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[EIGHTH EDITION.]

THE

HEIRESS OF HADDON.

BY

WM. E. DOUBLEDAY.

LONDON:

SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT AND CO., LIMITED.

BUXTON AND BAKEWELL:

U.F. WARDLEY, "HIGH PEAK NEWS" OFFICES.

PREFACE

The real romance of Haddon Hall is a sweet, old-world idyll of singular attractiveness and interest. The gems of the story have been reset by dramatists in different surroundings; but while, as in the Sullivan-Grundy opera, many of its chief incidents have been retained, many have been omitted.

In the old story there are no Puritans, and not one solitary Scotchman appears upon the scene. The original drama was enacted in the pastoral days of "Good Queen Bess," when the Tudor Queen was still young and beautiful, and

"When all the world was young, lad,
And all the trees were green;
And every goose a swan, lad,
And every lass a queen."

Haddon Hall, the scene of the story, is situated at the foot of the Peak, between Bakewell and Chatsworth, close to Matlock, and not far from Buxton. Far from the madding crowd the hoary old edifice stands, carefully preserved, and generously thrown open to public view by its princely owners, the Dukes of Rutland, who, though for more than a century back they have ceased to inhabit it, have yet most carefully protected the building from falling into the slightest disrepair.

In our own day, the Hall stands very much as it did in the heyday of its glory, when the sisters Margaret and Dorothy received the homage of their numerous admirers, or the "King of the Peak" himself passed to and fro within its walls. But it is more beautiful now than it was then, for now it is tinged with a beauty which age alone can bestow, and mellowed with a charm that none of the Vernons ever knew.

And of this charm Dorothy Vernon herself is assuredly the central figure. For three centuries her romantic career has been a favourite theme with minstrel, poet, and painter; and during all this time—like the ivy which grows and clusters around the walls and nooks and crannies of what, generations ago, were the abiding-places of kings or nobles, scenes of splendour and animation—so, during the lapse of time, there has grown a beautiful and romantic web of legendary lore which clings tenaciously to every wall, window, and stone of the old Hall, until every room and every corner of old Haddon seems to tell the story of the beautiful maiden who, once upon a time, fell in love with a certain plain John Manners, whom she was determined to wed, in spite of all the obstacles that were placed in her way.

The story telling how she accomplished this has been told in many varying forms, but in the following pages the writer has sought to incorporate the essence of nearly all the legends, concerning not only Dorothy, but also of Sir George Vernon. A considerable amount of fresh matter has been introduced, and, without unduly intruding the dry facts of history, a few of the great events and persons of the time have been pressed into service; whilst at the same time, some of the old English customs of the days of "Good Queen Bess" have been made to serve the purpose of the narrative.

W.E.D.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER. PAGE.

I.—AT FIRST SIGHT 1 II.—A JEALOUS HEART AND CRAFTY 7 III.—THE CLOSE OF THE DAY 13 IV.—DAME DURDEN'S ORDEAL 19 V.—A VISIT TO NOTTINGHAM 26 VI.—DE LA ZOUCH INDULGES IN A LITTLE VILLAINY 32 VII.—DOROTHY OVERHEARS SOMETHING 42 VIII.—A TOURNAMENT; THE COMBAT 49 IX.—AT THE COCK TAVERN, LONDON 55 X.—IN DIRE STRAITS 63 XI.—AN UNFORTUNATE DENOUEMENT 71 XII.—A CONFESSION OF LOVE 79 XIII.—FATHER PHILIP'S ACCIDENT 88 XIV.—AN UNPLEASANT NIGHT 94 XV.—SIR GEORGE AT WESTMINSTER 101 XVI.—A NIGHT ADVENTURE 107 XVII.—A DALE ABBEY HERMIT 114 XVIII.—THE CHAMBER OF DEATH 120 XIX.—"THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE." 126 XX.—THE TROTH-PLIGHT 133 XXI.—THE PLOT IN PROGRESS 139 XXII.—ON A FALSE SCENT 147 XXIII.—DARK SUSPICIONS 153 XXIV.—THE ESCAPE 159 XXV.—THE LAST OF DE LA ZOUCH 166 XXVI.—A DISGUISED LOVER 174 XXVII.—A NARROW ESCAPE 180 XXVIII.—"NOT YET" 188 XXIX.—THE ANGELS OF LIFE AND DEATH 197 XXX.—STOLEN SWEETS 206 XXXI.—THE TOKEN 215 XXXII.—PLAIN JOHN MANNERS WINS HIS BRIDE 222 XXXIII.—PEACE AT LAST 229

THE HEIRESS OF HADDON.

CHAPTER I.

AT FIRST SIGHT.

