 CHAPTER 41 WIFE AND MADE The sunset light was coming to an upper chamber in Tame. There David Stowe's wife Joy, setting new roses in a great blue bowl, belied her name with size. The room was neat and spotless as the white linen at her neck. But her roses ordered she could not be content with it, and looked narrowly over the light oak wane-scot, and put the settle and the great leather chairs anew, and took the pewter salvers down to put them up again. To this business came Joan Normandy, grave and pale, from the burden of her nursing. Joy ran to her with a little glad cry. Oh, you come kindly! I was beginning to be sad. My dear, I come to be made merry, said Joan, with her grave smile. You are very good for me, because you make me feel sinful, said Joy, and compelled her to the pleasantest chair, and took her grey cloak from her. Am I a Pharisee, then? Joan, it is wrong in you to make so little of yourself. If you have no assurance of salvation, how can we dare? We'll not match ourselves, dear, said Joan gently, and indeed I think does not assurance but works that make one happy. Joan watched her with a wise, tender smile. How can I dare be sad, she said half to herself. I have only parting to bear when God's work calls him away. And you, there were tears in her eyes, dear heart, you have not even begun to be happy yet. Have I not? You are grown wise, Joy, and yet, were you not happy the old days before? Joy laughed a little softly. Her eyes were aglow with a glad, pure wonder and joy. Ah, telling tells nothing, she said. Dear, it was a blind life, a halt life to this. Indeed, till you have given your life away you cannot live, I think. I never knew I was anything till I was all his, and now, Joan, to be rich and give. Yes, Joan said. She was lying back in her chair and her face hidden in the shadow. The sunlight was changing and failing and the crimson of the roses grew dark. Joy took one from the bowl and came to lay it against the broad white collar that fell over Joan's heart. Some day she said softly, some day. Joan's hand closed on hers with sudden strength. No, she murmured and laughed then. Tis a white rose for me, dear. Joy drew away a little and looked down at her with grave, pitiful eyes. She began to speak and checked herself. I'll believe in the red rose, she said. God never met women for maids. Joan was near as red as the rose. Is a woman only a woman, she said, in a strange, stern voice? Has she no soul above that? Sure, beyond this world there is neither marriage nor giving in marriage, nor men nor women. Is that what it means, said Joy, with a kindly scorn, such as a mother might use to a foolish child? Dear, I would not despise your gladness, said Joan so sagely that a little reckless, nervous laugh broke from her friend. But God does not design it for all women. I think I am not made for—for. The delicate color stained her brow. I could not give all of myself, indeed. Ah, do you know how I shrink from it? Joy laid a gentle pressing hand on her shoulder, but she drew away. Yes, yes, it is right, I know. But it is horrible to me. I am not made for that. I must possess myself. I cannot be true to God else. Her voice rang queerly, and there was fear in Joy's eyes. Come from maid to wife with no sorrow, she did not know this passion of womenhood turned against itself. Nay, but I am a sick fool to talk so, cried Joan, between a laugh and a sob. Tell me of Madam Joy's joys. Has the good man ever a will of his own now? My dear, said Joy, who had no jest ready. Oh, I vow he is mighty obedient. Joy was demure. Nay, dear, there is no obedience in marriage. The desire of one is the desire of the other. You have to make him see that. Poor soul, said Joan, and what has he made you see? That I am the most wonderful creature in the world, said Joy, because he is. You are wise. Tis the one thing he never called me. The poor gentleman is hard put to it, if he calls you wise to love him. He says that water is wet. Nay, he sings his own praises. Tis the same thing. And therefore idle. But if he sayeth fool to love me, it would be plain folly, and slander of you, which is the same thing again. So, like a wise husband, he keeps his tongue behind his teeth. Indeed, he does no such thing, cried Joy, with indignation. You see, she smiled, blushing, you see, I have to be told so many times. It argues want of faith, said Joan. Joy laughed. It argues, she faltered. It argues, she flung her arms wide and stood so. Just that. But afterwards, in the dark, when Joan was gone, she sat and cried for the maid's lonely heart. To her gladness, that fierce passion for maidenhood, was of all things most miserable. CHAPTER 42 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 42 THE NIGHT ALARM Even as Colonel Stowe started away down the hillside, Rupert's vanguard shouted a challenge from behind. He took his horse on at a mad speed, but broke from the track to the open turf on his left. By the sound Stase's men were well before him, but there might be more of their rear guards. Rupert's men kept the road, striking straight for the heart of the Puritan army. Stase had borne away towards Shotover Pond, and Colonel Stowe following hard, saw at once the gray glimmer of it, and far down the road the gleam of fires in the Puritan outposts. Rupert's goal. Still Stase held the same swift pace. Plainly he feared no trap. He trusted the traitor, who was to let him in. It seemed he was right. Colonel Stowe, riding reckless, drew close upon him, and saw his troops break unchallenged over the crossroads, and up the grassy slope, beyond, and turned sharp and plunge into the wooded domain of Holton. The trees stood like vague, dark ghosts. Stase's men broke their ranks, and checked pre-force, and checked again. But Colonel Stowe held on. The lights of a house twinkled through the gloom. Stase's men drew together again, reigned up and dismounted. A few were left with the horses. The rest made a scurry for the house. Then Colonel Stowe drove his spurs home, and asked the last strength of his horse. He broke into them just before the door. He rode, summed down, before they caught his bridle and slashed at him and his horse. He let off a pistol at the nearest head, and roared, guard, turn out, guard. Orderlies came running out of the house, and he heard the spit of an Italian oath, as Stase's voice hissing, on, bullies on. His horse shrieked to a vicious thrust, and stumbled. He flung himself from the saddle, firing again as he fell. His shots echoing across the dark were mightily answered. Around them, far and near, the pickets woke with musket-flash and rattle and trumpets peeled. The army roused with a mile-long din, clatter of steel and hurrying tramp. It was time. The thunder of horsemen grew, and the air flamed yellow, and there came the dull rolling roar of fight. Rupert struck home. From the threshold of the house, the Puritan orderlies, made Stan and Strasse's men hurled at them in a mass. Colonel Stow staggered to his feet and thrust into the mist, crushed, sweating, cheek to cheek. In the dark, in the frenzy of that mad mealy, none knew him from another, and striking from below with short-sword craftily, he slew men who cursed their comrades for the deed and died. So by the space of their dead bodies he won on through the press. He must to the front. If he were to serve, he must to the front, and the fortune of the night walked upon a sword's edge now, reckless, ruthless he panted on. The orderlies held the doorway gallantly awhile, but they were overborn by the storm of steel and slain. Trampling them down, the mad troop surged on. The sturdy door brought them up short. Strasse and the foremost hurled themselves upon it in vain. Then with bare sword, Strasse beat the crowd back to get room for a run, yelling many things in Italian and English. All together they dashed at the oak, and Colonel Stow, locked close with the rest, let off his third pistol at a venture low into the midst of them. They saw Strasse's livid face turn as they crashed on the door, and in the shriek of the tearing timber heard him hiss, I'll flay the hound who has done that firing. The great door failed before them, and whirled back, and pel-mel, all staggering and falling, they hurled into the hall. There was no light now, save from the fire. Behind a barricade of table and chairs the generals stood to arms. Strasse's men found their feet, and stared and held off, muttering. Colonel Stow remembered that silent moment of shame. Old skip on, with the sleeve drawn back from his fat arm, breathing noisily through his mouth as he made his sword quiver. Cromwell towering above him, the coarse fat face distorted with the anger of battle, and the red flame light falling clearly on his grey eyes. Fairfax, plainly by his swordsman's poise, the best man of his hands of them all, with a quiet smile on his lips and his eyes, irotin, keen and calm, with a strange frown of wonder and puzzle, and before them the score of sweating, foaming bullies, faltering, fearing the attack. Strasse cursed him vehemently. Passion of Christ, you are five to one fools, five to one, have at them, blood, blood, and he dashed at Cromwell. No one ever called him a coward. For a moment he fought alone, with the four, but so fierce was his fury he took no hurt, and a red line grew dark and darker on Cromwell's neck. At the sight of that there was a mad shout, and the bullies charged forward together. Colonel Stow, swept on in the brute charge, heard Cromwell's deep-chested laughter, and fired his last pistol into the nearest head. While the arseid smoke was still about him, while Strosse yelled, will you stick that fool with the pistols? It seemed that he heard a cry from without, answered the shot. Then men turned swords upon him, and some knew him, and broke into fierce wild oaths, and though the dead man was his buckler, he hardly kept them off a moment. The burden and the press were too much. With scarce one wound, by force of blunted thrusts he was borne down beneath the dead, and trampling on them both, spurning them, the bullies charged on to their prey. The generals were in sore case, skipping was bleeding and failing, and arting the lawyer too. Cromwell reeked and panted in the stress, only Fairfax held his own, smiling still, and fought on like Bussy or Bayard. But from without came loud the thunder of galloping horsemen. Cromwell drew back from the medley of steel a moment, and shouted in the voice of his battles, who is on my side, who? Deep and exalted the shout came back, the sword of the Lord. Strozzie sprang out of the fight with an oath and turned to run. The others had no more heart. In a moment they were pushing out in a wild mob as they had stormed in. Some of the first were in time and broke away to their horses and fled all ways like rabbits, but most of them came full upon the rush of Puritan troops and fell like grass to the sigh. There was no mercy. Spare them not, cried the captain, utterly destroy. And they were hewn down. And red with blood the troopers broke into the hall and fell to stabbing the wounded and the dead. Cromwell clambered up the barricade