thou talkest of a cheap reckoning. I never paid so dear for lodging in my life. Here is Master Wharton hath just told me that they have left a thousand pound under a bench in the chamber we broke our fast in. Truly they are overpaid for what we had. We have sent back after it, my Lord, said Mr. Wharton. You will never see the money again, said Lord Charles. Oh, peace, said the marquee. If they will not be known of the money, you shall see it in a brave inn in a short time. Nothing more was said on the matter, and the marquee seemed to have forgotten it. Late at night, at their next halting place, the messenger rejoined them, having been a drawer, mounted on a sorry horse, riding after them with a bag, but little prospect of overtaking them before they reached London. I thought our hostess seemed an honest woman, said Lady Anne. It is a poor town indeed, Lord Charles, but you see it is an honest one nevertheless, said Dr. Bailey. It may be the town never saw so much money before, said the marquee, and knew not what to make of it. Your lordship is severe, said the doctor. Only with my tongue, good doctor, only with my tongue, said the marquee, laughing. When they reached London, Lord Worchester found himself, to his surprise, in custody of the black rod, who, as now for some three years, Worchester House in the Strand had been used for a state paper office, conducted him to a house in Covent Garden, where he lodged him intolerable comfort and mild imprisonment. Parliament was still jealous of Glamorgan and his Irish doings, as indeed well they might be. But his confinement was by no means so great a trial to him as his indignant friends opposed, for, long willing to depart, he had at length grown a little tired of life, feeling more and more the oppression of growing years, of gout buried with asthma, and, worst of all to the once-active man, of his still-increasing corpulence, which last indeed, by his own confession, he found it hard to endure with patience. The journey had been too much for him, and he began to lead the life of an invalid. There being no sufficient accommodation in the house for his family, they were forced to content themselves with lodging as near him as they could, and in these circumstances Dorothy, notwithstanding Lady Glamorgan's entreaties, would have returned home. But the marquee was very unmole and she should leave him, and for his sake, she concluded to remain. I am not long for this world, Dorothy, he said. Stay with me and see the last of the old man. The wind of death has gotten inside my tent and will soon blow it out of sight. Lady Glamorgan's intention from the first had been to go to Ireland to her husband, as soon as she could get leave. This, however, she did not obtain until the 1st of October, five weeks after her arrival at London. She would gladly have carried Dorothy with her, but she would not leave the marquee, who is now failing visibly. As her ladyships passed included thirty of her servants, Dorothy felt at ease about her personal comforts, and her husband would soon supply all else. The ladies Elizabeth and Mary were in the same house with their father. Lady Anne and Lord Charles were in the house of a relative at no great distance, and visited him every day. Sir Toby Matthews also, and Dr. Bailey, had found shelter in the neighbourhood, so that his lordship never lacked company, but he was going to have other company soon. Gently he sank towards a grave, and as he sank his soul seemed to retire farther within, vanishing on the way to the deeper life. They thought he lost interest in life. It was but that the brightness drew him from the glimmer. Every now and then, however, he would come forth from his inner chamber, and, standing in his open door, look out upon his friends, and tell them what he had seen. The winter drew on, but first November came with its St. Martin summer, housey in days, and the old man revived a little. He stood one morning and looked from his window on the garden behind the house, all glittering with molten whore frost, a few leaves, golden with death, hung here and there on a naked bow. A kind of sigh was in the air. The very light had in it as much of resignation as hope. He had forgotten that Dorothy was in the room. There was Celtic blood in the marquee, and at times his thoughts took shapes that hardly belonged to the tutan. Comet my youth hither again, he murmured. As a stranger he cometh, whom yet I know so well. Or is it but the face of my old age, lighted with a parting smile. Either way, change cometh, and change will be good. Domini in manustua. He turned and saw Dorothy. Child, he exclaimed, good soothe I had forgotten thee, yet I spake no treason. Dorothy, I hold not with them who say that from dust we came and to dust we return. Neither my blessed countess, whom Thou knewest not, nor my darling molly, whom Thou knewest so well, were born of the dust, from some better where they came. For, say, can dust beget love? Wither they have gone, I follow, in the hope that their prayers have smoothed me for the way. Lord, lay not my sins to my charge. Mary, mother, hear my wife who prayeth for me. Hear my little molly, she was ever dainty and good. Again he had forgotten Dorothy, and was with his dead. But St. Martin's summer is only the lightning of the year that cometh before its death. And November, although it brought not then such evil fogs as it now flecks London with all, yet brought with it November weather, one of God's hounds, with which he hunts us out of the hollows of our own moods, and teaches us to sit on the arch of the cellar. But though the Marquis fought hard and kept it out of his mind, it got into his troubled body. The gout left his feet. He coughed distressingly, breathed with difficulty, and at length betook himself to bed. For some time his interest in politics, saving so much as affected the king's person, had been gradually ceasing. I trust I have done my part, he said once to the two clergymen, as they sat by his bedside. Yet I know not. I fear me I clove too fast in my money, yet would I have parted with all, even