There is a spirit brooding o'er these walls
That tells the record of a bygone day,
When 'mid the splendour of these courtly halls,
A pageant shone, whose gorgeous array
Like pleasure's dream has passed away.

ANON.

Where both deliberate the love is slight;
Who ever loved that love not at first sight?

MARLOWE.

Amid the hills of Derbyshire which cluster around the Peak there rises, in a lovely dale slyly peeping out from behind the surrounding trees, the fine old pile of Haddon Hall.

Perhaps the old shire of Derby, with its many rich examples, can present to view nothing equal in historic and legendary interest to this old mansion. Its turrets and towers, its windows and its walls, its capacious kitchens, and its fine halls and banqueting rooms—unspoiled by the hands of the "restorer"—have gained for it the almost unchallenged position of being the finest baronial residence which still exists.

There stand the grey old walls whose battlements have proudly bidden defiance to the storms and blasts of half a thousand winters, and there still stand the gnarled old trees which have gently swayed to and fro while many a baron has ruled the Hall, and whose leaves after growing in superlative beauty, seeming to partake in the grandeur and pride of the "King of the Peak," have drooped and fallen, after having made, with their rich autumnal tints, a succession of beautiful living pictures which have delighted the lords and ladies of Haddon for almost twenty generations.

When William the Conqueror had invaded England and had succeeded in seating himself upon his somewhat insecure throne, he began to reward his followers with liberal grants of the land he had won. Among these fortunate individuals was one, William Peveril, said to be a son of the Conqueror, and to him, in common with many other estates in and around Derbyshire, was given the manor of Haddon. Part of the fabric which was then erected is still standing, and it is surmised by some that traces are still left of a previous Saxon erection. In the year 1154, the estate was forfeited to the Crown, and it was granted by King Henry II. to the Avenals, from which family, two hundred years later, it was transferred by marriage to the Vernons.

Its fate has been strangely wrapped up in the history of its women, for as it passed from the Avenals to the Vernons by marriage, so again, three centuries later, by a similar process, it passed from the Vernon family to the Rutland, which ever since has retained it in its possession.

Everything around, both inside and out, is fragrant with interest. Everything seems to breathe out the spirit of departed ages. It is one vast relic of "Merrie England's" bygone splendour.

It was the old original "Palace of the Peak," nor was it unworthy of the name. The glory of many royal palaces of its time indeed might well have paled beside its splendour, and as a matter of fact the baron of Haddon was a king within his own domain, who wielded a power which few around dared to question, and fewer still resist. Its hospitality was lavish, as the poor of a neighbourhood of no small radius knew full well; and the vastness and riches of the property which accompanied the ownership of Haddon was enough to maintain its lord in an almost regal state.

What happy scenes have taken place within its walls! How many fair ladies have stepped off the riding stone outside its gate, helped by the gallant but superfluous aid of chivalrous knights, each striving to outdo the others by gentle acts of courtesy! What brilliant cavalcades have issued from its portals! How many merry hunting parties have started from its iron-studded gate; and what jovial monster feasts have taken place within its rooms. If walls could speak, what a tale would Haddon have to tell.

The spring of the year of grace 1567 had just commenced, and the trees were beginning to adorn themselves once again in their green array, when the Knight of Haddon, Sir George Vernon, led out a merry company for the first hawking expedition of the year. The winter had been unusually long, and more than extraordinarily severe; and whilst the knight and his sturdy friends had been enabled to pursue their sport by submitting to a more than usual amount of inconvenience, yet the ladies had been almost entirely confined within the limits of the Hall. Winter at Haddon was by no means a dreary imprisonment, for fetes and balls were continually taking place, and however rough the weather might be, and the condition of the miserable tracts which in those days did duty for roads, there were not a few cavaliers, both old and young, who would gladly adventure the discomforts of a journey to Haddon, even were it to be only rewarded by a smile, or perchance a dance with the two daughters of the host, whose beauty, though of different types, many were ready to swear, and to maintain it, if need be, at the point of the sword, could not be surpassed in all the counties of the land.

Indeed, the beauty of Margaret and Dorothy was almost as famous as the reputation of the "King of the Peak" himself, and the old knight, owner as he was of immense wealth, was often heard to assert that his two daughters were the greatest treasures he possessed.

Many eyes were cast upon these two fair maidens, and many hearts were laid at their feet. Margaret, the elder, was already being wooed by Sir Thomas Stanley, and some gossips even went so far as to say that she had already plighted her troth to him. The younger sister, however, had kept her heart intact, and in spite of the persuasions of Sir George and the threats of Lady Maude, had refused to comply with their request to accept Sir Henry de la Zouch as her betrothed.