and sat himself on it, looked at the butchery and laughed, and wiping the blood and sweat from his neck, broke out with a horse chant. The Lord's my light and saving health, who shall make me dismayed? My life's strength is the Lord of whom, then shall I be afraid. When mine enemies enfoze, most wicked persons all, to eat my flesh against me rose, they stumbled and did fall. But fair facts with sharp order checked the ghastly slaying of the slain. The captain grumbled something of the amicalites. But a live amicalite would be most useful, said Iranton, the lawyer. He had the candles lit again and began to look the bodies over. Under the fellow whose head he had blown in, Colonel Stowe was found, wounded and bruised, and still half stunned. Ah, the gentleman of the pistol, said Iranton, with interest, with cold steel on brow and spine, they brought him to. Old Skipton, who had gotten back some of his breath and his wits, came, puffing forward, with a Captain Evans. Captain Daniel Evans, in the name of God, what is the firing at Wheatley? The Philistines came upon us and forced sirs, said the Captain. I know not the issue. Major Harrison, when he heard the firing here, dispatched me unto you. Ah, the firing, said Iranton. Now this is a damnable thing, cried Skipton. They would murder us before the attack. By this time Colonel Stowe was tottering on his feet and looking all around him with dull eyes. There is the craft of the man of blood in it, cried Cromwell. He turned the Fairfax. Oh, sir, let's to horse speedily. We do the Lord wrong, to glory yet. But as he marched to the door his eyes fell upon Colonel Stowe, and he checked suddenly, staring. There was something familiar to him in that face. And then Colonel Royston came striding over the dead. He had no doubt of Strozzie's deed. There had been fair chance in full time. He thought himself supreme. He was already to snatch command. In one swift glance he saw that he had lost. That he had sold his honour for nothing. That peril was close about him. He did not fail himself, not a muscle moved in the strong dark face. He saluted Fairfax. Sir, this is surely the Lord's doing. And it is marvellous in our eyes, said Iroton, regarding him benignly. Sir, I thank God for your escape, faith. The whole cause hath been in much danger. I have had the whole of the enemy's horse upon my posts at Wheatley. And have you beaten them off, cried Skippen? Sir, the Lord's of good help. Oh, sir, let's give him all the glory, cried Cromwell, clamping him on the shoulder. I shall try, quote Royston. He heard someone laugh and turning, saw a draggled dirty fellow in the grip of two troopers their eyes met. They were away in the world of the real. Their souls dealt together unveiled and quivered with regret and scorn and shame for the lost sure faith and love. Cromwell fell on his knees and began to pray loudly. But among them all, Colonel Stowe alone bore his head unbound. CHAPTER 43 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 43 MOLLY PROPOSES In the publicity of the corn market, Molly embraced Matthew Mark, whose emotions were rather decent than grateful. But Mademoiselle, nay Mademoiselle, he cried, extricating himself with energy but with difficulty. I assure you, I do not deserve it. But you have been working for my sake, sweetheart, quote Molly, languishing at him. Not at all. I have been mending my breeches. Sure that was for my sake, and Molly regarded them with affection. Matthew Mark fingered the patch nervously and nervously looked from it to her. It does not chime with its background, he admitted. No, it is certainly not beautiful. But it is necessary. Like me, said Molly, and set her cake basket on one arm, and tucked the other into his, and propelled him with her toward carfax, like a jolly round body of a woman parading a reluctant scarecrow. My pretty, said the reluctant Matthew Mark, this is not seemly. Fie now, cried Molly. You would not make me do unmaidingly, would you, a kind gentleman? Indeed I would not, Matthew Mark protested, with tears in his voice. Why then, says she generously, I'll never be ashamed with you, dearie. You will understand, said Matthew Mark, uneasy, inner vigorous arm, that my situation is invidious. Sure it is sweet in you to say so, Molly murmured, and leaned on him affectionately. Matthew Mark groaned. They were hailed boisterously by a shaggy sergeant of Sir Marmaduke's regiment. What, Molly, who is your prop? This is my new husband, bless him, cried Molly with pride. See how happy he is. God's bones, it would take two of him to make you a husband. But it needs only half of me to make him a wife, so I am in spirits. Am I not, sweetheart? She turned to the hapless Matthew Mark, but he fairly fought himself free, and sped round the corner. He'd lusty fellow, the sergeant cried. Tis's breeches, poor soul, said Molly, and returned the business, and after, so fair an advertisement, sold many cakes. She was going home the filler basket again, when she saw Colonel Stowe, born by the Provost-Marshall, to Boccardo, and stood agape. When the posse came out, she was still there. But master, what hath he done, poor soul, says she to one of them. May to face it the king, lass. Sure a cat may do that. But he is none, being no woman. Then Molly's trade suffered, for she was more zealous in seeking al-Sabaidi than in selling cakes. But al-Sabaidi, who was indulging a mind that loved the rural, and a body that loved running water, by a walk over the meadows, to bathe in the share at Marston, was not found till sundown. Languid and very peaceful, he sauntered down St. Giles to meet a warm, ever-vescent Molly, who unbraided him without reason given. Stated that he was a fool to care about his master, that his master was six times as good as he, that his master was in prison for cursing the king, that there was nothing to be done, and he had better do it at once, instead of making love to dairy-maids. Through all which al-Sabaidi preserved the calm that exasperated her extremely. When she had exhausted herself, he sauntered on with his original ease. At the gate of Bacardo she beheld him in jovial converse with the jailer, and swore she hated him. But presently his pace down the corn market was quicker. Al-Sabaidi had little luck. From the jailer he learned that Colonel Stowe had been taken away by Gilbert Bourne. Outside Gilbert Bourne's quarters, in St. Aldates, he saw an escort under arms, and by them was told that Colonel Stowe was within. He went in, but again he was too late. The rooms were bare. He did not publish the news. Some of the fact he guessed at once. Captain Gilbert Bourne helped his master escape, tit for tat. There was but one way of escape off to the Puritans. Al-Sabaidi did some varied drinking with sergeants and quarter-masters, and learned the password of the night. Then he took himself and a horse out over Magdalene Bridge and away. But he was still out of luck. He had not gone two miles when he came upon the rear of Rupert's horseman. He could not pass them. There was not to be learned of them. He loitered with a rearguard, trying to find some reason in it all. When they crashed on the outpost at Wheatley, while relying on a traitor, Commandant, politely ready for defeat, they charged the main camp. They hurled themselves into a trap. Colonel Royston had been careful. His dragoneers inflated them at close range, and shattered them utterly. Al-Sabaidi held aloft. It was no affair of his, but he did not reckon on the full greatness of the disaster. The fresh squadrons of Royston hurled at the shattered ranks, swept them back like dust before the wind, and in the rout Al-Sabaidi was caught and ridden down, and lay with many another in that ghastly harvest of Colonel Strauss' ingenuity. It may be doubted whether he suffered that night as much as Matthew Mark. Matthew Mark, being a cook, was a person of imagination and emotion. You conceive his manifold feelings when an angry patrol beat out Colonel Strauss' quarters, and in two short minutes he learned that his master had been cast in the prison, had got out of it, and vanished. He sought Al-Sabaidi half the night through, and found nothing of him, either. He wept. He abused Al-Sabaidi for the good fortune of sharing his master's woes, and wept again. The morning brought worse tribulation. Rupert's battered decimated horsemen poured into the town to brag that they had been betrayed. Soon the busy bodies of Oxford, or trace it, if you will, to my Lord Digby, put facts together to make a tale, and present it Colonel Stowe as an infamous traitor, the very moraine of the king's cause. Matthew Mark had to hear it. He expressed his immediate emotion by knocking a Scrivener's head against the tavern wall, and after, in the meditations of solitude, performed a like operation for his own. He was tumultuously distressed. You are not to suppose he believed anything against his master. It was the vision of a slander attacking his master's nobility that moved the foundations of his soul. He was a cook in grain. If he fell an easy prey to the higher passions, he had a keen zeal for the practical. Now Colonel Stowe had fled, but left his goods behind. Since they called him traitor they would soon lay hands upon his goods. Plainly it was necessary to get them out of Oxford. And wither. There was but one place, the Father's House at Stoke, Mendeville. And when the property was lodged in safety, a man could seek out its master. Matthew Mark began to pack. In the course of daily business Molly heard from troopers who loved the sweets that they were beaten and Colonel Stowe a traitor. Luds be kind, quote Molly. It needs no traitor to beat you. According to Colonel Stowe, she had truly no opinion. Trees in and more were children's games that did not interest her. She believed in him for other matters. And she had her own reasons for wanting to know where he was. She sought out Matthew Mark. He was in Colonel Stowe's quarters. He was filling bags and baskets. Ludd a mercy cried Molly, what art doing? Matthew Mark, with every desire to tell, felt circumstances against him. I arrange our possessions, he said. I dust them. He was horrified to observe Molly, subside upon a basket with distorted countenance. She omitted a wail. My pretty soul, he protested pathetically. This is quite unnecessary. Tell me, in what way? Are you sad? You are going to leave me, Molly lamented. Alas, mademoiselle, I say alas! I mingle my tears with yours, but we must bow to destiny. And he cheered up. Molly took her hands from her rosy face and looked at him. The sight appeared to increase her grief, for she ran to him and cast her arms about his embarrassed neck. Oh, I cannot bear to let you go. Can you bear to go from me? Not in the least, said Matthew Mark, keeping as far off as he could. But I have to. I have to go to my master. And how can you think to get all that gear past the sentries, cried Molly, who, being at least half a cook, had her share of the practical mind? Why, they call your Colonel a traitor in every ale-house. They'll seize every dud of his. They'll strip you, bear, as a worm. Let