 8 Upon the use of a nose Colonel Royston complained of the nature of things. The fork of a pear-tree made him a pleasant seat, and at wiles its blossom fell upon him, so that he had an Arcadian air. The smoke of his pipe rose comfortably to the lucid sky. Yet he complained. He desired fruit as well as flour. 4 says he. The virginity of this white blossom purifies the mind, so that I am in the mood to eat fruit with a devout relish. But when the fruit is here, my mind, unadorned with flowers, is but gross and carnal. Which is proper enough for blood puddings, Jerry, my love, the blood puddings of Airbock, but spoils the taste of fruit. Ah, wood that I had been consulted in the creation. As I see it, said Colonel Stowe, who was stretched full length beneath him. The flaw in the world is the nose of Jehovah. Since Nuremberg, when we made them of our breeches, I have ever doubted a sausage. Sure, the man who uses one for a nose is a misanthrope. Nay, George, the nose of Jehovah must determine us. For myself, if I were not beautiful, I would choose to be a gargoyle, said Royston. But you were born shy, Jerry. What ails you with Jehovah? Does he wear his nose haughtily? With a crude pride, he flaunts it in the delicate places of my soul. Oh, it is the ugliness of all the world incarnate. It is plain, George, since the nose of Jehovah is of one side. Certainly God forbid it should be upon two. That would be unfair. There is, but one hell. We must be of the other. Colonel Royston regarded his friend with a singular benignity. We are to ride for the King, Jerry. Then I think there is another nose than Jehovah does that is guiding us. To which the fair nose of Mistress Lucinda. When, by the grace of God, you learn to love a woman. We shall both regret it, said Colonel Royston with decision. Her nose will be to you a thing of no account. That will add pickancy to the amour. Which is no part, but the divine hole of her will inspire you. So it is now with me I will not deny it. Indeed, I am engaged to liberate her from the nose of Jehovah and bring her to Oxford to the King. Wherefore, George, propound me a strategy. Jehovah guards the manor with his nose and half a troop. We muster but four, for I would not bring my father's hinds into the affair, who are indeed but bumpkins. Colonel Royston waved away smoke. So my lady would go to the King, said he dryly enough. Perhaps she would also go to Mr. Bourne. Mr. Bourne is only an impudent boy, who is pleased to believe himself enamored, said Colonel Stowe. He is not very amusing, but no more harm. Colonel Royston looked down at his friend with a singular affection. All is well, Jerry? He said softly. Very well. I see good days, George. We will make ourselves somewhat to this King of ours, and to fight before the eyes of my lady. He laughed. Well, the first pleasure is to discomfort Jehovah to. A strategy, George. Propound me a strategy. With four to defeat half a troop, it is worthy of your genius. Colonel Royston withdrew his pipe and caressed his moustaceo. You remember how Strozzie got the little margravine away from the crow-outs at Fulingen, put poppy juice in their beer, and cut their snoring throats. But she had a strong stomach, the little margravine, and your lady might think it oversanguinary. Strozzie is a butcher, said Colonel Stowe shortly. He does make a mess, Royston admitted. But he arrives. You want a strategy of delicacy, a campaign for petticoats. It is not in my way. I am not sure that it is decent. Colonel Stowe began picking daisies. If there were firing, said he, much firing at dusk or dawn. Alcibiety could make a very thunder with two carbines. Jehovah to should take the most of his men out against it, and we might swoop upon the manor and be gone. Royston shook his head. If I am too sanguinary, you are too sanguine, Jerry, said he. And again that sums up our nature's fairly. I know no surety Jehovah to will be a fool the way you need. When he hears firing he is as like to shut himself in the manor and stand to arms. Well, we be a pair of paladins indeed. But miracles are out of fashion. Colonel Stowe cast daisies into the air, and gravely watched them fall. Above the hedge rose the head and shoulders of a man who rode down the lane, a Puritan officer. Colonel Stowe sat up. My brother, said he, with a whistle of doful mirth, he complicates the affair. In a minute Major David Stowe strode into the orchard. He wore a light corselet and a helmet of polished steel, and his sleeves and breeches were tawny red. There was no doubt of the brotherhood. They were a match in strength, of the same wholesome pallor, the same earnest glad eye. But David Stowe's faith kept him clean-shaven, and his hair cropped. And there was brotherhood enough in the greeting. Colonel Royston saluted with a lifted pipe and an approving smile from the tree. I think he had always an admiration for David Stowe. The brothers were side by side on the grass. It is good to have you home, Jerry, and you are coming a good hour. This poor land needs such as you. David looked at him with affection, but there was no answer. Colonel Stowe was playing with a daisy. You'll not put off your corset yet, Jerry? David cried in some surprise. Nay, lad, I wear it. But for which cause? It is not you who can fight for tyranny, a tyranny that would own body and soul. For the first time Colonel Stowe heard the faith that fired the strongest hearts of his day, that a man must be free to worship his god what way he would without the leave of bishop or king. That free men could only live in a realm themselves ruled. That the king must be a servant of his people, not master. David Stowe preached it with a passion that made his brother wonder and with a strange power. Here was a shy country lad become a man sure of himself and masterful. Colonel Stowe knew strength and honored it. And yet, though he had been free to believe, though no woman had bound him to another cause, I doubt the Puritan faith had never held him. He knew men over well. He saw that the world had no heart for the stern virtue of the Puritan. For each to do what seemed good to himself must needs be chaos. He felt, as a man is sure with no need of reason, that the mass of men were not ready to be free. In a masterless realm he saw cruelty and the ruin of waste. He had no hope of a nation of saints. It may be no desire. He believed in order and the middle path passionately, sternly, as fanatics their own wild faith. And the fervor of his brother left him cold. Still David Stowe went on with swelling heart proclaiming the kingdom of God on earth. Nay, Jerry, you must be with us, he cried at last. There is but one cause for such as you. Tis a fair dream, lad, said Colonel Stowe, looking up from his ruined daisy with something of a sad smile. But a dream not of our day. Nay, this is the hour. Tis we are called to the work. Let us be glad that to us is the glory to found surely our nation of righteousness. We must arms and set all men free from the bonds of the tyrant of sin. Colonel Stowe shook his head. My world is not your world, lad. I see men that would break down a good order given us from of old. I see a people, no saints, but kindly fools that need the old rule to guide them a right. David, lad, the hour has not struck for your design. And I? Well, I am not a man of tomorrow. But again David Stowe must proclaim his vision that strange glad vision of a world not come yet, where each man shall be free to do his own will and each earnest with an austere passion to do the will of God. To the men of his faith and his day it was near. It was all but real. Colonel Stowe shook his head. He saw too clearly to believe. David pleaded passionately still. It was hard for him to deem a man honest who stood against his cause. But he was sure of his brother and needed him, I think, as man not often needs man. At last. You must be of us, Jerry, he cried. The cause calls for such as you. And I? I want you by my side. It was strongest of all he had said. Colonel Stowe drew in his breath. I am pledged to another cause, lad, he said slowly. His brother looked in his eyes and knew there was no answer. At last he held out his hand. Silent he rose. Then turning away he saw Colonel Royston grave beyond his custom. Their eyes met. In the hardest days that came there was always something of a kindness between these two. I must not ask you? said David Stowe. Royston shook his head. David Stowe looked at his brother again and went away sorrowful. They were not wholly light of heart whom he left behind. I would as soon be that man as myself, said Colonel Royston pensively. If Colonel Stowe could not feel that, for to him was granted the excellence of Lucinda. It was yet some while before he brought his thoughts back to the problem of the hour. The remains, said he, the obstacle of Jehoada. I hope my brother is not a friend of his. If he is, we had best go borrow an army, said Colonel Royston grimly. But that fear was removed, for they saw David Stowe pass the orchard hedge again, riding back to Ailsbury. He waved his hand and was gone many a day from his brother's life. Colonel Stowe gave a sigh of relief. He could not indeed be the comrade of such a nose. George, it gives me an idea. An idea of low birth? It is a suspicious member, the nose, and such a nose. I will be sworn Jehoada is suspicious. It would be but kindness to give that nose employ. Well, he shall suspect. Gerector Ergot. How, he shall suspect. Colonel Royston coughed, coughed so piteously that his friend looked up in sympathy. Six feet away in the garden he beheld Joan Normandy plucking daffodils. How sweetly innocent are flowers, said Colonel Royston recovering from his illness. Colonel Stowe shook his head. I discover in you a likeness to Jehoada, George, he said sorrowfully. Joan Normandy, with a certain defiant deliberation, completed her nose-gay. She then departed leisurely. I would trust anything, said Colonel Royston, but righteousness. End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 of Colonel Greatheart 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 Amy Graymore. Colonel Greatheart. By H. C. Bailey. Chapter 9 Concerning the Angel Uriel Jehoada Tompkins, Coenette, would be moved of the spirit at half after ten in the Sabbath-Bornune in the palace of Amalchides, which is called Stoke Manor. Such was the grateful news conveyed to the homestead in Jehoada's own hand. It beget some unseemly mirth from Colonel Royston, and an offer on his part to conduct Mistress Normandy to Jehoada's punctual motions. Sir, says she, with her chin in the air, I desire your escort nowhere. For if Colonel Royston loved her little, she was ever something less than Christian to him. Colonel Stow held the gate for her as she went forth, all black and white, clasping close in her hand a worn Bible, and he stayed a while looking after. Her loneliness appealed to him and that faith of the worn Bible, yet there was something ridiculous in one who could seek the ministrations of Jehoada. Between sympathy and mirth he watched her out of sight, whereby he had the honour of a salute from a strange gentleman. A gentleman who progressed and bounds like a fluttering hen. A shaggy gentleman who was naked to the waist. He halted on the sight of Colonel Stow. He flung out a talon of a hand. Woe unto thee, he shrieked. Woe unto thee, I am the angel Urio. How do you like it? said Colonel Stow politely. I do not like thee, thou man of Babylon. I pour out my vile upon thee. For thou has the mark of the beast. I am