Although by no means dreary, yet the continual round of winter feasts had at last begun to assume an aspect of staleness, and lords and ladies alike had for some time past been eagerly anticipating the time when they might once more pursue their noble sports. As the winter had gradually withdrawn its ice and snow, and occasional gleams of sunshine appeared, hearalding the advent of spring, the excitement had increased. Dancing was discarded, the tapestry work was laid aside, and all with one mind began to make preparations for the coming excursions.

And now the long wished for day had come. The number of guests at the Hall had been largely augmented by fresh arrivals, and as the jovial baron looked round the table at the feast of the previous evening, he declared that a better company could not be found in all the land.

The scene as they started out was animated in the extreme. The ladies, in their many-coloured dresses, riding on horseback, were gracefully coquetting with the knights and squires who surrounded them and dutifully paid their court to them with all the reverence of a fast-departing chivalry.

The chase was to be on foot, and in the rear followed a number of pages, each leading his dogs and carrying his own as well as his master's jumping pole. Everything promised well. The turf had dried after the recent floods, with a pleasing elasticity. The sun shone brilliantly upon the gold-trimmed jerkins of the hawks, and the hum of conversation, with its occasional outburst of merry ringing laughter, added to the tinkling of the sonorous little falcon bells, or the bark of the dogs every now and again as they ineffectually tried to break away from the leashes in which they were held, all tended to put the party in the best of spirits.

Dorothy Vernon, as usual, was surrounded by a circle of admirers, each of whom was anxious to bring himself under her especial notice by anticipating her wishes, or quickly fulfilling her slightest commands.

Sir Henry de la Zouch was there, as a matter of course. He was most assiduous in his attentions, and although it was plainly visible that his presence was as little appreciated as his suit, yet he still kept by her side.

"Methinks, fair demoiselle," he began, "thou art hardly so sprightly this morning as the occasion might warrant. Now, Mistress Margaret, there—"

"Aye, Margaret again, Sir Henry," interrupted the maiden; "thou art for ever placing me beside my sister Margaret. He bears too hardly upon a simple maiden, does he not, Sir John?"

Sir John de Lacey, a little fidgety old man on the wrong side of sixty, nervously played with his collar, and, delighted at the opportunity thus afforded him of paying back a grudge of long standing, he summoned to his aid all the dignity he was capable of assuming, and declared that the whole of Sir Henry's conduct was ungallant to the last degree.

De la Zouch darted a look of intense wrath at the old man, but as the latter was yet rearranging his collar, the effort was lost.

"Nay, nay, sweet Dorothy," he said, "I meant to say naught that would vex thee, for I would have thee smile upon me and not frown; and if my words have not been pleasing to thee in the past, I am sorry for it, and will endeavour to amend my ways in the future."

"Where do we go to-day?" asked Dorothy, not noticing his last remark. "We are full late for the woodcock, and the partridges are not yet ready."

"There are plenty of sparrows on the wing," exclaimed Sir Benedict à Woode, who had been anxiously awaiting an opportunity to join in the conversation.

"Aha! Sir Benedict," she replied. "Methought thou wert too unwell to join us to-day, but thou hast weathered the attack, I see."

"Now, could I stay away, fair cousin, when I knew thou wert among the merry company?" gallantly responded the knight.

"'Twas but the wine got into his head, Dorothy," insinuated Sir Henry.

Dorothy, according to the fashion of the time, was carrying a hawk, one which she herself had trained, upon her wrist, which was protected from the beak and talons of the bird by a large thick glove. She looked upon the noble bird, and felt proud of her treasure.

"St. George," she said, "would scorn a sparrow, though, or else, I fear, most noble Benedict, he shares not in the pride of his mistress."

St. George cocked his head on one side, as if to receive the compliment in a most befitting manner, and catching sight of a hand upon the saddle, it rapidly dipped down its head and made a vicious peck at the intruding fingers.

It was the hand of De la Zouch, and he withdrew with an ejaculation of anger.

"There, Mistress Dorothy," he exclaimed, "did I not say the bird was but imperfectly taught, and now see here;" and he ruefully pointed to the bleeding finger.

Dorothy was so overcome by the tragic attitude Sir Henry assumed, that instead of offering him her sympathy, she burst out into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, in which the rest of the company joined; and, burning with indignation, the unlucky knight hastened away to join the group around the elder sister.

Having fallen behind, Dorothy and her companions had now to hurry forward, for they learned by the blowing of the horns and signals of Sir George Vernon that they were now close upon the scene of the day's sport.

"Come, Doll," shouted the baron, "we are waiting for you; we are ready to begin, and there are some strangers with whom I must acquaint you."

They soon joined company, and Master John Manners, together with his friend, Sir Everard Crowleigh, had soon passed through the pleasant formality of an introduction to one of the prettiest and wealthiest heiresses in England.