them essay, cried Matthew Mark, and shaking her off, struck a martial attitude. Then reflection came to him, and he relaxed and regarded her dolefully. Where will you be going, my dear? said she. To his father's house, by stoke under Aylesbury, and then to find himself. And then to find himself, Molly repeated in a low voice and laughed. Then she clapped her hands, crying, I have a plan, I have a plan. Like most of the higher strategy it was simple enough. The miller's man from Sanford, who sold Molly flour for her cakes, had a kindness for her. Another unhappy, groaned Matthew Mark. He would be an Oxford with his wagon that day. Colonel Stowe's goods could go under the tilt. Colonel Stowe's horse to be ridden by the miller's man. Matthew Mark could ride under the tilt with a baggage or slip out alone. Matthew Mark, who had the cooks distrust of other people, elected for the tilt. And so it was done. All went smoothly. The good folk of the inn winked at the wagon and the miller's esteed, but they were friendly enough. Matthew Mark hid himself effectively. It was not hard for his girth. And without challenge they passed the bridge. All had gone smoothly as butter sauce. Thought Matthew Mark, when he heard with stupefication the jovial voice of Molly. Standing under the tilt he beheld the buxom maid sitting comfortably on the shaft. She was hooded and girt for a journey. A bundle and staff reposed beside her. The miller's man, crying to the wagon-eer at the head of the team, ranged his charger alongside. "'Do tell me now, Molly,' said he. "'Who be the foreigner? Sure, who should he be?' cried Molly. "'Would I come for any other man? It is my blessed husband.' "'Ha ha,' quote the miller's man.' Matthew Mark tore his hair. End of Chapter 43. Recording by Richard Kilmer, Real Medina, Texas. Chapter 44 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 Gary Oldman. Chapter 44. Friends. When the last word was said to Cromwell's prayer, when he rose with shiny face, it was Araton who thought it worthwhile to give special charge that Colonel Stowe should be well guarded, Royston looked out of the corner of his eyes. Colonel Stowe was hound on a lame horse and blown away through the night to theme. Skip on. That tough better had jogged off to see Royston's dispositions and go the rounds. Cromwell and Fairfax let themselves think of sleep, but Araton still peered about among the dead. You'll not envy Colonel Stowe that night. Perhaps it was the best of his fortunes that his body cried out against him for weariness and pain. So in submenuier, the turbulent misery of his mind was curbed. But he was whining to himself of his ill fortune, shame for his weakness burned into him, and he felt himself branded with dishonor, dying a villain's death. He cursed all men and arraigned God. Doubtless he had not lost all. He had spoiled the devices of King Charles. Against all odds he had won that fight. It was something of achievement to take down to death. But he had paid for it dear. Oh, there was a maligned mockery in fate. Every chance and change of circumstance fought against him. When he ventured his awe for an honest cause, when he worked the period in safety, he must needs appear there a session. The facts condemn him. No truth could save him. For who could believe the truth? Nay, for all the world he was damned as a villain. He who pretended to honor and the soldierly heart was proven no better than a hired murderer. He must be that to all who knew his name. Father, brother, comrades, friends, a vile shame to them all. It hurt him ludicrously. He had many a year conceived of himself matter for pride. He let himself laugh like a man under the knife. The good souls for whom he had strutted in showy chivalry. God saved them. That Puritan Parsons daughter who thought him a kind of God. That girl at a pure brow. Would she be at the hanging? At least she would know him for a gaudy hypocrite and a villain. It was a sweet, comfortable thought but he made it come again and again for it hurt less than the rest. I, at least he might have been spared George Royston's eyes that stung behind other pain. What he had lost. Life and all else. What the world proclaimed him. It hurt little beside that. Having no honor to wear before the friend who had betrayed him. Bravo of the camp. A harrowing for murder. He was that to Royston and the woman. He seemed to hear them laugh together. Lucinda was not merciful. Mercy. God he has fallen low to think of mercy from her. But he was crushed with shame. They would sneer at him for as ready a traitor as themselves without the wit. Fool, fool, fool. Oh God be good to a man who wants respect from other men. He has set his soul upon that. Though we fought for a failing cause. I even if his own designs blended and went awry. He had been proud of bright honor. Resolute to God it to the end and in that resolve glad of life glad. He laughed at that so that the period in God's rebuked him for a lewd man that be liable. Oh doubtless he had done nothing unworthy. His honor was bright still for his eyes. What use? What profit for a man to be honest only for his own soul. With each nerve jarred and torn by the night's wild chances. With his mind sick of effort and the rack of strife. He felt common hatred crushing his heart out. Piene forte e duree. He was weak. Oh I he was weak. Pray God for the refuge of the weak. Surely there was no hope of good in life. All things conspired against him with devilish craft. When he did good work it was broken by another's folly. When he would keep his cause from villainy he was hurled into the mire of it. When he would save his foes from death they branded him a murderer. No hope. No hope. Saved to be out of it all. Was God God indeed or the devil in this world where good bore the fruit of wildness. Raving so half man it may be with the body pain and weariness and the important rage of his baffled wine. He was born through the coldest hours of the night. The Puritans flung him into the town lock out a thame and left him lying on a truss of straw. Sleep came soon but a feverish sleep with the devil's dance of dreams. The other gentleman whom you might suppose most troubled by the chance of the night was in no such case. Colonel Royston had seen all his hopes go down the wind. His generals had contrived to keep alive and he was but their trusty servant still and liked to stay so. A man could not play such a game twice. The chief command was out of reach. Between him and it stood three lives at the least. Each good is his but he did not rage. He took the turn of the dice with a shrug and a silent oath or two at Strozie's bungling throw. One matter only troubled him. The situation of Colonel Stowe. He was surprised to find his friend in such an affair. To him indeed it was no vast villainy but he could not well conceive Colonel Stowe taking it so lightly. There was no doubting his eyes. Colonel Stowe had been in it and being a person of importance must know all about it. That reflection worked upon Colonel Royston. If you expect emotion of him you will be much disappointed. It was in the nature of the man that he should not stop to feel when there was need of thought and action. Only twice in his life I think a passion borne away from the plain practical profitable task and for each time it may be he was afterward sorry. His first concern was to secure his own safety but he had his feelings. If he could contrive Colonel Stowe's as well he would be the better pleased. Since Jerry Stowe had been full enough to be captured there would surely be some inquest on him. In that was danger. He knew all and it might well be for his profit to tell all. Colonel Royston felt himself on the edge of an abyss and looked down at it calmly. You should do him justice. He would venture something for his friend but his own danger was instant. Once he thought of a trick to set Colonel Stowe free that night it was alluring for so he linked their fortunes. So he served both. So with a fair appearance of a friendship he provided for himself. But he dared not. He was too near suspicion already. What then? Suppose a court martial met an Arton's lawyer brain at work. All the plot liked to come out. Colonel Stowe could have no profit in telling less than the truth. Himself had been taken in the fact. He was not likely to spare others. Nay, why should he? Royston sneered at himself. Faith, the man had small reason for kindness. It should be some pleasure in his room to drag Royston down too. Colonel Royston confronted the situation a while. Hunched together over a campfire and it lasts her away. He lay down in his cloak and slept at peace. You'll find him early in the morning standing over the straw that made Colonel Stowe's bed. His strong dark face moved clearly as he looked down at that storm rack body. The clothes all dragged awry, slashed and stained. The matted hair, the blood and filth on the bruised cheek. He set his hand on Colonel Stowe's shoulder. It moved weirdly. Colonel Stowe turned over and looked up at him with heavy dull eyes, muttered something, stretched his limbs painfully and staring still at Royston, sat up on his straw. Well, he said in a listless voice, Colonel Royston sat down beside him. He laughed. Faith, this is a condensation in the soldier of the Lord. Oh, I am not comfort just, cried Royston. Colonel Stowe left again on the same high note. Again, I am sorry for it. There is much matter of jesting here. Look you, Jerry. I know well enough I have dealt scurverly by you. I cannot give you the past again. By God, I would that I could. I thank you. Oh, I thank you. Pray enjoy the present. Enough of that, man. Think where we stand, you and I. We are both on the brink of peril. Both? What has your majesty to do with me? Zounds, why would you talk like a fool of a wit? You can make me smart. I'll allow you that. You have the right, too, but now we have to think of our lives. Is that all? Said Colonel Stowe. You may have mine. Royston's swore. We could win through yet if you'll have sense. Oh, I know you can hang me if you blab. Maybe you would like to, and by God I could not blame you for it. But if you hang me, you hang yourself. No man but me can save you. Colonel Stowe left. Kind, sir. Conceive that I want no salvation. Faith, Jerry. I have been a bad friend enough, but I swear I am true now. But a sake of old days. Hear me out. They will have a court martial for you. Let this be your tale. You know not of any plot of murder. You know not of any treason here. You were bitten only to join in a night surprise and you came with the rest. Then I'll strike in and swear I know your honor. And you're not mingle in ought and ignoble, unsoldary, and I'll bring you all. All the while, Colonel Stowe was staring steadily. No treason here, he repeated. No plot to murder. What talk is this? Royston saw a contempt come in the grave eyes. Ah, you were the roguelet strozey through the outpost, he said, and left. I might have known. There would hardly be two of your kidney. I make you my compliments. Royston swore. Oh, curse your robbery. I am what I am. But you were deep in the murder