to my shirt, to make my Lord the King a good Catholic. But it may be, Sir Toby, we make more of such matters down here than they do in the high countries. And in that case, good doctor, ye are to blame who broke away from your mother, even were she not perfect. He crossed himself in murmur to prayer, in fear lest he had been guilty of laxity of judgment. But neither clergyman said a word. But tell me, gentlemen, ye who understand sacred things, he resumed. Can a man be far out of the way so long as, with full heart and no withholding, he saith fiat voluntas dua, and that after no private interpretation, but seekut in calo? That, my Lord, I also strive to say with all my heart, said Dr. Bailey. May hap, doctor, return the marquee. When thou art as old as I, and hast learned to see how good it is, how all good, thou wilt be able to say it without any striving. There was a time in my life when I too had to strive, for the thought that he was a hard master would come and come again. But now that I have learned a little more of what he meant with me, what he would have of me and do for me, how he would make me pure of sin, clean from the very bottom of my heart, to the crest of my soul, from spur to plume a stainless night. Fairly I am no more content to submit to his will. I cry in the nighttime, Thou wilt be done. Lord, let it be done. I entreat thee. And in the daytime I cry, Thy kingdom come. Lord, let it come. I pray thee. He lay silent. The clergyman left the room, and Lord Charles came in and sat down by his bedside. The marquee looked at him and said kindly, Ah, son Charles, art thou there? I came to tell you, my lord, the rumor goeth that the king hath consented to establish the Presbyterian heresy in the land, said Lord Charles. Believe it or not, my lord, a man ought not to believe ill of another so long as there is space enough for a doubt to purge. Yet, alas, what shall be hoped of him who will yield nothing to prayers and everything to compulsion? Had his majesty been a true prince, he had ere now set his foot on the neck of his enemies, or else ascended to heaven a blessed martyr. Protestant, sayest thou? In good soothe I force not. What is he now but a football for the sectaries to kick, to and fro? But I shall pray for him, whether I go, if indeed the prayers of such as I may be heard in that country. God be with his majesty. I can do no more. There are other realms than England, and I go to another king. Yet will I pray for England, for she is dearer to my heart. God grant the evil time may pass. Heard Englishmen yet again grow humble and obedient. He closed his eyes, and his face grew so stale that, notwithstanding the labor of his breathing, he would have seemed asleep, but that his lips moved a little now and then, giving a flutter of shape to the eternal prayer within him. Again he opened his eyes and saw Sir Toby, who had re-entered silent as a ghost, and said, feebly holding out his hand, I am dying, Sir Toby. Where will this swollen hulk of mine be hid? That, my lord, returns Sir Toby, hath been already spoken of in parliament, and it hath been wrong from them, heretics and fanatics as they are, that your lordship's mortal remains shall lie in Windsor Castle, by the sight of Earl William, the first of the Earls of Rochester. God bless us all, cried De Marquis, almost merrily, for he was pleased, and with a pleasure the old humor came back for a moment. They will give me a better castle when I am dead than they took from me when I was alive. Yet is it a small matter to him who inherits such a house as a weight of my lord? Donu nunmanufaktam en caele satanam, said Sir Toby. I thank thee, Sir Toby, for recalling me, truly for a moment I was uplifted somewhat, that I should still play the fool, and the old fool, in the very face of death, but, thank God, at thy word the world hath again dwindled, and my heavenly house drawn the nearer. Domini nook dimetis, let me, so soon as you judge fit, Sir Toby, have the consolations of the dying. When the last rites wherein the church yields all hold save that of prayer, had been administered, and his daughters with Dorothy and Lord Charles stood around his bed, Now have I taken my staff to be gone, he said cheerfully, like a peasant who hath visited his friends, and will now return, and they will see him as far upon the road as they may. I trembled a little, but I befinked me of him that made me and died for me, and now calleth me, and my heart bevives within me. Then he seemed to fall half asleep, and his soul went wandering in dreams that were not all of sleep, just as it had been with little Molly when her inn drew nearer. How sweet is the grass for me to lie in, and for thee to eat, eat, eat, O Plowman. It was a favorite horse of which he dreamed, one which in old days he had named after Pierce Plowman, the vision concerning whom, notwithstanding its severity on Catholic abuses, he had at one time read much. After a pause he went on. Alack, they have shot off his head. What shall I do without my Plowman? My body grows so large and heavy. Hark, I hear Molly. Spout, horse, she cried. See, it is his lifeblood he spouteth. O Lord, what shall I do for I am heavy, and my body keepeth down my soul? Hark, who calleth me? It is Molly. No, no, it is the master. Lord, I cannot rise and come to thee. Here have I lain for ages, and my spirit growneth. Reach forth I hand, Lord, and raise me. Thanks, Lord, thanks. And with the word he was neither old man nor marquee any more. The parliament, with wondrous liberality, boated five hundred pounds for his funeral, and Dr. Bailey tells us that he laid him in his grave with his own hands. But let us trust rather that Ann and Molly received him into their arms, and soon made him forget all about castles and chapels and dukedoms and ungrateful princes, in the everlasting youth of the heavenly kingdom whose life is the presence of the Father, whose air to breathe is love, and whose corn and wine are truth and graciousness. There surely, and nowhere else is surely, can the prayer be for a man fulfilled. Recreate Scott and Pache.