John Manners, who plays a prominent part in this veracious narrative, was the nephew of the Earl of Rutland. As he reverently kissed the dainty hand which Dorothy held out to him he was so smitten with the charm of her beauty that Cupid led him, an unresisting captive, to yield his heart to the keeping of the maid. He was deeply smitten, nor was Dorothy herself insensible to the more masculine beauty of the scion of the house of Rutland, for as his dark, flashing eyes met her own, in spite of herself, she felt the power of a strange attraction which drew her towards him. The sprightly god of love had already done his work, and, although perhaps neither of them was aware of the fact, they were each being bound by his chains.

It was a case of love at first sight.

CHAPTER II.

A JEALOUS HEART AND CRAFTY.

He that sows in craft does reap in jealousy.

MIDDLETON.

Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand;
Blood and revenge are hammering in my head.

SHAKESPEARE.

The scene of the pastime had been reached, and the preparations for the hawking had already begun. The falconers brought up their birds, the pages gave up their masters' jumping poles, and the dogs were sniffing the air, eager for the chase to commence.

At last the jerkins were taken off, and the straps which had held the hawks were unloosed; the dogs were sent to the front, and the real work of the day began.

Sir George was in capital humour, and closely followed by Sir Benedict à Woode and the others, he led off at a rare pace, with the ladies following upon their steeds a little distance in the rear, and, behind all, a number of admiring rustics, eager to see a little of the sport in which it was not their lot to participate.

Sparrows were plentiful, but no other kind of bird was to be seen, and Sir Benedict was just thinking that Sir George would have to humble himself, when the dogs began to bark.

"Quails, as I'm alive! See!" shouted the baron, in high delight.

"And a whole bevy of them, too," added De la Zouch, turning round to the ladies.

The excitement, which had simmered before, now suddenly became intense, and away went lord and lady, knight and esquire, over wall and ditch, in their eagerness to keep up with the hunt.

Dorothy had not flown her bird, for she had noticed that Master Manners was without a hawk, and now she sent it forward to him by her page, and waited with a beating heart to learn whether her offer had been accepted.

Manners himself came back and thanked her.

"But marry, fair Mistress Vernon," said he, "I could no more rob you of your bird than I could steal away your beauty or take possession of your heart."

"Nay, now," replied Dorothy, not paying the proper amount of regard to the truth, "I am already for-wearied of the hawking; and it were more to my taste to follow on in a more leisurely fashion," she added, seeing that he was about to refuse. "St. George is a good bird, and is anxious to try a flight; and thou art a stranger, too; thou must take it," and she placed the merlin on his wrist.

Manners had never felt more embarrassed in the course of his life, and, ready-witted though he was, he found himself at a loss how to reply. Before he had collected his scattered senses, Dorothy had gone, and he, left alone, was a long way in the rear. The horns of the hunters, which were continually sounding, proved a sufficient guide, and being nimble of foot, he started off in great haste to rejoin the party, which was now well out of sight.

All this had not escaped the jealous eyes of De la Zouch, for, securely hidden within the friendly foliage of a patch of brushwood, he had seen and heard all, and, with perceptions sharpened by the jealous spirit which raged within his breast, he had at once divined the secret which neither of the two, as yet, understood.

As Manners departed, he emerged from his hiding-place, gnashing his teeth with rage. His anger was terrible to behold.

"So, so!" he exclaimed, as he watched the retreating figure, "it
has come to this, then, that I am to yield my share of the riches of
Haddon to this usurping churl. But no; it shall never, never be! John
Manners shall lie in six feet of solid earth ere I forego the prize!"

Had he been more careful, Sir Henry would have discovered that he was not alone. Had he been less rash, whatever he might have thought, he would have kept his opinions to himself; for hardly had he spoken, when a rough voice at his elbow awakened him from the reverie into which he had fallen.

"Such words, noble sir, are costly, and I ween thou hadst rather not have them repeated to the King of the Peak."

De la Zouch turned sharply round and fiercely confronted the well-known figure of the Derby packman.

"Thou art over bold for a knave," he exclaimed; "get thee gone."

"Not till I am the richer, or I will hie me to Sir George, and tell my tale to him," was the cool reply.

"Villain!" hissed Sir Henry, "begone!" and obeying the impulse of the moment, he dealt the pedlar a blow which felled him to the ground.

"There will be a few more nobles for that," groaned the man as he slowly regained his feet.

De la Zouch glanced contemptuously at him and turned to depart, but he was not to go so easily.

"Nay, forsooth," cried the pedlar, clapping his hands upon the shoulders of the nobleman. "And thou wilt forget thy debts it behoves me to insist."