too. Colonel Stowe left again. Well, I do not look for you to understand. Good sir, conceive that my enduring comfort is to have spoiled your plot and pretty begun. You are something nauseous. What do you mean, growl, Royston flushing? What were you doing with strozey? I preserve you both from the sin of murder. Try to be graceful. Royston took a step back and glowered down at him. You came to spoil us, he muttered, and in fact I did spoil you. Zounds, it cannot be, cried Royston. Colonel Stowe shrugged. Do you suppose I care what you believe? Why then, Royston stammered, what are the generals to you? How is it your affair? Good sir, you are unable to understand. Odd's heart, you do not spare me much. Royston muttered and flung back his head like a beast in pain. Colonel Stowe left. What? It was you who fired those shots then? Colonel Stowe smiled and heard Royston grit his teeth. Hollandana, how I cursed the fool that did. What a pox was it to you then? Had you fallen out with strozey? Nay, I find strozey lesser rogue than others. Royston frowned heavily. What in hell is it then? Are you out with King Charles at least? Oh sir, it's not within your understanding. I, you would have your stroke back at me. Royston muttered and strode up and down the room. You'll break up my plan. Oh damn me, it's fair. He was arrested by Colonel Stowe's laugh and turned glaring. Pray believe that you count for nothing, said Colonel Stowe. I knew of you as little as I care. There was silence a long time and far apart the two men eyed each other. Royston in his sturdy, soldierly neatness, Colonel Stowe in his rags and his dirt. Royston's swathey face was working and shadows passed his eye. But Colonel Stowe was all calm and he smiled with a steer. Well, said Royston Horsley, Colonel Stowe laughed. Oh be at ease, you may live for me. You make me proud. Royston came close. He looked long into those gray vides that were neither love nor hate. He felt the iron of scorn, muttering something. He flung away to the door. It was long before he could make it open. Then he turned to look again at his friend. He saw that sneering smile again. He groaned and hurried out. Colonel Stowe leaned back on his straw. Not much happier. He had conquered indeed, if that were anything. They had come soul to soul and it was not he who had been humbled. If that brought any comfort to him the right and joy of scorn, he conquered. Again it was a sweet triumph. The man who had fought with him, taken life of him, who had been more than blood brother, ranked with Colonel Stowe's hired murderers. Sure, that must be heartening. Before the man had played him false, but this was a far blacker depth of vanity. Why? The fellow even bore to wine and pray for life. His soul turned sick with loathing. That was the best of a friend he had won. Sure, life was worthwhile. End of chapter 44, recording by Gary Oman, West Palm Beach, Florida. Chapter 45 of Colonel Great Heart. 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 Gary Oman. Chapter 45, Colonel Stowe is ready. In the morning, in Holton House, the Lieutenant General expounded scripture. The Commissary General honored him with the seraphic gaze of one whose thoughts are far away. The General was not pretending to listen. The Sergeant Major General was stealthily gone. The Lieutenant General was moved to song and Fairfax shifted uneasily. Wows me that I in Meshack am a sojourness along, or that I in the tents do dwell to Kedar that belong. Lo, you then said he would indignation. Do I speak vain words for a pretense, even as the far seas use? Nay, brethren, verily. Where is my dwelling place? Even in Meshack, which is being interpreted, prolonging, for the Lord prolongeth my trial, even in Kedar, where I dwell in the blackness of my own sin. Yet of surity the Lord forsaketh me not. O, sirs, let's make a joyful noise. Though he do prolong, though my sins be a scarlet, yet he will, I trust, bring me to his tabernacle. My soul is with the congregation of the firstborn. My body stayed upon hope. Verily, verily, no poor creature has more cause to give thanks than I. I have had plentiful wages beforehand, and I am sure I shall never earn the least might. The Lord hath accepted me in his Son, and giveth me to walk in the light. He is that lighteth our blackness. O, sirs, one beam in a dark place hath exceeding much refreshment in it. Blessed be his name for shining upon so dark a heart as mine. Fairfax crashed his fist on the table. The more I think of it, the more damnable I think it is, he cried. Cromwell grasp. Woe unto me, woe unto me, that you should say so, and he beat his breast. Fairfax was much embarrassed. Good lack, sir. I mean nothing against you. I was not heeding your very godly words. My mind was upon the surprise of last night. Ayrton woke up. A strange business, sir. Most surely a vile plot cried Fairfax. Surely they designed to murder us, but they might fall on a masterless army. You are marvellous acute, said Ayrton, with something of a sneer. He did not love discoveries of the obvious. I would that I knew what villain planned it, said Fairfax. Verily he is drunken with the blood of the saints, said Cromwell in the tones of inspiration. We will hold strict inquiry of this prisoner, Fairfax went on. I, faith, I'll question him roundly and have the truth out of him before I hang him. Ayrton, who had seemed about to speak, said nothing. We meet at noon then, gentlemen. They saluted and he left them. There goes the honestest head in England, said Ayrton. Cromwell walked the tone. You speak with two tongues, Henry. Why, sir, none but a very honest soul would give a trial to the man he has sentenced already. What? Would you spare the Amalkenites? His blood be upon his own head. I would have hewn him down last night, and tonight you would be sorry. What do you mean, lad? Are you writing into theme, sir? Then let us ride even unto the Amalkenite. What the commissary said upon the road you may judge by what he said to Colonel Stowe. Better, by the use of a pail of water, Colonel Stowe stood at the grading of a cell, trying to see the sunlight and the sky. Ayrton came in with Cromwell. Colonel Stowe turned. You will come before a court-martial at noon, sir, said Ayrton, watching him keenly. Cromwell stood off a little way. Colonel Stowe laughed. Is that necessary? You have nothing to hope then. No, sir, I have nothing to fear. Ayrton's eyes were keen, but it was not they that made him change his place. He felt the trenchant steel gaze of Cromwell. Death, said Ayrton. I thank you for that, said Colonel Stowe, and laughed again. Fellow, you have met me before, cried Cromwell. I have the honor to upset your excellency in Newberry Market. I, but you were on an honest venture then, and now an assassin, said Colonel Stowe gaily. Are you? said Ayrton, and paused the movement. Come, sir, be plain with us. If we thought you no better than you seem, we had not taken the pains to seek you out. You can make your case. I tell you frankly, no worse than it is, but I profess I believe the truth may serve you. Let us have it then. Who planned this affair last night? Colonel Stowe caressed his mustachio. You found me an assassin. I do not think you will find me a traitor. Be not deceived, Cromwell funded. God is not mocked. Truly, sir, no, nor are you God. I should be glad to know of whom you took your orders, said Ayrton. I do not doubt it, the least, said Colonel Stowe amicably. Ireland linked and unlinked his fingers, watching steadily. I should be glad to know by what road you came to Holton House, where you passed our outposts. But I cannot express how little I want to tell you. Man, man, cried Cromwell. Are you ready to die? God knows, sir, but I have no desire to live. Be think you of the damnation of hell. Sir, it can be no more disappointing than the damnation of life. Cromwell made a gesture of casting him off. You do not take as friendly, sir, said Ayrton, in mild complaint. Colonel Stowe laughed. Dear, sir, it is not my vocation. And yet you stood our friend last night, said Ayrton Sharply, and was not sure whether the Colonel Stowe hesitated a little. Why, if you can believe that, you can believe anything left, Colonel Stowe. Pray, why did you fire to shots? Each moment I regret more heartily that I missed you. You were not firing at us. Colonel Stowe appeared amazed. Good sir, do you think me out of my wits? Prithee, was I shouting at the Poppingjay or the Morning Star? Ayrton frowned. Do you tell me you came to murder us? Does your intelligence need telling? I think you are strangely anxious to be hanged, sir. Sir, concede that I ask nothing of you, and will take nothing from you. I have done. Then, sir, my faith, this tone means death. I thank you, said Colonel Stowe. Ayrton stood looking at him a long while, his brow bent, striving plainly with an ignigma. Cromwell plucked at his arm, and they went out. Ayrton began to speak and checked himself. What now, said Cromwell? Sir, I doubt I have been wrong. It is not but a reckless bravo who values his own life cheap as in others. Say you so. I profess I have no kindness for this liberty. Sure, sir. It is worthless soul that spends itself on witty answers in the hour of death. I have seen a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief, said Cromwell. End of Chapter 46. Recording by Gary Ollman, West Palm Beach, Florida. Chapter 46 of Colonel Greathart. 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 Gary Ollman. Chapter 46. Lucinda is logical. Colonel Royston was gone to his wife's lodgings. Lucinda came to him quickly. She was just risen. A loose gown, all gray-green, like apple leaf, gave him the warm combliness of her neck and all her grace. Her eyes shone softly like flowers in the dew. Her rich hair hung all abound. Royston, who sat huggled together, his head on his hand, turned and looked at her and laughed. Well saw, she said, eagerly. Her cheeks flushed. Her hand upon a trembling bosom. Is it? Do I belong to a conqueror? What were you ever for but yourself? She came a step nearer, leaning towards him, and her eyes began to flame. Have you failed? She said in a low voice. He laughed again. You have failed, madam. You are beaten. There was something of hate in his grim mirth. I got. I do not know that I am sorry. She had drawn back. Failed, she said. I, madam, failed. We have sold our souls for nothing. The murderers were beat off. The generals are safe as you. I am no more than the colonel I was yesterday. Or less if they fix suspicion on me. Odd's life would be amusing. Which band would you fawn on then? Failed, she said. Oh, I have been a fool. Her cheeks were pale again and seemed to have fallen thin. Her lips drawn back so that he saw her teeth. Her eyes blazed with a tawny light. You, you dog. What have I given you? Royce made a great roar of laughter. Ha! Does it tickle you so? Are you moved, madam? Are you moved? He came to her in one swift stride and took her bare arms in his grip. She tried to wrench them free, struggling this way and that, panting, biting her lips. But the swathe hands only bit harder into her