come to prophecy thy destruction. I am the angel Urio. And the noise of my roaring goeth before me. For I am charged to make the high places tremble and the mighty men flee away. Woe unto thee, thou shall have a grievous sore. Then Colonel Stow was gripped by an idea. This gentleman, said he to himself, is the very man for Jehoada. But aloud. Urio, my friend, you have mistook my direction. I shall have no sore. I am a person of no honour. There is one, Jehoada Tompkins, that pretends he is moved by the spirit. A very forward preacher that hath the mark of the beast upon his nose. Give me word, cried the bear-backed gentleman. Is he of them that would testify unto the people? Very painfully he does, so said Colonel Stow. It is against such I am sent, that they may gnaw their tongues in shame. Verily I shall prophecy unto him even as the bite of a scorpion. Give me word of him. Colonel Stow gave a precise direction. Straightway he went bounding the road, crying, Woe, woe, in a lake of fire. Then Colonel Stow went in, and made Royston write him a letter. The witch he put in his coat, in himself with some expedition, followed the bear-backed gentleman. For my part I judged Jehoada Tompkins an honest man, who strove earnestly to do his duty. It is not easy to like him the better. Lucinda, walking with her mother along the gallery of Stowk Manor, was surprised by the eruption of half his troop. What is this new insolence, she cried? Cornet Tompkins would give his testimony. Desire that you may have ears to hear, quote the length corporal, while the two women looked at each other in helpless disgust. Others came flocking to the gallery, such of the peasants as were stern Puritans, such as had the gift of curiosity, all in their whitest smocks and finest woolsey, and the sergeants of the troop ushered them into an orderly array, while the troopers marshaled themselves in a line of spiritual battle behind. Joan Normandy came, guided by a solemn giant in steel and buff, but her eyes went this way and that in a fashion less than devout. She was hoping to see Lucinda. There could be no doubt who it was in the silver dress with the proud lips. Joan flushed strangely and hurried by. It was a great company. They all came eagerly to spread themselves in the manor hall. They felt the carved wainscote, the pitchers, the gilt armor, almost their own. Each one of them swelled as good as the gentry. Truly the rule of the saints was pleasant, but Cornet Tompkins was by no means minded to comfort them. With a large bible in the swelling port of the preacher he came. His breastplate gleamed like a mirror. The linen at his throat was spotless white, his face glowed and shone. He ascended a chair, glowered, smacked his lips at the congregation. Unto me, jihawata, the Lord's Cornet, came a voice saying, Speak! Then I knew it was an hour of wrath and I cried aloud to you, Come unto me that I may chase in you. Verily I will spare you no wit. I will scourge you with my tongue for your offences which are noisome unto me. And without doubt Cornet Tompkins had held the attention which he had thus worthily won. But on a sudden a shriek rang through the gallery. Woe, woe and a beast of horns! For one of the long windows came a shaggy head and a naked body that brandished haggard arms. Come out, and again I say come out, I am the Angel Uriel. With one eager impulse the whole congregation turned to him. Behold the scarlet-colored beast he cried pointing to the ruddy face of Cornet Tompkins. I see him with seven heads and ten horns. I denounce him unto you. I publish his doom. I am the Angel Uriel. Come out from him. Come out, for his name shall be called Megor Missabib. Cornet Tompkins was displeased. Who is this that blaspheme of the word? Said he with austere dignity. Troop Sergeant, away with him. I am the Angel Uriel. The man screamed, tossing his shaggy head, whirling his bare arms aloft. I have the light of the word. Nor death nor hell prevail against me. Nor that great beast, that old serpent, come forth from the house of Riman and I will tell you a vision. Woe! Woe in the gnawing of tongues, come! He leaped down to the ground and in a weird voice crying, come and I will show you the things that must be hereafter. Began to climb up a tree. And the congregation of Cornet Tompkins used to seek the strangest ecstasies of religion, eager as the Athenians for some new thing, streamed out after him. Vainly Cornet Tompkins cried to them not to follow one possessed of devils. Their minds were in turmoil. When men were all equal and as good as the gentry, what might not be true? It was an age of many a wild creed and many a man awaited eagerly a new revelation. But Cornet Tompkins, wroth for his unspoken sermon, cried out, Sergeant Bunce, commit this man of Belial into reward. The true period in temper that made each man free to preach his own faith knew nothing of such discipline yet. The sergeant stood stiff. I am a poor deacon of the Lord, said he, and I will lay no hands upon one who comes in his name. And with that he too went off to hear of the vision. Cornet Tompkins was left with hardly two or three gathered together. He came down from his chair and looked moodily at the scene without. There high in a tree like some strange bird of legend, the bevacked man swayed to and fro screaming. It was a lurid fantastic dream, he had to tell, made up of scraps from the apocalypse and the prophets of denunciation, grotesquely twisted to suit the place and the time. But it was burning with something of a madman's faith. And it awed peasant and soldiery. They gazed at him and earnest. But Cornet Tompkins groaned as he thought of what they had lost. Verily, this is an age of false prophets, said Cornet Tompkins with shaking head, and he hath seven devils. He looked upon Joan Normandy and the one or two that preferred sanity in their devotions who were left him, humbly expectant Stowe. To your tense, O ye people of God, let us pray that the truth may be made known. Now Joan Normandy, as she was going out, came upon Colonel Stowe. She gave him one swift look of surprise and hurried on. But Colonel Stowe, smiling blandly, lounged into the gallery and there let fall a letter upon a window-edge. He was unseen. For of those left, Cornet Tompkins was coming down the gallery, his head bowed and wagging in mourning for his spoiled sermon. And Lucinda was waiting for him with an unkind smile. I fear your soldiers have heard you preach before, sir, said she. Cornet Tompkins breathed heavily. His trade was sermons, not repartee, and glared at her. And she laughed. Then as he passed her, he saw Colonel Stowe. But Colonel Stowe, save for one swift glance that spoke, made no account of her nor laughed. He approached Cornet Tompkins with a grave sympathy. Sir, says he, you just spoil me of a refreshment. I am come to hear the spirit move you. And you make me less sound than a sucking dove. You promise me bread and give me less than a stone. Cornet Tompkins turned upon him with a stony stare. Mock not, he said in a hollow voice. Mock not, that ye be not mocked. His extreme discomfort sure moved Colonel Stowe to pity. Sir, says he gravely, you do me wrong. I am come but now to hear you. And I find not to hear. Prithee, what prevents? Cornet Tompkins clutched him by the arm and led him to a window. That prevents, sir. He pointed to the weird, half-naked creature yelling from the boughs. That prevents. That demoniac. They are all gone after false prophets and have no mind for the truth. Colonel Stowe looked long. The gentleman was even more surprising than he had hoped. But he preserved a great gravity and shook his head. I like it not, said he. I like it not. And shook his head again. I suspect him much. Sir, I suspect him of the devil, cried Cornet Tompkins. I suspect him of playing the devil, which is worse. Cornet Tompkins gasped. Who would play the devil but one mad? I suspect him less mad than he would seem. Cornet Tompkins opened his mouth and in that state tried to smile. It was impressive. Sir, says he. This is a precious thought. Look, you, Colonel Stowe, grew more earnest. What is his errand? Why should he come here? Why seek you out? Sir, says Cornet Tompkins, melancholy again. To his playing the devil would put me to shame. I doubt the devil wears a king's coat when he is at home. Quoth Colonel Stowe. Sir, I see malignancy here. Take heed that he does no work of treason, I, that he bears no misive from malignance. Cornet Tompkins was uplifted. Sir, you say well, he cried. You are of a godly understanding. I will take guard. Yay, I will search him out. You will do well, sir, said Colonel Stowe, with a grave enthusiasm. Search everywhere that he hath been. I wish you well in it. So well content they potted. Cornet Tompkins meditated upon his search. He could not think that the bareback gentleman had been anywhere save out a window and up a tree. Away from the house, behind the hedge of roses, Colonel Stowe found Lucinda. She gave him her hand with a smile. Pray, how much are you in this? Nay, said Colonel Stowe. I only felt the gentleman of no coat was made for Jihuata. At least I see no other use in him. O'tis so, Jihuata dislikes him a mere vey. I think him most wholesome for Jihuata. But he is, to me, no more than a convenience. Madam, will you ride to-night? To-night, her eyes glowed. O you are quick, how then? What of the Puritans? I rely upon Jihuata to abolish himself. Tis the best deed the poor man could do. Make no parade of going, madam. Have only your jewels and such small things to hand. We can take but your mother and you. And here must be no more words. We are foes before the world. Lucinda laughed deliciously. I like to play with the world, she said. Meanwhile Cornette Tompkins had found upon the window ledge a letter that gave his heart to light. He was consoled for the lost sermon and all the triumph of the bareback gentleman. But his sudden swift desire to catch this last was foiled. For the bareback gentleman, who had been for some while speaking with tongues not his own, was no more warning, hurled himself out of the tree and rushed wildly away, screaming that he was hunting, savanness, in which dangerous chase none then followed him. So much alarm had he made. But presently after he came again, and for half a generation there was in Stoke and Weston-Turberville, you may read of it in the pamphlets, a sect which prophesied by the name of the angel Uriel, and for his greater glory were scant of clothes, till Major General Fleetwood, a person of orderly mind, laid hands on them and compelled them into prison or coats, for the witch, despite threats, the angel showed no indignation. Richard Kilmer Colonel Greatheart, by H. C. Bailey, chapter 10 Cornette Tompkins snaps at a shadow. Colonel Stowe came out from his father something grave. His father had omitted to wish him joy. He had also behaved with levity. Aye, aye, a man will go when the woman calls, and I should like you less if you did not hear her. Aye, a lad ought to be amusing, and so you'll be for the king. With as fair reason as most indeed owns there is wisdom in this war. It seemed to Colonel Stowe that some emotion would have been in better taste. He went with solemn zeal to inspect the work of Al-Sabaidi and Matthew Mark, who had business concerning horses and saddles. That was of importance, but needed darkness rather than light. The pervading mystery of it completed the alarm of Joan Normandy, suspicious already of the inquiry of Colonel Royston and of Colonel Stowe's visit