With a curse the latter turned round again, but seeing the determined aspect of the man, he pulled out three golden nobles and offered them to him.

The packman laughed.

"What!" he exclaimed. "I must have more than that for my bruises alone."

"Thou art insolent; that is all I shall give thee; take it or leave it and get thee gone. Thy word would never weigh against mine."

"Well, master," returned the other, "it is a case of life or death, and you value your life at three sorry nobles? I would take that rather than the money, for Manners is a friend to the poor," and grasping his thick stick with both his hands he struck at De la Zouch with all his might.

The blow was parried by Sir Henry, who received it upon his jumping pole, and with blood now thoroughly aroused and life on either side to fight for, the conflict was furiously sustained.

The packman's attack was at no time equal to the defence of his adversary, and as he rained down blow after blow they were coolly caught upon the pole, which, used in skilful hands in much the same fashion as the quarter-staff, made quite an admirable weapon both for attack and defence.

Such an unequal contest could not long continue. Science must ever triumph over mere brute force, and this occasion proved to be no exception to the rule, and as the man tired, his blows perceptibly weakened. Had Sir Henry by any piece of misfortune failed to protect himself, the end might have been different. His skill, however, saved him in the end, and as the fury of his opponent abated the knight became more vigorous in his attack.

The end soon came, for, raising his stout ash pole high up in the air, De la Zouch brought it down with, tremendous force, and easily breaking through the pedlar's guard, it alighted heavily upon his head. With a groan the unlucky man staggered back and fell upon the turf. The blow had struck home, and the Derby packman was no more.

Whilst this scene was being enacted, Sir Henry's page, missing his master from amongst the hawking party, had turned back in great trepidation to seek him. Guided by the sound of the blows, the youth had experienced little difficulty in attaining the object of his search, and, standing at a respectable distance, he had been a silent witness of the tragic conclusion of the encounter. Seeing that all was over, he slowly advanced, in a very uncertain state of mind as to the character of his reception.

De la Zouch was too busily engaged in a scrutiny of his late opponent to notice the arrival of his page, and upon the latter devolved the unpleasant duty of announcing himself.

"That was a featly stroke, my lord," he began.

Sir Henry turned round, and a sigh of relief escaped him as he found it was not a fresh combatant with whom he would have to contend.

"Ha, Eustace," he said, "There are many who would like to learn the trick of it; 'tis known to few besides myself, but I will teach it thee some future time."

Eustace, too, gave a sigh of relief. His master was unusually gracious.

When Sir Henry spoke again, his voice was changed.

"Hast thou seen all?" he asked.

"I saw the end of it."

"But the commencement?"

"No! I was—"

"Ah, well," interrupted the knight, "'twas not my fault; I would fain have had thee witness its commencement, for, by my troth, the knave brought his fate upon himself."

He rolled the corpse over and they turned to go, but ere they had proceeded many yards they came to a halt. De la Zouch had an idea, and they wheeled about and returned to the body once more.

"Empty the jerkin," said Sir Henry, as he pointed to the man's jacket.

Eustace shuddered, but the command was given in so peremptory a tone that there was no option but to comply. He stooped down and emptied the capacious pockets of the dead man's jerkin, wondering the while-time whether or no his master had suddenly turned robber.

"There is little enough to take," said he.

"Tut, I want none of it," replied the knight, and picking up the assortment, which consisted of a huge jack-knife, a pair of spectacles with monstrously wide rims, some bootlaces, a broken comb, and a few coins, he carefully scattered them about the scene where the struggle had taken place. He was not yet satisfied, though, for espying the hollow trunk of an old tree close by, he made the unwilling page help him to deposit the body there.

Eustace wonderingly helped him. He would much preferred to have left it alone, but he dared offer no resistance. He could only hope that if the matter were heard of again, he might not be implicated in the plot.

De la Zouch critically surveyed the scene, and after lightly covering the body over with grass and twigs, he turned to depart.

They walked on in silence for some distance before either of them spoke: the knight deeply wrapped in thought; the page eager and yet fearful to learn the particulars, yet not daring to question his master.

At last Sir Henry spoke.

"Mind you, Eustace," said he, "say naught of this affair. I would not have my name mixed up with it, and if they ask thee, say thou knowest naught."

Eustace felt mightily relieved, and readily gave the required promise. He was used to these little deceptions which his master was wont to use on pressing occasions.

"And see," continued the knight, after a pause, "I am hurt, for although I have come off victor without a scratch, I have not come out of the tussle without a bruise or two. I shall tell them I have had a fall. You understand!"

The page acquiesced, the conversation ceased, and the two walked on in silence to rejoin their companions.

CHAPTER III.

THE CLOSE OF THE DAY.