flesh, and he smiled down in her mad eyes. Do you guess who walked us? Who has beaten you? Your dear love, Jerry Stowe. Stowe, she gasped. The straining muscles were limp in her hand. Her face, her neck were all crimson. Her eyes shrank from his. Her bosom rose and fell in long, shuttering waves. He saw beads of sweat come upon her brow. I am glad that you can suffer, he said, and let her go. She sank down on a chair and hit her face. Tell me, he could hardly hear the words. What was it? How? How? Oh, it's a sweet tale for us. Strozey found his way safe enough and caught them at Hulton Fairly. But Jerry Stowe chose to make himself of the party. God knows why. Whether the thing offended his righteousness, he is quixotic enough or he wanted to have his revenge on us. He has blood in him. At least he spoiled the whole. I think he started them fighting among themselves. I know there were shots. Harrison's horse heard and a troop of them came at speed. When I rode up, all Starzy's fellows were fled or dead and old Cromwell putting up a song. There's your noble plot, madam. Where is he? She said, Horsley. Rost and flushed. You have an affection for him now, have you? You go back to his arms. Be easy. He would not take you. She gave a queer, cruel laugh. Affection? I would that I saw him dead. I, you ever had strange ways of love, said Royston, watching her eyes. Will you torture me? She cried, stamping up foot. Where is he? Where is he? That is the cream of the holes, said Royston. He was the only one of them taken alive. The generals count him one of the murderers. They have him in God here. She drew in her breath. Her cheeks were dull, white, and her bosom still. Then he can tell all. She said in a low voice, he can ruin us. Royston laughed. Yes, we have proudly placed. We professed him love and friendship, and he betrayed him. Then we go on in villainy till we have to whine to him to hide it and spare our noble lives. Mercy of him. By God, madam, you have made me honor myself. There was wonder in her eyes. What is all this? She said with honest surprise. Why do you play at words? If he blabbed to the Puritans, we are undone. Faith, you'd not easily find another husband. Oh, words, words, she cried with an impatient gesture. What is to be done, fool? Have you no resource? I, madam, you shall be laden with me yet some while. We are safe enough. She waited a moment, looking at him full. How, then? Royston gave her a wretched laugh. I have seen him. I asked. The voice was unsteady, and he swore barefully. I asked him to spare us. Lucinda broke out laughing and pointed a finger at his shame. Devil, do you take it so, he muttered? Well, and how did the saintly soul answer? Odd's blood, I could wish he had bidden us to hell, cried Royston. Be it ease, madam, we'd concern him no more than any other ill vermin. He'll not strike at us. He'll be silent. He'll spare us. That is his revenge. By God, he could take none crueler. Fool, said Lucinda, smiling, fool. Yes, I see him in that. Silly, mad, quixotic. So he'll be hanged, then, with some horse cry Royston strode to her. Flung one arm about her and caught her throat in his grip and crushed it with ruthless strength. You fiend, he said hoarsely, and she bit her lip for the pain. But she put her arms around him, and while he heard her, clung to him close. At that, he flung her off. She stayed herself against the wall, panting, breathless, still all grace. Do you like to know he is alive? She said, laughing. Royston turned away with a groan. She ran to him and cast her bare arms about his neck, and circled him with leth, bare strength, and clung to him and kissed him. A little while, he struggled to put her off. He failed, and she had her will. End of Chapter 46. Recording by Gary Ullman, West Palm Beach, Florida. Chapter 47 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 Gary Ullman. Chapter 47. Colonel Stowe is Awake. The story of the night passed from lip to lip, and the army was in a frenzy of scriptural wrath. Colonel Stowe became Judas Iscariot, which had dealt in Sodom, and must meet the doom which David devised for the people of Robah. The good townsfolk of Thame were calmer. They chatted with the lighted interest of the chances and changes and how all was done and what might have been. Speculations which gave them sweet thrills of terror. It was with blunt sections of romance and fever that the tale came to Joan Normandy in the hospital. She heeded a little at first. She had her work. But a 20 sergeant of Desparos coming to have his headdress walk her heart. And they do say, says he, that the lewd fellow they have taken his own brother to our major stow and as like him as a twin, which I would not believe, for there be sheep and there be goats. His head was dressed in a hurry. Joan Normandy, in trembling haste, with a wild medley of hope and fear clashing in her heart, sought out David Stowe. She was beginning a march to his regiment camp at Shabington, when she found him riding in with other officers. He did not see her. He was distraught amid the talk of the others and he cried out, Sir, I have an errand to you. He checked at the sound of a voice, saluted and drew apart. She awaited him, wide eyed, lips potted. Is it your brother? She breathed. David Stowe flushed. When you come to the house, he said and keeping his horse to our pace, rode beside her without words spoken. So they came back through the shade of the churchyard, Limes, and round to the wide street. It was a gay morning and a mellow light. When he dismounted, his wife came running through the door, smiling glad at her name. But he was very grave. Why I think Joan is always to bring you to me, she cried, holding out for Joan both hands. Come in, said David Stowe gravely. They were hardly in that neat light room before. Joan moved from Joy's arm and tell me, she cried, her voice quivering. Is it your brother? It's true, said David Stowe. What do you mean, she cried fiercely. He was in the attack. He is taken. He is taken. He was one of the murderers, said David Stowe. Blood surged to her cheeks. It is a lie, she cried. I would give my life that it were, said David Stowe. How dare you say it, Joan cried all aflame. Would to God that I could say other, that I could believe other. What way is there? He came with a party, stealthily by the night, fell upon the generals. What is it but murder? He was taken in the fact. The thing is patent. If there were but suspicion, if there were but doubt, he made a gesture of despair. Joan was struggling for words. I, I, how dare you? I cannot endure it. How dare you say so? Oh, a brother should love him and honor him. And you, if you have not hearted up for that, sure you know him. You must know him. He would not do basely. He could not. David Stowe shook his head. He was taken in the act, he said in a Richard voice. Can you say nothing but that, cried Joan Normandy? Have you seen him? What use grown David Stowe? Oh, no use. If you are so well content now, no use if you long to think him base. But what if he have another tale to tell? Will you let him be branded with this shame? David Stowe looked at her miserably. His wife's eyes, too, were full of tears. Oh, child, I cannot blame you. I protest to God. It's wounds me no less. He was very near to me. But what help is there? The thing is plainly a murder and he was amongst them that wrote it. Oh, he had been miserably beguiled. But what vile court. We must pray for him. Pray for him, cried Joan, with such scorn that the soldiers shrank back. Her bosom swelled. She seemed to tower above him. I truly let us pray. Let us pray for false friends and cowardly love and feeble fate. I would that you were in his place. He would show you a man's part then. You, you pray. There was a moment of angry, scornful laughter. Then in a world she was gone. Husband and wife looked at each other and she fell on his breast, sobbing terribly. Joan, my poor Joan. But if it be true that who wants no pity needs done, they should have spent none upon Joan. She knew no pain. Her heart beat with a wild delight. She could no more think him false than herself false to him. Throbbing to the vehement surge of life. Passionate with faith and a good rule of God. All glad and strong of heart. She could not fear his condemnation. Surely the truth must be known and his honor proved. And now, now that he was captured and forsaken of all, now she might go to him without shame. She was almost glad of his trouble if it let her serve him. At least she might see him. Look in his eyes. Give him heart in his loneliness. She had no trouble with the God at the prison. Her nurse's gown was warrant and half the army knew her well enough to honor her. Colonel Stowe sat at ease on his straw, humming some scrap of a ballad. Coals the wind and wets the rain. Saint, you be our good speed. Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain, nor helps good hearts in need. And he laughed. The grading of the lock did not arrest him. There could be no messenger of good. A clear voice sank through the fog of despair. I give you good morning, sir. Colonel Stowe started up, and she gave a little cry and grief. Though he had done his best with himself, he was still something of a wreck. The slashed, stained clothes, the bruised cheek and brow, told her of the pain of the night. But he held himself gallantly. He was the soldier still. I am at your service, madam. He said gravely. She held up both hands to him as if she had some wrong to atone. You are hurt. And I had forgotten of that. Can I help? It is all a show, child, said Colonel Stowe with a crooked smile. He did not take her hands. It affects others vastly more than me. Truly so, she said, doubting, disappointed. You should trust me. I have some skill in healing. I could well believe it, said Colonel Stowe. Looking down at her with grave, gentle eyes. But you must not waste it on me. Waste? I who owe you life and dearer things than life? You know that I do. Colonel Stowe shrugged. I've canceled the debt, child. Have I let you, said Joan, meeting his eyes steadily? Nay, you must pay it to a truer man. The blood leaped to a brow. You dare not say it, she cried. It is a wickedness. Is it so, said Colonel Stowe, listlessly? Concerned for his only emotions? Not hers? I mean the best for you. Believe me, madam, if you knew what I am, you would not linger here. I come because I know, she said quietly. Colonel Stowe moved a little. Have you all the story, madam? He said in a changed voice and his eyes were set and intent. Roused at thought of his own plight. No, not at all. Ah, he drew in his breath and the voice fell listless again. Go, get it told. You will not come back. I will hear it of you, sir. You shall hold me excused, cried Colonel Stowe. And why? He flung back his head. Because, madam, because I am not longing to give you pain. I can endure it, sir, she said quietly. Colonel Stowe forced to laugh. You make me mighty vanglorious, child. I profess I am not now so fond of myself. Oh, sir, then you do wrong, said Joan in a demure voice. It startled him. Faith, I am glad to amuse you, he said savagely. His