to the ministrations of Cornette Tompkins. When Colonel Stowe, desiring to contemplate peace, came to sit beside her in the porch, she received him with eyes of war. You are required to love your enemies, Colonel Stowe admonished her, and for mere dignity you should smile at them, which he duly did. She was no better pleased. I could like you better if you were an open enemy, she cried. But it would be less amusing for me, Colonel Stowe protested mildly. At least I should not have to despise you and myself. I cannot conceive that we are so much alike. Pray despise me alone. You will find it less an effort. More just also. For what, after all, have you to do with me? Her cheeks were suddenly scarlet. Ah, it was like a cry of pain. Ah, I would that I had never seen you. It flatters me that I should thus deeply affect you, but all is well. Tomorrow you can believe that I have never lived. You are going then, she cried angrily. Your manner scarce invites me to stay, Colonel Stowe remarked. She flung out her hand to him in hot impatience. Oh, is all life a jeer and a cheat with you? Can you not be true to yourself? I do not understand the occasion of this homily, said Colonel Stowe with dignity. Joan Normandy gave something of a sneering laugh. Oh, you are very noble, and you sham a friendship with our officer to tell him lies and cheat him again. I thought even malignance kept their honor. But you? Perhaps I may be some judge of a soldier's honor too, said Colonel Stowe, coldly, but if you have such a kindness for Jehovah Da, child, go tell him I am cheating him. She turned upon him, grey eyes, flaming fierce. You know that I cannot, and I ought, and I hate you, she cried. Oh, it is mean in you. And she started up and sped to the house. Colonel Stowe made figures in the ground with his heel and contemplated them gravely. To him thus engaged came Colonel Royston. Do you meditate upon your own virtue's jury? Colonel Stowe looked up. On the contrary, said he. As the day waned to sunset, Lucinda felt strange forces working about her. The troopers were busy with horses and arms. Cornette Tompkins, whom she was at some pains to observe, went with exaltation in his gate, and mysterious scriptures upon his lips, as thus. Troop Major. Of new powder, to each man a flaskful. Nay, I will put a hook in their mouths. See to it that the carbine locks be spanned. Verily, I will eat fat. Verily, the Lord is against thee, O Gog. Lucinda was puzzled. It was hard in such spiritual emotions to find the practical hand of Colonel Stowe. And all day long Cornette Tompkins bent upon a map of the Shire, muttered more mysteries. Moab shall be my wash-pot. Over Edom shall I cast out my shoe. Alak Gog. Why tarry the wheels of his chariots? Quo she. Until every man a damsel or two. Ha-ha! said I to my soul. Ha-ha! I behold a wailing in Babylon. Not till the twilight, not till the troopers were mounting, he sought out Lucinda for her punishment. She was in her mother's withdrawing room. He ground his heels into the white Baghdad carpet. Woman says he, his nose shining with emotion. Thou hast kicked against the pricks, an art full of wickedness even to the brim. I, Jehudia, am appointed to cast thee down. Go to, humble thyself, learn not to mock at the children of light. I have thy naughty paramour, his letter, and this night he shall taste the bread of affliction. Lucinda was white in alarm. This was no sign of deliverance, but a new danger. I have no letter, she cried. Cornette Tompkins allowed himself to laugh. Ha! the peril of an Amalekite hurts thee in a tender part. Nay, woman, thou hast no letter, for I have it. I, Jehudia, the Cornette of the Lord, would that I had the vile fellow that brought it. But it suffices. Thy portion of woe is assured. Harken! And he read with mouthing sarcasm these surpriseful words. I must see you at once before I go, right out to night to Monk's pool at Sonderton. Slip away from the roundhead villain at sundown, and I will await you. Once with me have no more fear of the roundheads. I have half a troop, a goring source to my back. They will watch over us, and we shall laugh at your sausage-nosed Puritan. Here Cornette Tompkins stopped to ejaculate. O Gog, Gog, verily, I will leave but the sixth part of thee. And he snorted at Lucinda and went on. Nay, come with me my life, and you shall be free of him and his kind for ever. Thy true lover, from the bird in hand, G. B. at Chenor. The last in the warmer style being Colonel Royston's private effort to add probability to the chilly swaying of Colonel Stowe's design. Cornette Tompkins grinned triumphant, and his face shone like a ruddy moon. Lucinda was troubled. The letter was truly mad enough to be Gilbert Bourne's own. She was mightily angry with him that he should confuse the plans of Colonel Stowe and keep her still a prisoner to this maddening Puritan soldier. Was an infamous folly. She flanned at Cornette Tompkins in an unlovely fierceness like a trapped beast, and he grinned the moor. Verily, verily, the iron enters into thee and saws thy soul asunder. This it is to wanton with Amalekites. He flaunted the letter before her, and Lucinda was suddenly white and bit her lip on a cry, for she saw the writing, and it was not by Mr. Bourne. Cornette Tompkins mistook her emotion. O thou naughty member he cried, shameless art thou in thy affections for this Assyrian. O Ehola, and Eholaba. Lucinda snatched her fan from the table, and with it slashed at his eyes. That is the woman's answer, fellow, she cried. Go, get the man's. Cornette Tompkins half-blind, with undesired tears, stepped back unsteadily. Wanton, wanton, I go, he cried. And thou shalt see thy lover in chains, yea, in fetters of iron, till I hang him high, as Haman, before thy threshold, for an abomination and a spy. Cornette Thompson loved a rounded sentence. He wiped away his tears and strode with dignity to the door. Lucinda turned to see her mother crying gently, and made an impatient ejaculation at such folly. You, you never valued him, Lucinda, said my lady Weston, sobbing the more. But I would, I were his mother, she referred to Mr. Bourne. Lucinda was not concerned in such fruitless emotions. While she was hurrying to the window to know what meant the noise of the troopers' parade, two stalked in without a word, and set themselves down, on either side of the door. Lucinda had hardly turned upon them before a word of command rang without, and she saw the mounted company wheel and swing away through the dusk. Cornette Tompkins took due strength to deal with that half-troop of Goring's horse. Then Lucinda made to run out, but one of her guards rose up against her. Woman, we are bitten guard you in our presence, and though you be an evil sight to a man of faith, yet will we do it. Lucinda recoiled, all quivering within patience. The other trooper looked at her and groaned, and shook his head and groaned. It were well to comfort our souls with a savory exercise, said he, and in a gloomy nasal tone began to recite the mystic parts of Jeremiah. You conceive how he soothed the straining nerves of Lucinda. But the dull sound of Cornette Tompkins' horsemen had hardly died away when there was a swift scurry over the turf, and even as the recitation of Jeremiah was cut off and its giver moved swiftly to the window. Colonel Stowe came in, flushed with ingenious agitation. Good sir, give me word. Is Cornette Tompkins within? says he, breathless to the first trooper, who shook a solemn head. Oh, luckless day, cried Colonel Stowe. His troop major then, or a sergeant. Brother, they be gone out to capture in a malachite, and we only are left. Is it a matter of war? A lack, said Colonel Stowe, who was swaying a little upon his toes. I fear you may think it so. And as he spoke, he let drive at the man's chin, and whirling around met his comrades' rush with another shoulder blow. The first was hardly fallen before Colonel Royston was upon him, and had a noose round his arms and a kerchief in his mouth. Swift and neat likewise, Colonel Stowe dealt with the other. My Lady Weston screamed her fright, and Lucinda chided her angrily to silence. Fitly, trust and gagged, those two hapless troopers were propped up against the doorposts to contemplate each other. Colonel Stowe flushed still, but now purely calm, made his bow to my Lady Weston. Such affairs must always give pain of sensibility, my Lady, but I trust we have not been indelicate. Pray, will you ride? Time is short. Then Lucinda whirled her mother away to cloak, and as she passed Colonel Stowe, she held out her hand. His lips caressed it, and one of the hapless troopers was heard to groan. With him Colonel Royston remonstrated, believe me, you are less hurt than you suppose, and you should be more grateful than you look. I have never seen a neater surprise. It should be an education to you in tactics, which most men only learn by death, an expensive method I would not urge upon you, unless you would die for pure philanthropy. Come away, George, said Colonel Stowe, roughly, watching the two helpless men. His friends' manners displeased him at wiles. Out in the gathering dark, Alcibeity and Matthew Mark waited with four good horses beside their own. Colonel Stowe swept a swift glance over the sky. It was clear enough to find stars if need were. He laughed, night and a ride through the enemy's quarters. What more should a man want? I want less, Colonel Royston admitted, the woman or so less. Wherewith the woman came, cloaked heavily, each with a large and weighty casket. Colonel Stowe took Lucinda. My Lady Weston was crying still, which Colonel Royston observing, nay, my lady, to start enough to quit home, says he gently enough. Anything of the mother would always mellow him. But you should count on coming again when these rascals are beaten. I do not care where I go, said she feebly. Is it Mr. Bourne? Oh, Mr. Bourne is more safe than yourself. The matter of the letter was a ruse of ours to get the roundheads away. She stared at him, endeavouring to grasp this. She was not quick of wit. Then she gave it up with a sigh. Turning to her horse, she saw Lucinda in Colonel Stowe's arms as he swung her to the saddle. I wish it were Mr. Bourne, she murmured to herself, and was more lacrimose. Colonel Royston was not sure that he differed. End of Chapter 10 Recording by Richard Kilmer, Rio Medina, Texas Chapter 11 of Colonel Greatheart 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 Richard Kilmer Colonel Greatheart by H. C. Bailey, Chapter 11 Colonel Royston deserts a lady. The sky was darkly grey, set with rare stars. They rode through murmurous gloom. Warm wind of the passion of spring moved about them. Close to the strength of that square shoulder, breathing the strange, throbbing sense of the night, Lucinda smiled, and her bosom was quick. Life was good, life was good. She had conquered. She and the man. He had broken all her chains. He had made all bow to her. She felt in her the wild force of the world beat free. It surged in Colonel Stowe, too. Every nerve in him was aware and glad of her eager womanhood. He had won the best of life. He never knew of the white face behind a window of his home that yearned after him through the dark, through tears. From the heavy gloom of the lane, they came suddenly to blither air, to the wide freedom of the veil. All about them the dewy, flower-studded meadows were a strange ethereal light. Lucinda gave a little glad cry like a happy child. Then as Colonel Stowe turned to her, she saw the flash of his eyes and was