See how the wily rascal plays his part.
With many a groan and many a practised art.
Around his victims he the net entwines,
Nor rests till he is snared within its lines.
But sure such hurtsome craft and wicked toil,
Will eftsoon on the villain's head recoil.

In the meantime the chase had grown in excitement. The hawks were as eager to distinguish themselves as the birds were to escape, and the sport waxed fast and furious.

As the sun declined, the scattered hawkers struggled back to the appointed rendezvous to partake of refreshment ere they began their return journey. By ones and twos they came, bearing with them the trophies of their sport, which they deposited in a heap before the ladies.

No one missed De la Zouch at first, and it was not until nigh upon the conclusion of the meal that his absence was remarked.

"Why, where is Sir Henry de la Zouch?" asked the old knight.

No one had seen him for some time.

"Ah, well," exclaimed Sir George, "'tis a bad plan to be betwixt towns at mealtimes, eh, Doll? I suppose he'll come soon, though. Perhaps he's having the best run of the day all alone;" and the knight sighed at the bare thought of his being away from it.

But Sir George's anticipations were not fulfilled, for when the meal was finished De la Zouch had not appeared.

"He may have met with an accident?" suggested Manners.

"I rather think Sir Henry is afraid of me," stammered old Sir John de
Lacey, as he buried his face in the last tankard of ale.

"Then he were wise indeed to stay away," added Sir Thomas Stanley, with a sly wink. "I, for one, would not lightly risk a combat with so doughty a knight as yourself, else Margaret might eftsoon weep for a lover departed."

As there was still some time left, and there was no certain knowledge that Sir Henry needed their assistance, it was determined to return slowly homewards, and if sport offered itself upon the way to turn aside and follow it. The party had not been long in motion before it roused a "fall" of woodcocks, the very sight of which—so excessively rare at such a time—infused into the sportsmen all the animation of which they were capable. The hawks shot up after them, and their bells, which could be heard tinkling even when the birds were beyond the range of vision, served in some degree to inform the hunters which direction they should take.

"Well, if De la Zouch is doing better than this, why then he is welcome to it," said Sir George, as with his coat sleeve he wiped away the perspiration which was streaming down his face. "'Tis fine sport, this, Master Manners," he added, and the old baron chuckled with glee.

It was at this moment that the head falconer approached.

"We have found Sir Henry, my lord," he said. "He is sorely injured by a fall."

"Ha! is that so? Then you were right, Master Manners," exclaimed Sir
George, as he turned round to the falconer. "Where is he?" he asked.

"Over the ditch, my lord, close by the wall where his page is standing by his side," and he pointed to where Eustace stood.

Sir George blew his horn, and in answer to the signal the eager hunters broke off their chase and returned, puzzled in no small degree by the summons they had received. In a few brief words the situation was explained to them, and the party rapidly pushed on to rejoin their injured companion.

De Lacey, upon hearing that his quondam friend was hurt, was so overcome by a most chivalric spirit of forgiveness that he determined to be the first to reach his side, and to offer him what relief lay within his power. Filled with this noble resolve, he hurried forward, but, unfortunately for him, he was not destined to accomplish his mission, for as he was crossing the ditch his pole snapped asunder, and he suddenly found himself located in the very centre of the rank mud dyke. There he was, and all his efforts to free himself caused him only to sink deeper and deeper.

"O, Blessed Mary, save me; save me!" he yelled out in an agony of anguish as he felt himself slowly but surely sinking; but not, apparently, feeling very much assured about the answer to his prayer, he turned from things spiritual to things visible and mortal.

"Help me; save me, George," he cried.

Sir George Vernon was too much overcome by the ludicrous aspect of the affair to lend any assistance just then, for he well knew that two feet, if not less than that, was the excess of its depth.

"Let him alone," he cried. "If he had not so befuddled his head with ale he would remember as well as I do that twenty inches would reach the bottom of the mud."

Had Lady Maude been there she would in all probability have sent her lord and master to aid the poor unfortunate, but she was safe at Haddon, and, rejoicing in his freedom from restraint, he laughed louder and louder as he watched the frantic efforts of his friend.

"Don't let me die," pleaded poor De Lacey. "Don't let me die like a dog. Oh, dear, I'm going, I'm going! Blessed Virgin, help me; save me!" and the old man made a last great struggle to free himself.

Manners could bear it no longer. He clearly perceived that what was fun to them was mortal terror to the pitiable object of their merriment, and, advancing to the edge of the dyke, he held out his pole at arm's length to render him what assistance he could.

"Here, take hold of it," he cried.

Sir John endeavoured to obey the injunction, but he could not even touch it, and he sank back again in despair.

"Why, man," laughed Sir George, "as I'm a Vernon, you know as well as
I do that thou canst never sink deep in two feet of mud."