nerves were raw. You shall have more merit. Listen. In the dark of the night, a company of hired bravos, whereof I was one, came to murder your generals. We came near to succeed, but a troop of your horse overcame us, slew many and scattered the rest. I was taken alive. I knew all that, said Joan quietly. Looking straight into his eyes. You knew, Colonel Stowe repeated, staring, stupid surprise. You came. You held out your hands to me. You knew. Do you think I believe, she said angrily. What do you think me then? Do you doubt yourself? Colonel Stowe was silent a while. God forgive me I did, he said slowly. She gave a little scornful laugh. You, she said, you and held out her hands again. Colonel Stowe took them and kissed them. She pressed them against his lips. For me, for me, you may tell me the rest or not as you will. It is so little a matter. I know. Colonel Stowe let fall her hands. I have no right. He muttered and turned a little away. I have no right. She laughed miserably. Why then I am shamed indeed. She said and then cried out. What is it you mean? Tell me. Colonel Stowe came close to a child. You must see. I have little chance of life and no honor left me. Truly you put trust in me yet, but who else is there? It is a strange, fabulous tale I tell. And if it will save me at the court, I doubt. Surely it will never clear me to the world. If I live, it is for a known nave and a session. I profess. I want no such life as that. I'd rather make an end. You dare, she cried fiercely. O, it is better to be read with sin than to be afraid of life. Honor, do you say, and shall it be no honor to bear the dishonor of men? Oh, sir, I think no manhood is proven safe after the matter of Christ, which was oppressed and was afflicted, yet went on his way, doing good. Isn't it not truest honor to be held dishonorable about men, yet do always the works of honor? Is it not that true strength and the way to win glory of God? Colonel Stowe drew away from her. There was a new wonder and reverence in his eyes, but she, all rosy and trembling, with a pure passion. Her own eyes shining through tears, so nothing of that. Colonel Stowe bowed his head. You are braver than I, child, he said. While they stood there, silent, she watching him. As a mother yearns over a child, the door was flung open with a clatter and a sergeant's God broke in. You, fellow, you ought to come before the court. Hey, what is your work here, nurse? Colonel Stowe stood aright. What is ever a nurse's work, good fellow? A cough is not worth it, quoted the sergeant. March. End of Chapter 47, Recording by Gary Oldman, West Palm Beach, Florida. Chapter 48 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 Gary Oldman. Chapter 48, A Husband or So? You have to lament for Beniah Jones, Corporal of Horse, a victim of early rising. When Al Sabiad was ridden down in the route of Rupert Horstman, he lay stunned and much bruised. He waked to life again in the dawn with Beniah Jones fumbling at the pockets in a region of his stomach. Beniah Jones was upon the goodly errand of spoiling Mal Lickites, and such was his zeal that he rose before dawn to prevent riches falling into the hands of the unrighteous. It happened that Al Sabiad was ticklish. He woke to see the fat jowl of Beniah close above his own. His disgust is reasonable. He expressed it with a passionate zeal in a blow of Beniah's chin. If he had his whole strength, Beniah would hardly have risen again. It's a vice to bring him oblivion. Beniah clucked a little and became livid. Al Sabiad sat up and blinked. He ached in various places, but laborious experiment failed to find a fracture. He considered possibilities. It was in the first place not a possibility to sit still. The next saintly plunderer might well have steel ready. But it was hardly a possibility to tell where to go. Colonel Stowe might be in a hundred places in the world or even out of it. If anything might be probable, he was probably with the Puritans or dead. Al Sabiad, who was a sanguine person, preferred to believe in the Puritans and remembered then that the Puritans had at least Colonel Stowe's brother, a pleasant if respectable person. Al Sabiad elected for the brother. So you can find him limping up to the Puritan outpost and inquiring after Major David Stowe. He was bitterly questioned and his answers so wildly ingenious that they sent the god with him to Shabington. David Stowe, as you have seen, has gone to fame so that it was late before the Serly Escort presented him. David Stowe looked the plump, bedraggled finger up and down. What do you want of me? My master said, Al Sabiad, what have I to do with him? You have the honor to be his brother. David Stowe made an exclamation. Then to the Escort, wait you without. I will answer for him. And when the door was shut, now good fellow, when did you leave him? Smoking his pipe after yesterday's dinner, sir, in his quarters at Oxford. I came back at dusk to find he is thrown into prison. Why? For quarreling with the king, they say, I go as you would yourself to take him out of prison and find that he is escaped. You remember a M. Gilbert Byrne whom he rescued from you? Bien. M. Gilbert Byrne has rescued him from the king and they were away together with him. I follow them on to Wheatley and came upon Rupert and was ridden down in the route. I have but lately come to my wits and seek you to seek him. He looked with surprise at the swift emotions changing on David Stowe's face. Thrown into prison by the king, David Stowe repeated. He would scarce be seeking a desperate service for him then. God, what does it all mean? A triple chime of the quarter hours rang over to town. He started up. Nay, come, come, they have been trying him long and he hurried Al-Sabad to the door. I do not understand said Al-Sabad with dignity. Who has the insolence to try my master? Man, there was a company of murderers attacked our generals last night and my brother was taken among them. Al-Sabad became stately. Permit me to tell you, sir, that you are mad or you lie. I am mad, I think, cried David Stowe. Come, come, you must tell them all and hurried him into the house of my Lord Williams when the court was sitting. It is necessary to consider also the other gentleman in whom Mali was interested, a gentleman of more peaceful fortunes but hardly less distressed, a victim of unrequited love. As the shadows lengthened in the first of the afternoon, Mr. Stowe, a stride of full-barreled cob, rode back from his barley. Out of the diamond eye of the sun, a miller's wane was coming to meet him. In front thereof marched a lean man and a girl in no part leaned. They were plainly at violent argument, being further extorted by a man on horseback behind them. Mr. Stowe, with more surprise than pleasure, beheld them turn by his you hedge and away to the odd. He arrived to find the lean man unloading bundles from the wane while the lady assisted him with a vexing. What a pox said Mr. Stowe, not without excuse. Hey, you and a Frenchman who kissed my cook. Never, cried Matthew Mark, while Mali wailed the faithlessness of men. I am the brother of all good cooks, but yours? No, she has no soul. Then why do you come here, my friend? In few words, sir, hear a sad tale. I am the servant of your son. I can declare that I live only for him. Last night my colonel was cast into prison by the king. Why? I do not know. He swiftly escaped and fled from Oxford. Remained his property. Lest that should be seized, I removed it by strategy. Sir, it is here in your god. Mr. Stowe said something to himself. And where will Colonel Stowe be gone then, my lad? Hellas, Manchu, said Matthew Mark, turning up his eyes. Well, who knows, said Mr. Stowe's to himself, and drew a long breath. He is not a hasty mind. Keenan Carly, he looked at Mali. She will not be my son's property, Matthew Mark called. The lady informs me, sir, that she is my wife. And you? It would be ungraceful to deny it, said Matthew Mark. Mali made a courtesy in his direction and a more serious one for Mr. Stowe. Come in, come in, said he. You will be fasting. He shepherded Mali and the miller's man before him. But Matthew Mark lingered. When they turned by the kitchen door, Matthew Mark, on his master's horse, was already some way down the road. He waved his hand through the sunshine. Mr. Stowe stood still, gazing at him till he became a black speck against the glare. Then he wiped his eyes. Sure, he is a deer, said Mali beside him, and I can wish he were not. End of chapter 48, recording by Gary Ulman, West Palm Beach, Florida. Chapter 49 of Kirtle's Great Heart. 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 Gary Ulman. Chapter 49, Colonel Royston delivers his soul. In a long low room of dark beam and wane's cut, Sir Thomas Fairfax had gathered his officers. The sunlight breaking through the hundred diamond panes of the casements, woke the scarlet and steel, made the shadows gloom black, played quaintly about the stern joys of holiness. Fairfax had the head of the table. His pleasant dark face, resolute and something self-satisfied. To the right, Cromwell leaned his head on his hand and fidgeted and muttered scraps of scripture to himself. Ayrton was beside him, browning and scribbling over much paper. Upon the other side, Ol' Skipon sat and yawned. There was lampard, the square-headed Yorkshire men, and Fleetwood's lean fervor, and Desborough of the honest Yokel's face, and Ludlow and Wally and the ruddy, Comely Harrison. Every officer of note in the army. By Ayrton, no comfortable neighbor, sat Colonel Royston. Heavy and still, his full face set in hard lines. Gentlemen, there is no need of much words, said Fairfax in his loud Frank voice. Myself was at council with the lieutenant general and the commissary and the sergeant major at Holton last night when a company of bullies said about us and butchered the good fellows that were with us and came so near ourselves that but for a troop of Colonel Harrison's we had been sped. It was at the same time that the king's horse fell upon our lines in a heart attack. Wherein we have, under God, to thank Colonel Royston's dispositions of his dragooness. Sirs, it is plain this is all a horrid plot. They would murder your generals and assault a masterless army. One of the fellows that beset us hath been taken. We have him here, and I doubt not you will be short with him. There was a mutterer of assent. Arlen looked up from the paper wherein he had been drawing something not unlike Colonel Stowe, and with your leaves, sir, we may learn of him who was behind this plot, whether the knowledge of a thing so damnable touches any in high places. That hint at the king was relished. There was muttering, and Harrison cried out, Verily, Verily, he is drunken with the blood of the saints. This thing is a low villainy, said Fairfax, with some disdain. Respect for royal persons was bred in him. Bring the man in. Colonel Stowe came in between two pikemen and saluted the court. Looked calmly round upon eyes of contemptuous hate, your name, said Rushwar, the secretary. Jeremiah Stowe, lately Colonel of Horse in the king's army. Sirs, as