breathless. Oh, it is life. It is life with you, she murmured. I live to make your life, he said. I did not know I could feel this. I am glad, glad. It is to have all the power of the world in me. I am no man without you. And you without me? No woman. Now, now, we are lords of life. She laughed a little, you and I, and laughed again, gladly. They were riding closest troopers in the charge. Her shoulder touched his lightly, and again. Oh, the night and the joy of the night she cried. You could see the surge of her bosom, the silvery cloud of her breath, and her lips dark in the white comeliness beneath her hood. Sure, this is our birth night. All's new indeed. Yes, and all life is for us. Ah, what does a maid know? Nay, not even what she hath to give. And you she turned upon him in a quick impulse, then gave a queer, scornful laugh. Do you know not of yourself? Does you make my heart wild? You, you, you are strong, you are sure. You force things to your will, lightly, lightly, and laugh. Swiftly she flung her hand to him, and as he gripped it and crushed it against his lips. Oh, I, she said in a voice of miserable mirth. Oh, I, it is yours. If I take, I give, he said. She looked at him while they rode far. Then she caught his hand and kissed it fiercely. So it is so, she muttered. Then with a wild laugh, oh, there is power in us, power. You were born for that. He gripped her hand till she bit her lip from the pain. Woman, woman of my need. Yes, ah, yes, all the world is yes to us now. There is not denied. Oh, you master me, and I am master of all in you, I. He leaned out of his saddle. He flung his arm about her. She swayed, lithe, and glad, in the hard strength of it. Her lips were parted in a strange smile. There is matchlight on the right front, said Colonel Royston. Colonel Stowe let her go easily. Rain up, he said, and peered along Royston's pointing arm. Tiny specks of yellow played will of the wisp far off. They fling pickets wide at Aylesbury, he said calmly, and looked up at the stars. It was grass-country and studded with trees, but open on either hand. Take the women, George, bare away to the south, al-Sabaidi. But, while Royston, with a sharp, by left and with spur, hurried my lady and Lucinda before him, and set their horses to a sharper pace. The specks of yellow were gathering, and there came the sound of steel. Is there danger, said Lucinda, under her breath? Colonel Royston laughed. With a lady, madam, there is always danger. I have no fear, sir, she cried angrily. That is why you are dangerous, said Colonel Royston. Is Colonel Stowe in danger, she insisted, imperious? If you had never thought of him, it might have been kind, said Colonel Royston sourly. To think of him now is impediment. Lucinda looked at him long. It is likely that Colonel Royston, being a friend, would have borne hard on any woman who dared an affection for Colonel Stowe, and this woman heeded his blood all out of reason. With amused disgust he did his best for her, drove her on swift over the meadows, down the hill, toward Ford Brook. There was need. Challenges rang out behind them. The yellow gleams of the musketeer's matches were multiplied. They heard the mingled din of a troop of horse. He gad, muttered Colonel Royston, with a doleful chuckle. We have turned out the whole command, and indeed the meadows were aflame, far and wide. There was a storm of shouting, orders, and oaths. Then amid all the stars of yellow light the blue flash of powder and volley on volley of musket-tree. Colonel Royston made up his mind. God be with you, says he, for I shall not. And he reigned up sharp and went back for his friend. But before he had gone far, while the musket-tree still raged furiously, he came upon Colonel Stowe in Alcibaty, riding at easy speed. Anne Yvont, George, says Colonel Stowe with a laugh, they will be engaged some while yet. Trees never surrender, and there is plenty of match. Colonel Royston understood. It was a proved device of the German wars. A few links of match, close, twisted toe, tied to tree-bows and lit, were as good by night as a battalion of musket-tree. The Puritan picket, daring not advance on such a force, was still firing heavily. Faith, says Colonel Royston, I'll never more be such a fool as to suppose you need me, Jerry, and they drew up to the women. Lucinda turned quick on Colonel Stowe, and he smiled to her. Then she laughed out. Oh, I am a fool to fear, said she, and yet there was a gallant gentleman here feared for you too, but I should be wiser. You flatter me, madam, said Colonel Royston bluntly. I had not begun the fear, but I love him better than I love you. And I like you for that, said Lucinda, and looked at Colonel Royston for the second time. But he'll soon be of another faith, said Colonel Stowe, then suddenly turned with his ear to the wind. Hark! The rattle of musket-tree had fallen fainter, and now it was wrapped in another sound, singing a swelling chant. Indeed, this is a glorious victory for Tay Doon, said Lucinda, through mirth. That is not the picket, but an army, quote Royston. Silent! There was no doubt of it. Slow, majestic, deep-throated it was born down wind. All that people on earth do dwell, sing to the Lord with cheerful voice. Him serve with mirth, His praise foretell, come ye before Him and rejoice. Know that the Lord is God indeed. Without our aid He did us make. We are His flock, He doth feed us. And for His sheep He doth us take. The two soldiers looked at each other with an unspoken question. Colonel Royston had heard that psalm raised from the sodden plain of Brettenfeld when Gustav smote the Catholic army to death. Now it came from his foes. Colonel Stowe drew close to Lucinda again. She had no fear, lithe and gay she rode, and often she smiled and spoke to him softly. So they came through the night past ghostly villages and church towers that loomed in mid-air. With wet feet they made across the dark ford below water-peri and climbed the shadowed lane till the wind was cold from all the hills and the moon rose close upon dawn. A faint blue light came over all and through it they moved weirdly like creatures of dream. My Lady Weston was swaying in her saddle as they rose by the steep track to shot over. And Colonel Royston, gently enough with her, gave her the stay of his arm. But Lucinda rode light. She was pale indeed, but her eyes shone like stars in a windy sky. Before they were over the hilltop the dawn was white and the moon's crescent no more than a pale glimmer of cloud in its mist. Lucinda turned to the call of Colonel Stowe's eyes. But a shadow came over her face and she sighed. I did not want the day, she said. Far below, caught in a girdle of white mist like Oxford, walls and spires rising through lucid air, a city wrought in silver. End of Chapter 11 Recording by Richard Kilmer Real Medina, Texas Chapter 12 of Colonel Greatheart This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Colonel Greatheart by H. C. Bailey Chapter 12 Colonel Stowe makes a mistake. Oxford was strangely alive. The undergraduates had been driven from their colleges to make room for loyal souls who could buy a lodging, dear. The quadrangle of Merton with the Queen's Ladies, Christchurch Cloisters, rang with the quarrels of the King's Council. Each gray gateway, from Orchester to Queens, each sedate lawn and dark stair, glowed with a pomp of women, echoed the statesmanship of zealous men, clashed and rustled with silk and steel. Oxford had the fashion and business of a capital. Queen Henrietta and Madame Saccharisa devised new stomachers each week and my Lord Digby exhibited a pretty conceit in hoes. The mill of the King's Mint rumbled in new inn. Some fragment of Lords and Commons, a ghost of a Parliament, met in the schools and played at making laws. My Lord Keeper gave justice to silly loyal suitors in the Convocation House. Above all, this rang the true note of war. An ugly army of Sackers and Demi-Culverins wore the turf of Magdalene, and their swarthy Italian goners made a barracks of the Cloister quadrangle. Forges glowed in New College, where the armorers wrought the pike-heads anew and struggled with the snaps and locks of the carabines. The meadows by the Sherwell were white with tents. Tall pikemen, encorsalate and morion, little musketeers, armorless, and like mushrooms under their spreading felled hats, blue-coated, big-booted troopers, swaggered in disorderly array all across the high street. Without, on the old walls and the new drawn lines of defence, the undergraduates labored with madic and spade, grumbling but preforce, save such as could find twelve pence a day to pay the cost of the war. Colonel Royston spoke unkind words of this piebald town. As a court he held it mean. As a camp he condemned it for gaudy. He desired, leave, to go into the country and see the flowers grow. Whereby it happened that they came into Christchurch meadows to see a resplendent throng trampling the fritillaries. But Colonel Royston would not be comforted. They looked like peacocks, he complained. They sound like peacocks. But peacocks have brains. I have eaten them in Milano. Down a lane of bear-heads and curtsies came one of picturesque gate and a garb of much art. A black velvet with cloth of silver. None could have answered a salute with more grace. Colonel Royston, erect as on parade, looked keenly at this elaborate person. He found sentimental eyes and a narrow brow. I have known kings, said he, and that is not one. King Charles went on through his worshippers. Colonel Stowe, it is likely, felt a desire to help him. Going easily amid the loyal company, they came upon one of a southern splendor. His hat and feather were of a vivid blue, Annapel blue, the white lace collar, that fell over his crimson coat. His crimson hose ended in a foam of lace that filled the top of his walking-boots. All this belonged to a dark, lean, scarred face. Strozzie, said Colonel Royston, calmly, I thought you were hanged. The Italian smiled. So did Wallenstein, and now, having got to hell, doubtless he misses me. But one cannot always be obliging. I bribed Walter Butler to hang a Greek instead. I never liked Butler, said Royston. You are quite right, my friend, the Italian agreed pleasantly. Do not make the world agreeable for others. How are you damaging it here, said Colonel Stowe? I am Colonel in the regiment of artillery, and what have you, the Felicity, to be, gentlemen? We are ourselves. Tell us what there is a chance to be. The Italian looked at them swiftly, inserted himself between them, and drew them aside. Then, said he, there is a great chance to be nothing. Look, you think here is an army? Not the least, said Colonel Royston, I think here is a herd. A herd of swine, quote the Italian, then looked at him with cunning. But then, my dear friend, why are you here? Strozzie, said Colonel Royston sternly, we fight for our rightful king. Do not talk in facilities, said the Italian. He drew them farther away from the throng, and his voice fell. You are come to spy for the others, huh? Oh, do not play it being angry. I have a mind to do it myself. My dear Strozzie, said Colonel Stowe, you do us too much honour in thinking us like yourself. The Italian shrugged. You might as well be franked. I would join you, and I should be some use. I am always frank with you, Strozzie, said Colonel Stowe, in a tone of gentle reproach, because I know nothing puzzles you so much. And this is the pure truth. We have come to fight for the king. Then you make the mistake of a fool, said the Italian, not without satisfaction. That is encouraging, said Colonel Royston surefully. If we will not be naves, we are plainly fools. Oh, I suppose you would have joined Tilly after Leipzig. Have you not heard of the battle in the north on the Marston Moor? The wooden head, Rupert, flung his army away, and half England is lost to the king. Wait a little, we shall lose the other quite easily. The two looked at each other. Here was the reason for that puritan psalm of triumph. I wonder if we have taken a wrong turning, Jerry, said Colonel Royston aloud. But in his heart he was wondering how loyal Lucinda would be if she saw the puritans conquering. Baa, it is a lost cause, said Strozzi. I like it the better, said Colonel Stowe. But Colonel Royston confessed himself of a different temper. While he spoke they saw a man walking like themselves apart from the rest. He was a big fellow in a scarlet coat, something sparkish in his dress. But his hat was over his brows, and his dark, handsome face lined with pain. The courtier throng was staring at him and laughing and flinging jeers. The palatine looks for his army. His highness meditates new glory. Rupert Lee Dioblie flees from the saints. But Prince Rupert strode by the mockery alone, unheeding. Colonel Stowe took a pace forward, drew himself up and saluted. The dark eyes flashed at him. Then Prince Rupert touched his hat and strode on. Strozzi was laughing. You make a mistake, my friend. The palatine will never do anything. Perhaps I like mistakes, said Colonel Stowe. End of Chapter 12. Recording by Richard Kilmer, Real Medina, Texas. Chapter 13 of Colonel Greatheart. 