The words roused De Lacey to struggle to his feet and attempt to extricate himself. He staggered forward and advanced a foot or two, but the slimy mud had such a determined hold of him that he overbalanced himself, and fell forward at full length into the ditch. This time, however, he was closer to the bank, and making another effort, he grasped the pole which was still held out to help him. Manners leaned forward, and pulled with all his might, but for some time it was an open question whether he would go in or Sir John come out.

At this critical juncture Dorothy arrived upon the scene of the disaster. The sight of the old man's distress at once appealed to her womanly nature, and she had but to murmur a word of pity, when, in a moment, half-a-dozen knights leapt over to fulfil her unspoken wish. With this accession of strength the captive was easily freed, and a queer figure he was. It would have been difficult for a stranger to have determined exactly what he was; for, covered as he was to the depth of several inches with black mud, he looked more like an animal of prehistoric times—such as we see represented by fossils—than any human being.

De Lacey was promptly rolled upon the turf, and the pages set to work and endeavoured to reach his person by scraping away the adhesive slime with the aid of sticks and stones.

"Get up, man, get up," exclaimed Sir George. "Here is Doll waiting to honour thee with a dance."

Dorothy shrank back, while Sir John, utterly exhausted, sank back again helplessly upon the ground. Seeing that he was totally unable to walk of his own accord, and in too dirty a condition to lean upon anyone's arm, a rough extempore litter was made, upon which the unfortunate knight was set and carried away, loudly lamenting the unkindness of the fate which had brought him to such a sorry plight.

"And now let us see what we can do for De la Zouch," said Sir George Vernon, and they proceeded to the spot where the injured knight was lying.

"How now, Sir Henry? What's this, any bones broken, eh? How did you do it, man; was it here?" and having delivered himself of this string of questions, the King of the Peak leaned against the wall and awaited the reply.

"More hurt than injured, I believe," replied the other, "but Eustace here will tell thee all about it;" and Eustace, who had carefully got the story by heart, recounted how, when they were after a fine bevy of quail, his master's pole had snapped as he was springing up, and instead of clearing the wall he had fallen heavily against it.

The pole, broken in twain, which lay upon the grass close by, attested the truth of the statement.

"Sir Benedict," exclaimed the baron, "thou art somewhat learned in leechcraft; see if thou canst do aught. Tell us what is amiss."

À Woode stooped down, and after a prolonged examination he gave it as his opinion that some of his friend's ribs were broken.

Another litter was quickly made up and De la Zouch, who was now feeling the full effects of the injuries he had received, and who in reality stood in need of assistance, was placed upon it and carried off in the wake of Sir John de Lacey.

Leaving them to pursue their way homewards, the hunting party set off once more to make a fresh attempt at sport ere the day should close. But now the fortune which had so favoured them during the day deserted them. Not a bird was seen, and after vainly beating about for some time the party at last reluctantly determined to wend its way once more towards Haddon. Sir George sounded his horn again, and in answer the wanderers returned from all quarters of the wood, all of them light-hearted and most of them light-handed too.

The route now taken was precisely the same by which they had advanced during the day, and they soon arrived at the spot where the struggle had taken place. Dorothy discovered the first signs of the conflict.

"Why, what in the name of faith is this?" she cried, as she pointed down to the ground. "'Tis a noble, I declare."

"And here is another," added Crowleigh, stooping down and picking up the glittering coin.

"And here's a comb, what a nice—"

Sir Benedict never missed that sentence, for as he bent down to pick it up he caught sight of the body of the packman, and he started back affrighted at the sight. "Look!" he cried, "'Tis a—the blessed saints protect us, 'tis a murder see!" and he pointed to the tree.

"A what?" asked Sir George, coming up. "What's a murder? Where?"

"Here, see!" and à Woode pulled away the twigs which had but half hidden the body from view.

"Heaven forfend us!" ejaculated the baron as he gazed horror-stricken at the body. "'Tis a foul villainy, and so near Haddon, too."

"'Tis the poor Derby pedlar," exclaimed Dorothy, "and it was but yester e'en since he was at the Hall."

"Ha! 'tis lately done, I see. Trust me, I shall see to this. We'll have no ghosts round Haddon, Doll. To-morrow we'll enquire into it. I must get to the root of this."

"'Tis evident it was a robbery," suggested Manners. "Even now the knaves may be lurking round."

Sir George took the hint and the vicinity was closely examined, but, of course, not a trace of the perpetrators could be found; so, leaving the followers to bring on the body in the rear, the party hurried forward to gain the friendly shelter of the Hall and to partake of the bountiful feast which the Lady Maude had provided for them.

CHAPTER IV.

DAME DURDEN'S ORDEAL.