Fairfax, I think you were of a party that made a murderous attack on myself and other gentlemen last night. It is within the knowledge of many, sir, and this was no fair act of war, but patently murder. I do not deny it. Fairfax sat back in his chair. Do we need more, gentlemen? He said with contempt. Nay, for it is written, smite am I like, and utterly destroy, said Fleetwood with unction. It is also written that sinners make haste to shed blood, said Arith and Sally. And by your leave, sir, I need some little more. Fairfax waved his hand. Sir, it is within your knowledge that none of us bore pistols, having left the same in our holsters, Fairfax nodded. Yet of the fellows who were slain last night to have bullet wounds, the witch I remarked to the sergeant major, skip on rolled in his seat. And so it is. But there never was a fight without strange happenings. So that plainly there were shots fired by another hand than ours. And these were not let off at us in a venture. No man who sought to do a secret murder would do it by pistol fire. These shots were meant. I think Colonel Harrison will tell the court it was the sound of the firing roused him to send his troop to Holton. You speak the truth, said Harrison. Therefore I presented a court that the man which fired these shots had another design than our murder. He stands there, said Cromwell, pointing with a big red bony hand across the table to Colonel Stowe. Colonel Stowe saluted. I thank you, sir. This is something fine weaving, me think, said Fleetwood Wittes there. The commissary goes back to his old trade, quote Lambert. This is a lawyer's tale. Another lawyer were answered at all in a moment. The man was taken with red hands in a murder. What's all the rest? Whoever knew a fight where no bullet went awry. The man was full enough to fire and full enough to shoot a miss as he had been full enough to be taken alive. His folly hath spoiled their villainy, but I protest I have no more mercy for a fool than another. That surprises me, and Colonel Lambert said art and blandly. Nay, but there was never a fight without a strange happening in it, said Skipon, and I cannot tell why they should save a rogue. There was a loud murmur of a scent. They were not looking for innocence. Lampert's heavy, blunt arguments crushed the lawyer's subtleties. Indeed, no soldier was likely to need more than the plain tale. One of the murderers lost his head. Fired was captured. It was more like truth than any refinement. It carried them away, art in glancing round the table, reckoned the verdict with keen eyes and shrugged. He looked curiously at Colonel Stowe, who surprised them by a smile. Colonel Stowe saluted Fairfax. Sir, I too have something to say. Why? How now, cried Cromwell, what a start. An irritant began to caress his chin. It is your right, said Fairfax. Royston moved heavily and, turning at the sound, Colonel Stowe saw his face and its agony. It hardly inclined him to mercy. But for the sake of old years, for his own pride, for a hundred mingled memories and desires, he could not give Royston to death. There was another whose shame must be covered. Gilbert Bourne had taken him from prison to save the king's honor, and for the king's honor died. His own faith was pledged to the dead. The king's part could not be told. For the rest, he was free and would fight. He began to speak, and Royston's eyes was set on him in a grim stare of pain. Sir, I thank you. I bear a name of some honor among you, and though I be your foe, I have never brought shame upon it. I would call to witness your officers who have had passages with me that I have ever observed the right rules of law. Then Fairfax cried out, Faith, I remember you. You were in that affair by Towschister. I think, sir, I lost no honor by it. Sir, I am sorry to see you here. Colonel Stowe bowed. Well, sir, you recall that. In this present, I thank the commissary general for his honorable testimony. I will make a plain tale short. Yesterday night, Knoxford, an officer of the king's god, Captain Bourne, came to me with the news that an Italian bravo, Strozzi, had ridden out on this venture of murder. It was plain to Captain Bourne and myself that such a plot must bring shame on the king's cause, that which we had in high regard. But the fellow was gone, and we could not stay him by orders. Nay, it was but a chance of riding at the best of our speed. We could reach you in time to balk him. I do not pretend, sir, that we had any peculiar kindness for you. We sought to preserve our cause from the infamy of this foul deed. Riding Venta Tre, we came something rashly upon the Italian's troop, and in the affray Captain Bourne was slain. He lies by the roadside on shadow. Before he died, he bade me right on for the honor of the king. Sir, I did my possible. I caught up Strozzi's company as they were running in upon Houlton House. It was over, late to warn you. I fought for you. I did what? Under the providence of God, sir, was your salvation. I would have you remarked that there were shots fired before Strozzi came within the house. They were mine. I had four pistols, my own and my friends, and they were all shot off before I was beaten down. Pray remark again. It was not Colonel Harrison's troop, nor your swords, but Strozzi's own men that smote me. That is all, sir. Let me say whatever before me I did my part. I saved you with a very pretty tail, Lambert sneered. Let's have less of worldly honor and more of God's righteousness, said Fleetwood. Wherein lies the one way of thriving, said Harrison with unction. Oh, sir, let's not be beguiled with the glories of man seeking, which are a fleeting show. Let's abide by our business, said Arton sharply. Come, sir, this was well said and I tell you plainly it suits well with what I have seen, but we must have more. You heard of the plot, Doxford? Did you hear who made the plot? Captain Bourne told me of none but Strozzi. We knew him for a fellow of no scruple. Ah, Strozzi, said Arton, with a curious intonation and who stood behind Strozzi. How can I tell, said Colonel Stowe, with a shrug. He is a fellow that works in the dock. Do you know who devised the plan? On my honor, sir, said Colonel Stowe, with some relief. No, it is like Strozzi himself. Do you know any but Strozzi who knew his design? Colonel Stowe hesitated a long while staring at the ground. This was the very thing he feared, but he had not looked for such damnable directness. Well, he was pledged. He would guard the honor of those themselves who would not guard it. It ill became him to blab. Sir, I am here to answer for my own part, not others, he said slowly. Arton made an impatient sound. I ask you again, he cried. Do you know of any but Strozzi who knew the plot? Colonel Royston moved noisily in his chair. I have answered that, said Colonel Stowe. I warn you, sir, cried Arton angrily. You do yourself wrong. Deceit is your worst enemy. Subtlety shall ruin you. Integrity will never will. When you speak, I will speak of anything of myself, said Colonel Stowe. I ask you a last time. I do solemnly profess to you. You have no hope but in telling all. Who was in this besides Strozzi? I have answered. And I have done. Arton cried petulantly and flung himself back, and with the wave of his hand gave up the affair. But Royston was swaying to and fro in his seat. It was time, quote Lampard. The rogue is but playing with us. Make short, make short, cried Harrison. Let him be turned back for a reward of his shame. Fairfax leaned forward again. Do you say more, sir? He asked gravely. I have done, said Colonel Stowe. It is not here I am judged. I give you little hopes, says Fairfax, and sign to the sergeant of the god. But Cromwell was muttering and trying to speak. They were leading Colonel Stowe out when Royston sprang to his feet. His chair went crashing down. He stood erect. The biggest man by far. Crimson with flashing eyes. No, by God, no, he wrought. I'll deliver myself. He strode heavily down the room, spurs and soars clanking and halted in Colonel Stowe's place. I'll give you light, sirs. Why is he silent? Why is he choosing death? To keep safe a villain that once he called friend, he would die for me. By the blood of God I am bigger than that. Harky. There was little need of that, for he held them like men in a trance. Colonel Stowe and I, we were true friends for a dozen years till I betrayed him. We were both with the king. I forsook him for my own profit and for my own profit sought to ruin him. The lieutenant general will recall how I bought honor of him with news of a king's convoy. It was my friend's command. I came with a treachery and with a treachery I go. I did not rise fast enough in your army, I, gentlemen, I am a better soldier than any man of you. Save one, though you have not the wit to know it. Well, I wanted a higher place. Odd's heart. I was worth it. There came to me this devil's strozey with a few thousand pounds. If I would put him in a way to kill off the generals so that Rupert could have us at an advantage. I took him. It was I gave him news of your Houlton council. It was I prescribed him away through the outpost and yet by God you shall do me reason. It was not the money I needed. I would have given him no victory. You know who beat off Rupert last night. With the generals down, who would have been master of the army today? Ask yourselves that, gentlemen. He hurled at their amazement a rough laugh of defiance. But for Colonel Stowe I had done it. Those damn shots of his saved you as they spoiled my plan. Faith you may thank your God for him. Do you think there is another quixotic in the two armies man enough to spend himself to save his foes? By heaven I have bubbled you all but for him. He turned on Colonel Stowe with a reckless eyes. He had put off shame now. He was his own master. Colonel Stowe saw him smile. I he has thrown me. I am beat and now so please you he'll take my shame. Curse me. I have some soul too. He plucked at his belt and loosened it. Flung sword and all clashing down. That's what no man of you is man enough to take against my will. And he laughed at them again. It was his hour. He mastered them. The grim saintly Puritans who knew no fear of less than God. Whom no reward would have suborned to his treachery. They shrank before him. His stark rough strength marked at them in wanton delight of itself. In that storm of wild vigor their virtue was abashed. Someone muttered of that old serpent Satan and Royston stood there towering above them heavy and tall. The mellow sunlight falling quaintly on his drawn brow and the full dark face gave them the contempt of a marking God. They dared nothing. It was far above them all. Even Colonel Stowe at his side watching him with a great love was little matter. He proved himself upon them. Their wills were bound. Life was worth living for that. Arton was first to break himself free. You professed yourself a traitor he said softly. Little words little man said Royston with a smile. You shall find no little doom sir. Arton asked sneered. What you can do will it make me fear? Royston sneered. Then Fairfax started up away away he