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 Barry Yeads. Colonel Greatheart by H. C. Bailey. Chapter 13. Mr. Bourne is Sorry. My Lady Weston had found lodging in Holywell. Therein Colonel Royston was doing his best to amuse her while Colonel Stowe sought her daughter. There was a tiny garden-girt with gray stone that bore red wall-flowers, and Lucinda took her ease in it. She lay back in her chair white clad, and her lith strength gave all its grace. In a rich glow the curls clustered about her brow. Bare neck and shoulder darker than her dress, as if a mellow light fell about them, were delicately wrought, instinct with life. Indeed, you have a wonder of glory to give, said Colonel Stowe in a low voice. A shadow crossed her face. He was perhaps too much in the vein of Mr. Bourne. But, if I give, I give all, she said, and her gay eyes challenged him. I could not take less. Are you strong enough to use all of me, she laughed? Is there a power you have I cannot help? I wonder. She looked at him long. Sometimes it seemed you can set all of me free to be strong and glad. The night. Ah, the night was dear. But it is day now, and sometimes I wonder. There are needs in me you do not give, and I want more than you. Colonel Stowe did not understand. This differed too vastly from the mood of the night, and the mood of the night was his always. He was a man and simply made. More than once in life a woman's candor puzzled him. While she looked at him an innocent question, he was miserably grave. So miserable that she broke out laughing. Sure, sir, you will not bear it hard that a woman should find it tiresome to love one man. Tis churlish. Colonel Stowe endeavored to laugh with her. If you need another, I'll forgive you, but not myself. I'll have no forgiveness, she said gaily. Tis as sour as pity. If you can forgive, you cannot love, and all I do is right. I heartily believe it, said Colonel Stowe. A lack poor soul, quotes she. Wherefore you will do my will, said Colonel Stowe calmly. She laughed deliciously. I can love you for that. Before she guessed he crushed her against him and kissed her. Tis agreed, said he. Her neck was rosy, there was wicked mirth in her eyes. Indeed, that was timely, said she, and Colonel Stowe beheld Mr. Bourne. Mr. Bourne was a better man than woman. His shoulders set with a style. He stood a fair sturdy lad, sure of himself. I had not hoped for this, madame. It is a rare delight, but, nay, I fear it will be scarce that, I am murmured, with a swift mischievous glance for Colonel Stowe. But I fear these villains distressed you at Stoke. Lucinda lay back with one slight arm behind her. If you ask why I have come here, sir, faith, I cannot tell you. And smiling wickedly, she looked from one man to the other. Nay, it puzzles me, but I think you know each other's quality. Upon which neat hint Mr. Bourne admitted the existence of Colonel Stowe in a brief bow. Colonel Stowe was more polite. My compliments upon your transfiguration, sir, says he. At least you now look real. It is a beginning. We have all to be infants once. Mr. Bourne flushed and glared, and reverted to Lucinda. I trust you have not been in danger through me, madame. I shall always be glad you came to me, said Lucinda in a low voice, and while Mr. Bourne flushed again for delight, she smiled and looked up at Colonel Stowe. Indeed, the lad has helped us to a night for which we must always be grateful, said Colonel Stowe, with an intimate air. Are you so sure? And he saw that strange faint smile of hers. Sir, says Mr. Bourne with some heat, I have a name and I would thank you to call me by it. Colonel Stowe bowed. I could not suppose you were proud of it, he explained politely. For the service you have done, Mistress Weston, sir, cried Mr. Bourne, much wroth, I thank you, but I wonder if you will, said Lucinda softly. It were perhaps better, madame, said Colonel Stowe, still with his maddening air of intimacy, if Mr. Bourne stayed away from your presence till he grows up. Lucinda laughed. Mr. Bourne, crimson and stammering, approached Colonel Stowe, his hand on his sword. I am sure my mother needs me more than you, gentlemen, said Lucinda and fled away. Mr. Bourne was left confronting Colonel Stowe, breast almost upon breast. He was plainly in the extreme of wrath, Colonel Stowe as plainly calm. There must be an explanation between us, sir, said Mr. Bourne hoarsely. I am afraid you are a little dull, Mr. Bourne. Understand me, sir, cried Mr. Bourne, tapping the cup-hilt of his sword. Oh, I understand you. I wish you could understand anything else. I invite you to a walk in the meadow, sir. Sleight, said Colonel Stowe calmly. I assure you we shall both come back. Mr. Bourne, leading at a high and haughty gate, Colonel Stowe following with his natural sobriety, they strode out of the house an off-down long wall. From behind a curtain casement Lucinda watched them go, and her eyes sparkled joy. Then she ran off to Colonel Royston. Halfway down long wall Mr. Bourne turned on Colonel Stowe. There is good ground between Merton Wall and the Cheerwell, sir, where we are not like to be disturbed. Colonel Stowe bowed. Another matter, sir, if this be not bloodless, we shall be required to give a cause for the quarrel. You will concede that a lady's name should not be made vulgar. You're self too seriously, Mr. Bourne, said Colonel Stowe with a smile. But if your dignity needs a fairytale, why, as I remember, your indignation began at some talk of babes. Let us say we disagree concerning the fashion of baby's clothes. Mr. Bourne made an angry exclamation, and turning strove fiercely on. Close upon Cheerwell Bank, where the King Cups glowed, they found short grass and the light falling fair through the willows. Mr. Bourne was for engaging at once. Do you insist that I should sweat? said Colonel Stowe plaintively, and made a gesture of taking off his coat. As you will, and how you will, sir, cried Mr. Bourne. Prithee, do not delay. There is plenty of time in your life yet, believe me, said Colonel Stowe, and was meticulous in folding his coat. The swords crossed. Gilbert Bourne came on with fierce vigor and skill. He had the best of the English style. Colonel Stowe knew that, and some others, but Mr. Bourne exercised him. It was necessary to check the lad's fervor. After a parry of prime, Mr. Bourne drew back his blade to make a complicated attack. Colonel Stowe gave point in a stop thrust. It was all but home in the throat. Mr. Bourne came on, fighting keenly and more keenly still as his blade was countered again and again till his play was more fierce than safe. To one wild rush, Colonel Stowe threw back his left foot and dropped his body. While Mr. Bourne's blade gleamed idle over his head, he straightened his arm and his point shot round Mr. Bourne's side, cutting a neat line in the lace shirt. It might as easily have been in the heart. Mr. Bourne knew that as well as Colonel Stowe. He recovered and sprang back and hesitated a moment, his eyes searching Colonel Stowe's amiable face. Then he came on again, but with more caution, and Colonel Stowe found a use for all his skill. Mr. Bourne was fighting for his sword's honor. His anger was under the curb. He called on himself for every trick of the art, and he had more of the quickness of the schools than remained with the soldier of many campaigns. Colonel Stowe was pressed hard. He fought it out coolly. He could trust his strength to see Mr. Bourne weaken, but each moment had close perils. Thunder of God! It was a rattling German oath, and with it the swords were struck up and a big fellow sprang between them. Is there no foe without that cavaliers should fight each other like rams? Put up your iron, Gilbert! It was Prince Rupert. "'Tis an affair of honor, sir,' said Gilbert sulkily. "'Your honor is to obey. "'Put up, man, or you have to do with Rupert.' "'Who is this gentleman?' "'Ah!' he knew the man who had saluted him. "'Who are you?' Colonel Stowe made his salute again. "'Jeremiah Stowe, sir, "'lately Colonel in the service of the Duke of Weimar, "'and anxious to be in yours.' "'So, the dark brows bent, "'and in whose service are you killing Mr. Bourne?' Colonel Stowe laughed. "'But, sir, if you saw our last passes, "'you must know it was not Mr. Bourne "'who was like to need a coffin.' "'Indeed, sir,' says Mr. Bourne, "'Colonel Stowe fights to please me, "'not himself, and has shown "'more courtesy than I.' "'So,' Prince Rupert looked from one to the other. "'What is the quarrel?' Colonel Stowe smiled with intention "'on Mr. Bourne, who blushed furiously. "'Why, sir, there is an age "'when a man hates to be called a boy "'and longs to be taken solemnly. "'I have offended Mr. Bourne in both parts. "'I have no gift for being solemn, "'but I will promise Mr. Bourne "'to do my best with him hereafter. "'His swordplay is at least no jest.' "'Colonel Stowe does himself an injustice, sir,' said Mr. Bourne quickly. "'If he had willed it, I had been on the turf.' "'Faith,' quote Prince Rupert, "'claping a hand on either shoulder. "'You are neither slaughterers and earnest, "'but you do yourselves an injustice to play at it. "'I will see you join hands. "'I shall be glad if Mr. Bourne can be my friend,' said Colonel Stowe. "'Mr. Bourne flushed, a struggle was plain in him. "'Then suddenly he gripped Colonel Stowe's hand. "'You are always to outdo me,' he said in a low voice. "'Then turn to Prince Rupert. "'Indeed, sir, I owe more to Colonel Stowe "'than I can repay. "'I would pray your highness to consider his claims, "'and warrant him a soldier of courage and resource. "'And to the embarrassment of Colonel Stowe, "'he related the entanglement of Cornet Tompkins. "'I gad, sir, you are a man for me,' cried Prince Rupert. "'What was your service in Germany? "'I can send your highness' letters "'from the Duke of Weimer and Achsenstierne. "'Do so, and you shall hear from me,' "'Prince Rupert held out his hand. "'I am your highness's servant, "'and if I may speak of him, my comrade Colonel Royston, "'who is as good a soldier as myself "'and of longer service seeks a commission, too. "'Let me have his papers. We need men.' "'Touching his hat, the prince swung away.' "'I think we are quits now, Mr. Bourne,' said Colonel Stowe, with a smile. "'There is the other matter,' said Mr. Bourne. "'The two men looked in each other's eyes. "'Sir, I fear you have mistook a kindness "'for something more,' said Colonel Stowe. "'You conceive that Mistress Weston "'honorsed your affection?' Mr. Bourne cried. "'Sir, I am very sure of it. "'There was pity in Mr. Bourne's smile. "'I am sorry,' he said gently. "'She has pledged to me.' "'You mistake,' said Colonel Stowe. "'Again, they looked at each other a while, silent. "'You will agree that she should best know,' said Colonel Stowe, with something of a whimsical smile. "'Mr. Bourne looked pity again. "'I am sorry,' he said. "'I am sorry.'" Colonel Stowe found him irritating, and was glad that the chapel bells alarmed him, and he fled to his post in the king's guard. Colonel Stowe went off to speak with Lucinda. He did not see any humor in the affair. End of CHAPTER XIII CHAPTER XIV of Colonel Cratehart 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 Barry Eads Colonel Cratehart by H. C. Bailey CHAPTER XIV Colonel Royston stays by a lady. Without ceremony, Lucinda drew Colonel Royston away from her mother. "'I must speak with you at once, sir.' Colonel Royston pretended no pleasure as he rose. My lady Weston was left alone in that placid unhappiness she knew best. Colonel Royston was taken to the garden. "'Sir, your friend and Mr. Bourne are gone away in anger together, for a duelo, as I believe.' Colonel Royston allowed himself the smile of a cynic. "'I congratulate you,' said he. He brought the blood to her cheeks. "'You are insolent, sir,' she cried. "'It is amusing,' said Colonel Royston. Lucinda stared at him. He was a new kind of man, and to her it may be his roughness was strength. At least he challenged her, and she was ready. "'You are a little concerned for your friend,' she said with a sneer. "'My concern is for the other gentleman,' said Colonel Royston grimly. "'So I will preserve your own admirable calm.' "'Pray, why should I be troubled by their danger?' she cried. "'God forbid I should help you to emotion,' said Colonel Royston heartily. Yet each of these two silly gentlemen has run some small risk of life for you. "'And am I not worth a risk?' she said softly. She faced him, lithe and white, with a strange mocking smile. "'If you did not think you were, you might be,' said Colonel Royston. "'Am I the weaker for knowing myself?' "'Is any man the stronger for knowing you?' "'You do not answer,' she said gently. "'You only hate me. Why?' "'It happens that you were made for that,' said Colonel Royston. "'Because I have won your friend.' And the fire went out of her eyes, and they were grave and kindly. "'Because you have won what you cannot value.' "'Perhaps I know,' she said in a low voice. "'Perhaps I—I am sorry.' "'Oh, I would I were more than I am, or less.' Colonel Royston was surprised at the subtlety and turned to face her. "'Is it my fault a man should love me?' she said, with something of a sad smile. "'I and his ill fortune,' replied Colonel Royston. "'Oh, your words try only to strike,' she cried, her brow drawn. "'Why should it please you to hurt me?' Her throat quivered. "'I am no man for women, madame,' said Colonel Royston gruffly. "'We are best apart.' But he did not go, and his face was set in a dark frown as he looked down at her. "'Nay, why will you hate me?' she cried. "'What wrong have I done?' "'It were well you should be faithful to my friend,' said Colonel Royston. Her cheeks flamed. She was erect and proud eyed. "'When I plight faith, I shall keep it,' she said. Then, on a sudden, pressed her hand to her temple. "'Oh, I know, I know,' she cried. "'He is noble, nobler than I, I think. And yet, and yet, ah, can you guess how a woman yearns for strength, hard, cruel strength?' It was a shot that hit the white. Colonel Royston himself thought his friend too kindly, loved him perhaps for the weakness, yet thought him less. Himself, being hard enough, was the greater in his own eyes. He smiled upon her for her good taste in men, but he was still loyal. "'You will find Colonel Stowe strong enough, madame,' said he. "'I cannot tell,' she murmured, and I would not hurt him. It is difficult.' She was pale, and she trembled a little. Colonel Royston signed mutely to a chair. "'Nay, walk with me awhile.' She pressed her bare arm through his, and together they paced the turf. She a slight white thing to his broad strength. "'If he could make me afraid,' she murmured to herself. "'Then louder. I cannot go the straight ways, you know. There is something wild in me. If he cannot master it, I am not sure. I am not sure.' "'Yet I have heard you call him Master,' said Colonel Royston. "'I wanted to believe it,' she said simply. "'Nay, he is clever, and a man who does things dazzles me. Oh, he is a droid, and frank, and gay, and that night I hoped. I hoped.' She sighed, then swiftly changed her tone. "'But if I were his, you would hate me. You want your friend.' Colonel Royston stiffened. "'I like to think he wants me.' "'You are not modest,' she laughed. There was something grim in Colonel Royston's smile. "'Faith, madame, there is not much modesty in this garden. "'You are not a cox comb, but a man. Why should I pretend to you? Oh, I loathe the women that must be always hiding behind a veil.' "'Yet there is a decency in clothes,' said Colonel Royston. "'Clothes are for the people one does not trust. Do you never take off yours, sir?' "'Tis an unedifying sight, madame. "'He looked down at her with a grim smile. "'You would see no better than a hungry beast.' "'Hungry for what?' "'For all there is in life. "'Good and evil?' "'If it has a relish, what is a man for but to taste all "'and get his fill of what he likes best?' "'And what is your liking, sir?' "'I'll tell you when I die. "'You have not found it yet?' "'I have found a thousand things worth living for "'and none worth dying for. "'A thousand things to like and none to love.' "'Not even a woman?' said Lucinda, smiling. "'All the women I ever knew have too many clothes "'or nothing inside the clothes.' "'I am not like that,' said Lucinda Meekley. "'Colonel Royston laughed. "'You know you are white flame in a woman's body.' "'A moment her hand closed lightly on his arm. "'She drew in her breath. "'You know me,' she said in a low voice. "'And by heaven you are worth knowing,' muttered Colonel Royston. "'His face was something flushed. "'They paced a while in silence, "'and she watched him with sparkling eyes and tent. "'But Colonel Royston had his head back "'and was staring full in front. "'With a queer laugh he looked down at her. "'For good or ill,' said he. "'Indeed, I fear you will always be able to laugh at me,' said Lucinda. "'It will be mighty good for you. "'So I'll take you as medicine. "'I'll strive to be fitly nasty.' "'Will you find it an effort, sir?' Lucinda laughed, "'and they saw Colonel Stowe. "'Have you buried him, Jerry?' cried Colonel Royston. "'Mr. Bourne is my very good friend,' said Colonel Stowe. Lucinda blushed and stood still. "'Oh, Ludd,' quote Colonel Royston. "'And have you not marked him?' "'I am glad I did not,' said Colonel Stowe. "'Colonel Royston whistled, "'and you are very compassionate, sir,' Lucinda sneered. "'I cannot guess why you should be bloodthirsty, madame,' said Colonel Stowe sharply. "'Nay, keep your censure for who will endure it?' she cried. "'Tira Leera,' Colonel Royston concluded his melody. "'I profess most men would think you owed Mr. Bourne some small matter of a sword-point, Jerry. "'Mr. Bourne has been in a mistake,' said Colonel Stowe, and came up to Lucinda. She met him with a defiance that made her lovely. "'Madame, Mr. Bourne concedes that he has some right in you. "'It were. Is it my fault if Mr. Bourne is a fool?' "'Perhaps,' said Colonel Stowe, with the beginning of a smile, "'and now you will make him wise again. "'You will wake him from this mistake.' "'Her bosom rose. "'You take a high tone, sir,' she cried. "'It may be you are in a mistake, too.' "'Am I?' said Colonel Stowe. Then he caught her hands, and though she leaned all her body away from him, he drew her close to her breast touched his. Her neck was rosy, her eyes shone dark. "'Do I presume?' he said in a low voice. "'You know.' And so held her a moment, her breast beating light against his, his breath in her hair, while she feared and longed for what might come next. For Colonel Royston stood by, frowning and grim, but Colonel Stowe let her go gently and with a quiet. "'I am your servant, madame.' Made his bow and kissed her hand. She, intent on him, was a moment before she thought of offering it to Colonel Royston. But Royston, with the briefest bow, turned on his heel and followed his friend. "'What did you do with the boy?' said Colonel Royston gruffly, as they turned into the street. Made a hole in his shirt, he needed no more. Colonel Royston grunted. "'The fact is you are too much the lady, Jerry,' says he. "'Men should love me the more. And what of the women? There is one that matters, and I shall content her.' This confidence annoyed Colonel Royston, who looked sour enough. "'I, Gad, t'was a quaint fight, George. The lad will be no ill-sword when he toughens. He exercised me. I was fairly praying for him to tire when in strikes the palatine and would have us embrace. I believe I please, Mansour Rupert. He'll give me a regiment if I know men. So I spoke a word for you, too, and I think our affair is done.' "'I,' says Royston with a sneer, "'a regiment for you and a company for me. I, you are charitable.' Colonel Stowe stared. He was not used to jealousy in his friend. "'Faith, George, I am selfish enough with you. You've given too much for me. But in this there is no more for me than you. If the palatine will not give us two-light commissions, the better is yours.' "'No,' I gad,' cried Royston, flushing. "'I am a courage, Harry.' End of Chapter 14. Chapter 15 of Colonel Greatheart 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 Barry Eads. Colonel Greatheart by H. C. Bailey. Chapter 15 Why Come Ye Not To Court? It was a court of fantasy. No man looked what he was. No man said what he meant. Each much-curled dame played at being the goddess she was called. All the air was heavily fragrant of boughs and lofty conceits, and Colonel Stowe found it something hard to breathe. He was not able to tell Chloris that her voice called his fleeing soul away nor swear to Sacherissa that her beauties employed his utmost sight, as the first dawn the eyes of Adam. He could not profess himself prostrated like the groveling Caliban by the courteous grace of a gentleman who made way for him, or liken King Charles on his entry to the white sun, waking the splendors of all the subject flowers his light had made. In such a world, he felt himself the country lad in worsted who was a judge of furrows and right harrowing. But there was splendor. Women's and white bosoms were gay all down the great hall of Christ's church, and men too sparkled in jewels and vied with the women's silk and brocade. The scarlet gowns of doctors of divinity were no more than a simple cord in the loud melody of color. Colonel Royston approved. This was to his taste. Thus gorgeous