cried flushing. Nay keep Colonel Stowe apart. Let not the eyeless man be defiled. Colonel Royston made them a salute of mockery ere he turned. Colonel Stowe hung back and lingered in the doorway. When the sergeants strode to keep them apart he held out his hand to his friend. Again they looked each other in the eyes and so were parted. Not in sorrow or any shame. The last hour had won all that away. The tide of happiness came upon them swift resurgent. Past regions were no matter. The last trial found each man true. Their souls were free. They stood together invincible of the powers of death and glad. Glad. End of chapter 49. Recording by Gary Ollman West Palm Beach, Florida. Chapter 50 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 Gary Ollman. Chapter 50. The Lieutenant General speaks. It was Fleetwood who began devoutly whining. Why dost thou show me inequity and cause me to behold grievance, O Lord? Verily though they dig into hell, thence shall thy hand take them. The witch is a sweet and savory comfort to Israel, said Harrison with unction. Nay, but the Lord hath sent serpents and cockatrices among us, and we are black. Fleetwood complained. O sirs, says Desmurro, with simple favor. Tissure a great honor unto us that the Lord hath taken thought to preserve us from such a devil. At this, Cromwell made strange noises, but when they looked for him to speak, there came nothing. His face was near purple, and he bit his lip till the blood lay upon his chin. Fleetwood began again. It is written in the book of the prophet Hosea. Arton made an exclamation and turned noisily to Fairfax. Well, sir, and what say you to Colonel Stowe's part now? Why? Why my faith? I have done him much wrong. I would hold it honor to call him friend. Honor? Honor? cried Fleetwood? O sir, what a tinkling symbol is the honor of men. Let us ask if he be a savory member, and you shall find. A weaver of webs. A think of subtleties, quote Lambert. Hear me, sirs, this corruption of manifold design likes me not. It is written, he that is not with us is against us. That suffices. It is written in the same books, and Arton sweetly, he that is not against us is with us. Sir, let plain men be the judgeability and folly past sentence on crime. This is unworthy, said Fairfax sharply, and Lambert muttered. Why, gentlemen, it's surely clear this Colonel Stowe had done us great service at peril of life, and that in the clean impulse of honor we have been hardly preserved from doing a horrid wrong. But as for the other, for Colonel Royston, I do profess. Pray, sir, shall we not have done with Colonel Stowe first at Arton with the advocate's instinct? Why shall we find two mouths? Sure, all will pronounce him guiltless. Nay, sir, my conscience will not have it so, grown Fleetwood. I suspicion him and amalkerite ingrained. Oh, your conscience, Fairfax muttered. Will you wait your turn, sir? He turned to Cromwell. How say you? Cromwell started as if he had heard nothing. How say you, sir, of Colonel Stowe? He shall not fail or be discouraged, said Cromwell in a strange voice of dreams. It took Fairfax a moment to apprehend that. Then he turned to old Scipon. If I understand him, growls Scipon, which I do not, he hath served us, a quit. It is my mind that he hath done us more service than we can well pace at Arton. That was enough. Desborough and Wally followed their lead his faithfully. Harrison had enough fire in his own wild, sir, to honor a knight errant. They carried it. Fleetwood and Lambert snarled in vain. Colonel Stowe was brought in. Sir, said Fairfax, we have done you wrong, and you much service to us. I thank you. You are free to go where you will. I pray you west in this town a while. I would know more of you. Colonel Stowe saluted. Sir, if you count yourself to owe me anything, I would it might serve my friend. Fairfax shook his head, and when Colonel Stowe would have spoken, held up his hand for silence, you can do no good, sir, he said gravely. Colonel Stowe saluted again. Indeed, he had no hope. The law of war could not permit less punishment than death. When he was gone, Fairfax broke out in a hurry. Here's ill work to do, gentlemen. Let us make short. But the righteous gentleman drew together with Rylish. Now there was no occasion for mercy. They were free to be the executioners of Jehovah, and their own moment of weakness fired them to revenge. Few words, said Fairfax. When I spoke first of treachery, I had little thought the blackest traitor was of ourselves. Tis the vilest thing I have known. A manifold devilish falseness. How dare we accuse the enemy when they find one of our commission double their villainy. This Colonel Royston. Bah, let's have done. Are we of one mind? He turned to Cromwell, but Cromwell waved his hand and the question went to skip on. Give him a halter, growl, sift on. Arton nodded. Fleetwood had no notion of so brief a verdict. The occasion was altogether delectable. Osiris said he licking his lips. This is a great villain and hath deceived us by those deeds which he had power to do in the might of the beach. Yea, he hath the mark of the beast upon his right hand and upon his forehead. But worthy, worthy is the Lamb, and lo, we are preserved even out of the hand of his wickedness. For his sins have reached unto heaven, and God hath remembrance of his inequities. He shall drink of the wine of the wrath of God, and he shall be tormented with fire and brimstone. Yea, the smoke of his torment shall ascend forever and ever, and he shall have no rest day or night. Colonel Harrison cried fair fact, snatching at the first pause. Of a truth, sir, he stinks and is corrupt. He hath troubled us. The Lord shall trouble him. Let him die to death of Aachen. I would all treason were as clearly known as this shall be swiftly punished, said Lampert. No man gained said. There is one voice then, said Fairfax, in a hurry, loathing the task. Have him in. But Cromwell clashed his clenched hand down on the table. Absolute philite. It came upon them like a cannon shot from the unknown. They were held stupefies that gaze. What, shall we be more righteous than gone? Will you contend the penitent thief? Why, sirs, this man is in a higher way. He hath not waited for the cross and the hour of death. We held him of the saints. We had never known his sin, but that he stumbled himself onto us and made confession. We cried out upon him. I wish none of us may be so deep in sin, and now are we to use his repentance to his death. I profess I will go to the limit of my strength against it. Nay, this is to assail the majesty of God. Unto him the man hath committed his case. O happy choice. Surely he hath liberated his soul, but he is not penitent, but he boasts of his sin. O sirs, who gave you eyes that see men's hearts? I tell you, I have seen weak men endure with strength. Strong men like to sucklings in an agony of spirit. Man, man, is it for you to order how the grace of God shall work within a man? He hath a brazen forehead, you say. Let him have what he will before men, so he will wear nothing but meekness and truth before God. And what if this very bold boasting be but an armor to hold men off from his private passages with his Lord? I would know who dares hold him wrong. Look to it that you judge not in a private anger. He will not humble himself onto you, and you are shaped. Go tell that upon your knees. All which may be very well said lampered stubbornly, but I know well the man is a traitor at heart. Ask Arton there if he did not ever mistrust him, and so have I. This is but a trick to save the fellow he calls friend and himself, too, if he can. Of a truth I have even seen guile in him, and now I am well confirmed, said Fleetwood. Are you so? Have you never gone amiss in reading the hearts of men? O sirs, I beseech you by the bowels of God. Conceive that you may be mistaken. Believe a man may not be of your temper, and yet acceptance to God. Believe he may traverse strange ways and bring forth fruits, meet for repentance at the last. He hath sinned. O I, he hath sinned deeply, and there must be punishment. Sir, I declare as I hope my own salvation. If we commit him to death, I would rather be himself than one of us. If God had determined his death, would he have moved the man to repentance? Of a surity he was granted repentance, then he might have time to work the works of repentance. He is over good a soldier of God to send to death. Do I say then he shall have no punishment? Nay, truly. He hath not sinned unto God alone, but unto men and unto men he must atone. He may not command in the army of the Lord till he hath purged his offense. This is my sentence then. He shall be taken from his office and made a common soldier. I, upon heart service, let him be sent to Colonel Monarch to the Welsh War. There by the grace of God he shall approve himself. It's an easy sentence. It's a light punishment. Nay, speak not foolishly. What's death to him? He hath made his peace with God, and in death finds all his hope. Life is the doom. Life wherein he must serve God in warring with sin, where temptation crowd upon him all day. And that old serpent lies waiting for his weakest hours. Life that is the trial wherewith he shall be tried anew. I sentence him to life, so may God do as well. That's best. The good Desbaro was forward to second him, and Harrison cried out, This is the naked simplicity of Christ. I will not deny it, quote Fleetwood. Let the Lord be judged. Lampert shrugged. It is your way, not mine. I'll take it for your account. O John Lampert, John Lampert cried in Cromwell. It's not I that shall answer for your sentence. So be it, said Lampert, in a moment. The others followed, though you would not guess aright and well pleased. I am out of all this grunted skipp on. I am a soldier. Fairfax, turn to Cromwell. You have gone something beyond me, sir, but I'll not deny you. Let him live, and God help him. Do you choose to charge him? I do not see my part in it. Nay, sir, nay, said Cromwell hastily. This is your office. Well, have him in. Royston came erect, unashamed. Fairfax met eyes as fearless as his own. Colonel Royston, you have convicted yourself of a vile treason. It is the sentence of the court that you shall be stripped of your rank and all your honor and serve as a common soldier. You will go under God to Colonel Marks and be at his orders. Royston was plainly amazed, then all his strength was shaken. He fought hard to command himself. I do not know that I should thank you, he said, hoarsely, but I thank you. So with his head falling on his breast, he went out to make his life anew. When the Puritan fervor had burned itself out, when Monk felt the time come to change sides and strike for Charles II, there was chief among his aides, Colonel Royston. You can trace him very active and admit in the underground work of the restoration. In this rotten government that came in that foul court, you hear of Sir George Royston very prosperous. And if ever you come upon Lely's portrait of him, you see a strong man, sated and weary, who's rated life low. End of chapter 50, recording by Gary Oman, West Palm Beach, Florida.