a court should be. He fed on the luxury of it and proud of his own simplicity, despised them all, the elaborately posing King. Indeed, King Charles posed well, a stately melancholy and cloth of silver that set off his dark eyes and hair. His queen, for all her golden gown, was but a foil to him. Her weak round beauty made his sad sentiment look noble. You might almost take him for a man tonight, said Colonel Royston. While he spoke, came through the courtiers, one who was that at least. Prince Robert, taller by a head than the men who tilted eyebrows and sneered as he passed, made a mock of their splendor. Colonel Stowe could see the faces changed ludicrously. Prince Robert was in simple dove gray from head to heel, and even his sword-hilt plain, but across his breast was the broad blue ribbon of the garter. The palantine knew how to dress. Colonel Stowe honored the ability of it with a whimsical smile. These men were to be swayed so, so they must be swayed. One would not, however, admire them for it, nor perhaps the man who cared to deal with them so. The prince took him by the elbow and had him out of the throng to the stairway. Look, you, sir, I have a word for you. I have read your papers and they like me. I never knew Oxen Steerna could praise before. I think you have seen more service than myself. I see you were with Turin. Why did you leave him? M. D. Turin has a brutality of manner, said Colonel Stowe. He is like a cat, the palantine admitted. A quarrel, eh? He proposed a hanging which I could not permit. Was it your own? No, sir, a prisoner. So, if that is your temper, you are the more use. Look, you, sir, war here is not the war of Germany. It is all policy and quarter. They call me Robert Ladiable. But, thunder of God, if these English knew what war could be, they would worship me. Understand me, sir. The brown eyes blaze suddenly. If you cannot hold your men, you are no use to me. I brought a squadron of croats through Saxony after Whitstock and no woman was the worse for them. Good. The brown eyes twinkled. I am only asking you for miracles. Well, you will have no such rogues as croats, but you will have fools who think they have rights. Oh, the devil, are you the 19th cousin of any great house yourself? My father is a yeoman squire in Puckingham. I know no better of my blood than that. Thank God for it. Rupert clapped him on the shoulder. The army is crawling with fellows who have some dirty connection with dirty blue blood. Well, sir, if you will, I will give you permission to a regiment of horse. I humbly thank your Highness, and I dared to speak for my friend. Oh, I, your friend, you can give him a squadron. By your Highness's leave, if I might take the squadron and Colonel Royston the regiment, he is an older soldier than I. Odds blood, here is a friendship. Take care. There was never much got by playing Jonathan. But he looked at Colonel Stowe in the light. Well, tell me the man's serveth, said he, and he linked arms and walked out to the freshness of the night. There was that within for which the palentine had little taste. To the strains of flagelette and clavichord, a smooth lad of the Christchurch servitors, tricked out in a woman's clothes, was singing a fantastical lament as Io, the wretched love of Job. Now Io, you recall, was through Juno's jealousy by an immortal gadfly. So when the boy ended with a great tremolo, woe is me that I am fair, woe is me that I am young, woe is me for my soul is stung, ever, ever, ever. My Lord Germain was pleased to make him a low bow and took up the doleful tone. Sister Io, you are dull. Sister Io, go and try. Sister Io, to kill your fly. Spider, spider, spider. It was within the comprehension of her majesty. She abandoned herself to laughter and at once all the court honored this wondrous wit. Even the royal melancholy beside her condescended to a childish smile. The world might nudge and whisper behind his back, but he could not dream of jealousy against my Lord Germain. Yet of that queer menage of three the best brains were in my Lord Germain's head. The queen was urging him to sing now and he denied only long enough to win a cap of her fan. Little and sleek in a splendid red brocade with a chain of rubies round his neck that he could never have paid for, he posed till he waked all expectation. Then he whispered a word to the flageolet in a pleasant voice enough. Oft have I mused the cause to find why loving ladies I should dwell. I thought because himself was blind he looked that they should guide him well. Ensure his hope but seldom fails, for love by ladies eyes prevails. But time at last hath taught me wit. Although I bought my wit full dear, for by her eyes my heart is hit. Deep as the wound though none appear there glancing beams as dart he throws, and sure he hath no shaft but those. I am used to see their eyes so bright and little thought they had been on fire. I gazed upon them with delight, but that delight hath bred desire. What better place can love desire than that where grow both shafts and fire. He acted it to the queen, and she laughed back to him and conquetted with her fan, and at last was pleased to feign displeasure at his boldness. So that there was no royal sign given for applause, and my lord Jermaine was honored with a silence. Then he, keeping up the silly game she loved, must needs play peak, and turned away from her. So, peacocking it through the throng he came upon Lucinda. My lord Jermaine was a connoisseur. This lithe, fierce creature took his eye. A sea-green dress clung to her, and there were emeralds in the gorgeous mass of her hair that dared a happy disorder. She bore herself nobly. The slim neck and shoulders were no alabaster, but warm with quick life. My lord Jermaine appraised her, and met eyes as bold as his own. For by her eyes my heart is hit, he cried quickly. A small mark, my lord. A poor thing, madame, and not now mine own. Why, have you mislaid it? Says she, with a swift glance at the queen. I have dropped it in your bosom, madame, replied my lord Jermaine. A cold habitation. The flame of my desire will melt those walls of snow. And your heart be drowned like a blind puppy. You fence with a sharp sword, madame, cried my lord Jermaine. Something hurt. I would be a foil to no man, my lord. Nay, you are made to be a man's breastplate. I know no man big enough to wear me. My lord Jermaine made a gesture of despair. Then, madame, you condemn the creation, and you were made to be its joy. I had rather be my own. All men are yours, said my lord Jermaine. Lucinda smiled. While I am not theirs, I am well content. Odds blood, cried my lord Jermaine in a fine transport. There is one man I envy, and I hate to death. Then with a grin, and pity. Who is it? asked Lucinda in sweet innocence. I, who is it? I am on fire to know who is the happy man that makes those cruel eyes melt, that still bosom throb. I would condol with him, or kill him. I wish I knew him, said Lucinda smiling. Or will you be he, my lord? My lord Jermaine kissed her hand, and I will do more at your convenience. Nay, if you care for my convenience you care not for me. I protest, cried my lord Jermaine, and was probably in earnest. I protest you are the most pequant mouthful of a woman that ever was created. But I doubt your appetite, Lucinda laughed. Doubt anything but that, cried my lord Jermaine, and chancing to turn a little saw the queen frown black. He laughed and engaged Lucinda more closely. Nay, madame, you shall inflame us. You shall make us mad. I would give my soul, or my little finger, to make you mad for me. It would surely be disloyal of me, said Lucinda, with a quick eye upon the queen, and perhaps not amusing. Oh, I engage for that, cried my lord Jermaine. Nothing is so amusing as to embrace me. It has so many sensations. Lucinda considered him with mockery. Well, I will take you for holidays, my lord, but indeed I must have another for my daily bread. It is dry, the daily bread, said my lord Jermaine. But you, madame, are like wine with it to make the sacrament of life. He pruned himself having achieved such a conceit. Alack, my lord, while I make you think of spiritual things, you remind me of nothing but the earthly. That for each other, like soul and body. I, my lord, in most of us they quarrel dotally, and the soul yields to the body's eloquence, and my lord Jermaine possessed both her hands. Madame, it is an omen. Of eternal punishment I fear. With me even that would be agreeable, says my lord modestly, and kissed her hands and her arms. Then sideways he looked at the queen. The pleasure was not lovely. My lord Jermaine, who had some likeness to a monkey, thought of a new mischief. But I confess, madame, you were made for an angel. Do I not succeed as a woman? I, faith, but I see you have a golden harp. I hear your heavenly voice. Confess it, you sing. No heavenly songs, my lord. The better fit for court. Let me lead you to the musicians. May I will not be denied. I am her majesty's master of the revels. Her majesty will not revel in this, my lord, said Lucinda, with a swift, laughing glance from the queen's ill grace to him. But she suffered herself to be led. Lucinda enjoyed herself. She had no illusions about my lord Jermaine, who was to her as mean a thing as Prince Rupert had called him. But my lord Jermaine drew my lord Jermaine could help her to do the light. Once on the stage she was sure of her power to dazzle and thrill. She saw herself already an uncrowned queen. My lord Jermaine, aping it about her, she spoke with the musicians. The clavichord broke through the rustle of talk. It was a song daring on a woman's lips, and there was a dance with it of no cold measure. A lover I am I shall never be free. Let wisdom be blamed in the prudish man hater, for never to love is a sign of ill nature. But she who loves well and whose passion is strong shall never be wretched and always be young. With hopes and with fears like a ship on the ocean, our hearts are kept dancing and ever in motion. When our passion is pallet and our fancy would fail, a little kind quarrel supplies a fresh gale. But when the doubts cleared and jealousy's gone, how we kiss and embrace and can never have done. Her lithe body gave all its grace to the dance. She acted the words with vivid gestures of allure. When at last the swift medley of color and womanly form was still and she stood panting delicately, smiling, with a touch of red in her cheeks. Even though the king maintained his sentimental sadness and the queen was moody and gave no lead, my lord remained to do her honor. The gentlemen and even some of their ladies crowded about her. My lord Carnarvon, my lord Wilmot, my lord Digby, and madame Saccharissa too, Lucinda had her reward. With hot cheeks and kindling eye Colonel Royston watched that dance. As it ended and they crowded round her, he turned and saw beside him Colonel Stowe. She is glorious Jerry said Colonel Royston and his voice was unsteady. But it was plain enough from the gloom of Colonel Stowe's brow that he was of another mind. What, man, you are not a pulling Puritan. Has she not a splendid life? Colonel Stowe forced a laugh. I have quiet taste, I think, he said. Royston fell back a step. By heaven, Jerry, you are not the man for that woman, he muttered. Perhaps I know her better than you. Than these. His lip curled as he looked at the courtiers about her. Colonel Royston, who was flushed, bit his dark mustachios on an oath. But I came to seek you, George. The Palantine asked for you. Royston grunted and followed without a word. Prince Rupert stood in the quadrangle looking up at the sky. Saturn is red tonight, he said. What would Booker argue of that, I wonder. Colonel Stowe and his friend, who were no astrologers, made not a guess. Prince Rupert returned to the world. So you are Colonel Royston, and he looked the big man up and down. You are fortunate in your friend. I shall try to deserve my fortune, sir. No man deserves his friend, said the Palantine, with his boy's cynicism. I gather, sir, what can you do to the man who would give up his regiment to find you one? Colonel Royston became pale and looked at his friend strangely. That is what Jerry Stowe would be doing, said Rupert, laughing and slapping the uncomfortable Colonel Stowe on the shoulder. Well, sir, I like him too well to do without him. And I find you too good a soldier not to use you. I have seen your papers and heard more of you. And faith, he put his elbow into Colonel Stowe's ribs. And the deeds have lost nothing in the telling. There is a Welsh regiment of foot-forming. Faith, it will need some forming, but I hear you are a doctor of the Swedish drill. The commission is yours if you care to have it. What do you say, man? Colonel Royston saluted. I am your highness's obliged servant. So, you will wait on me in the morning. He glanced from one to the other. They were both ill at ease. Take it, said he with a laugh. Sounds, this affection is out of date. Good night to you. Then Colonel Stowe linked his arm with his friends. So, that is well, George, said he. I, you have cut a mighty fine figure, growled Royston. Colonel Stowe started in utter amaze. Royston drew away. And what good is it to us? The palatine is but a fool's general. You know it as well as I. And you have seen what kind of honor they have for him here. But general, he is, Colonel Stowe expostulated. And if we are to have commissions, they must come from him. Oh, I, if you like to crawl and beg favors, cried Royston, it is not my way. You are unreasonable, George, said Colonel Stowe mildly. But Royston was beyond that. Oh, I, I am unreasonable. And you are to pose and make me mean. And I am to take your leavings while all the world praises your nobility. It is always so. By God, am I made only to be your foil? I am sorry, George. I, oh, curse your smoothness, cried Royston and flung away in a rage. Colonel Stowe stood looking after him, hurt and hopelessly puzzled. And Colonel Royston stamped away through the night in an aching fever and rage. He was puzzled by it and raged the more in a futile hate of all the world. End of Chapter 15 Chapter 16 of Colonel Greatheart 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 Barry Eads Colonel Greatheart Chapter 16 Colonel Royston Breaks His Sword You can hardly conceive Mr. Bourne at peace all this while. He was as sure of Lucinda as of himself, but of pure charity and good fellowship it was necessary to shatter Colonel Stowe's assurance. The poor gentleman must not be let cheat himself more. To fulfill which philanthropic purpose Mr. Bourne, as soon as his duties of the King's Guard spare him, sought the aid of Lucinda. It was an afternoon of swift showers, and the walls glistened with jewels. Lucinda, all silver and cream, yawned at her window over the prudish poems of Mr. Harrington. She received Mr. Bourne with a smile as likely to be more amusing. He was at least gorgeous in his scarlet and blue. You are grateful as sunshine, Gilbert. She cried, tossing the book away. That man makes love like an angel with a cold. Is my way better? said Mr. Bourne, kissing her hand. Yours? Well, you are like a pleasant child. Mr. Bourne frowned. There was a saver in that of the ideas of Colonel Stowe. You did not think so once, madame, said he. Oh, no! she laughed readily. Once you bored me. That was when you thought me a goddess. She made a face of mock horror, and he smiled against his will. Faith, you are nothing but a woman with all the torment of your sex. If you can laugh at me, I shall love you, she said, and signed him to a place at her side in the window-seat. She tossed back the curls that glowed about her brow and freed the grace of her neck from its lace scarf. Mr. Bourne had not much power of laughter, least of all when his eyes were on her. He looked long. Nay, I am not come to jest, he said. Lucinda, we must be frank now. Gilbert, my dear, you could never be anything else, she laughed. I, and you, you must understand. I understand you to your fingertips. And on my soul I understand you, cried Gilbert, and doubtless believed it. But he saw that strange, wise, mocking smile of hers. If I thought so, she said slowly, why I might be afraid of you, and you would be happy. I am happy, he said gravely, and God forbid that you should fear me. She laughed. Yes, I am happy, and he took her hand, but others must know that I am happy, Lucinda. My dear friend, said Lucinda, at knowing another happy one is only in a bad temper, and she took her hand back. Mr. Bourne laughed. I shall make all men unhappy indeed. You are not big enough, said Lucinda, shaking her curls. Nay, but you are my queen, and when I possess you, you will have grown, said Lucinda sharply. Mr. Bourne stared at her. Dear, I know I am all unworthy, he said in a low voice. That I have never doubted. But in truth I love you more than life. You are my honor and my soul. It is a little tedious for me. Mr. Bourne made an exclamation. Once you did not think so. My dear Gilbert, while you were not serious, you were amusing. Ah, Lucinda, this is no jest. If you could but see it. It is my whole life and yours, and we dare not play with it. What else is life? Lucinda laughed. Mr. Bourne frowned. I do not understand you of late. Faith, my friend, you never did. Is it? Before the question was ended, Colonel Stowe came in. In good time, sir, Lucinda cried. Here is Mr. Bourne as serious as a thunderstorm. Colonel Stowe bowed to Mr. Bourne. A very wholesome affair, beautifully. Yes, in good time, sir, cried Mr. Bourne. I can now ask Mr. Weston to tell you what she promised me. Lucinda gave a swift glance from one man to the other, but she did not hesitate. A smile while you live and a sigh when you die, she cried. Colonel Stowe turned to Mr. Bourne. Are you not pledged? Mr. Bourne said in a strange voice. Dear, you are very tragic. He made an impatient gesture. And it becomes you deplorably. Nay, answer me, he cried hoarsely. Colonel Stowe drew away. My friend, there is no return for worship. You have worshipped me, so why should I care for you? The lad flinched and was white and turned unsteadily away. Oh, Gilbert, pray be amusing. Mr. Meadier. He faced round upon her. He was white still to the lips and his eyes misty. He tried to speak. I am sorry, he muttered, and made his bow and burst out. Lucinda smiled at Colonel Stowe. With his next love he will think himself more and her less, and it will be the happier for both of them. Mandu, he has been an entertainment. But Colonel Stowe was entirely grave. You do yourself an injustice, madame. To deny myself to Mr. Bourne, sure you would have me too generous, sir. To jeer at a man's devotion. Her eyes flamed. What right have you to rebuke me? No one in the world has the right but me. Are you to order my life? Your life is mine, your honor mine. She sprang up. She flung her arms wide. To no man, to no man in the world, she cried, and her voice was glad. She stood against him, maiden in the pure, gentle hue of her dress, passionate with vivid lips and the glow of her hair and her eager eyes, all fiercely lovely. How little you know, you are that, no more than that in your maidenhood. You'll never know life without me, the power of you sleeps till I awaken it. My power? She threw the laugh back at him. She was defiant still, but something of the fierceness was gone out of her. My power? Ask other men of that, the boy that is gone, I, and stronger than he, have I no power over them? Yes, power to bewilder them and torture them and make them mad. Do you think you were made for no better than that? By heaven it shall not be. He strode to her and gripped her hands. His eyes were flaming with a rare light. She felt the keen strength of him, manhood at war with her own nature. You, you must give men heart to dare and work. You are to help life, not break it. With me and through me, with the people, I have not the force without you. You are blind without me. We together, we are power. He crushed her hands in his. What? Do you deny me? I am yours as you are mine, mine, mine to take to myself and use. He flung her hands away and grasped her waist. You know it, yes, you know it, body and soul. She was panting a little and flushed. She had turned her face from him. He took her chin in his hand and made the glistening eyes look up to his. You shall own it by heaven. Are you not throbbing for me? You, the force of life, I am your guide. Yield yourself, yield. She looked long, silent. Suddenly she flung her arms about him and clasped him passionately in a rough coat. He drew her face from his shoulder and kissed her fiercely. Her arms fell loose about him. She freed herself and stood leaning against his shoulder, trembling a little, looking away. She put her hand to her hot cheeks and gave a queer miserable laugh. Yes, I am yours, she said. His arm was hard about her again and at the touch of it she drew to him, sobbing. Her eyes were dark still with tears. She looked up at him with a strange surprise. Ah, you are wonderful, she said, drawing a long breath. I did not know. You made me not like myself. Ah! It was like a cry of pain. Her arm closed on him with nervous strength. Do not fail me. Colonel Stowe laughed. It was twilight when he came out. He saw a lucid violet sky and a tiny star pale in it. But all the west was mellow yet and the afterglow caressed wall and tower. Wrestling by each narrow lane from the River Meadows a warm wind came, heavy with the sweet breath of summer. It gave him the poignant mingled fragrance of young grass and may and lime and it bore his love new strength and his strength new love. He was drunk with life. Like one who walks in a world of visions where all things are of his realm where all is subject to him he swung through the throng of the high street. The swaggering soldiers the mincing laughing girls were all his people for him to use. He was Lord of all. He looked up and laughed. Darkly clear like deep water and vast beyond the sense of man rose the dome of the sky. With that immensity of the world he was akin. The strength of it was his strength. He had the secret of its mystery and its calm. Long he stood still looking up where the gray spires of St. Mary's sprang glorious to the white glow of the evening star. He knew the strength of men's striving and the eternal joy of peace and he was to be a ruler among his people. He felt the surge of his power and its mastery. In their lodging in the upper room of St. Aldates Colonel Royston did sword exercise by candlelight. He was stripped to his shirt and bare-armed and this way and that his heavy strength swung easily with a ripple of muscle. Stepping light as a child in a hurry of joy Colonel Stowe ran up and flung the door wide. George I am the happiest man alive. With the draft the candles flickered and guttered and went out and in the bewildering light from the open door Colonel Royston who was lunging misjudged his distance his sword came against the stone of the chimney-piece harshly. Is it broken? cried Colonel Stowe. At the point said Royston out of the dark. End of Chapter 16