Fear fell on me and I fled.
* * * * *
I took the least frequented road,
But even there arose a hum;
Lights showed in every vile abode,
And far away I heard the drum.
Roused with the city, late so still;
Burghers, half-clad, ran hurrying by,
Old crones came forth, and scolded shrill,
Then shouted challenge and reply.

AYTOUN.

Next morning the Hall was early astir. The news of the murder had spread far and wide, and had caused a feeling of consternation in the neighbourhood, which was intensified by the mystery in which it was enshrouded.

De la Zouch had grown worse during the night, and soon after the break of day had departed, with Eustace, for Ashby Castle, declaring that in spite of the good intentions of Sir Benedict his case was not understood, and that it had been aggravated rather than improved by the attentions he had received from his friend.

Sir George, as magistrate of the district, had caused the body to be dressed, and for a long time he sat in his dressing-room pondering what steps he had better take next. There was absolutely no clue, yet the baron was determined not only to discover the culprit, but to make such an example of him as should effectually deter a repetition of such a crime in the neighbourhood of Haddon, at least for some time to come.

At length he issued from his room, and, passing along the corridor, he ascended a short flight of stairs, and stopped at the door of the room in which Dorothy was busily engaged in making some new tapestry hangings. He paused, uncertain whether to turn back or to enter.

"Yes, I will," he muttered; "she has the clearest head of them all," and suiting the action to the word he gently turned the handle and went in.

Dorothy had dropped her work, and so intently was she gazing through the open lattice window that she did not notice the arrival of her father.

The knight stood still for a moment or two, and involuntarily admired the graceful figure of his daughter, and stepping gently forward, he tapped her lightly upon the shoulder.

Dorothy turned hastily round, and as she did so he caught her deftly in his arms and printed a loud, smacking kiss upon the fair girl's cheek.

"There," said he, "I'll warrant me thou wert longing for it; come now, confess."

Dorothy disdained any such idea.

"Nay," she replied, "I was but thinking of the poor pedlar. I had bought these from him only the day before," and she pointed to a little heap of silks which lay upon the table.

"I had come to talk it over with thee, Doll," replied the baron as he sat himself comfortably down upon a chair. "I think it was a robbery, eh?"

"Yes," slowly replied the maiden, "I should think so, too. Meg and I paid him six nobles."

"And only two were found."

"Only two?" asked Dorothy.

"That is all," replied the knight. "The knaves must have made off with the rest. That ill-favoured locksmith would be as likely a rascal as any; I must examine him."

"Nay, that cannot be, he was all day in the stocks."

Sir George scratched his head in despair. He had privately determined that the locksmith was the guilty one, but now that his idea was entirely disproved he felt sorely at a loss how to proceed.

Dorothy watched him in silence; she was as helpless as the baron.

"Was the packman staying in the village?" asked Sir George, lifting up his head after a long pause, during which he had kept his glance upon his foot, as if seeking inspiration there.

"He stayed at Dame Durden's, I believe."

"What, the witch?"

"Yes."

"I have it, then," he exclaimed as he struck his hand heavily upon the table. "I have it!" and without saying another word he hastened out of the room.

Although the knight had thus decisively declared that he "had it," yet whatever it was that he had got, he did not feel equal to proceeding in the matter alone, and before he had proceeded many steps he turned back again.

"Come, Doll," he said, as he opened the door again, "we will go together," and the two went off in company to consult the rest of the family.

The Lady Maude was seated in a low, easy chair, And with an air of languor upon every feature of her countenance was listening to Sir John de Lacey, who was reading to her out of Roger Ascham's treatise on Archery. As the knight stepped into the room the remembrance of the previous day's mishap was strongly brought back to his memory.

"What ho! sir knight," he exclaimed; "better, eh!"

"A little stiff about the joints, mine host," he replied, "for which I have thee to thank."

"Tush, man, don't mention it," laughingly returned the baron. "There's no question of thanks betwixt me and thee."

"They gave me some hot sack, and then rolled me in the river," whined De Lacey, "and the pity of it is I cannot remember which of them it was, or else I'd—I'd—"

Sir John de Lacey paused to consider what course of action he would have taken, but ere he had resolved, the door opened, and Sir Thomas Stanley entered, bringing in with him the Lady Margaret.

"Well, well," returned Sir George, "since it baffles thy wits to discover whom it was, thou hadst best have the grace of forgiveness, it will become thee well. But a truce to this. I came to counsel with you of the murder. Any more news, Sir Thomas?"

"I hear that the old hag, Durden, had a quarrel with the pedlar the day before his death," answered Stanley, "and she told him to his face that he would come to no gentle end."

"They have often quarrelled," added Margaret, who felt bound to add something to her lover's statement.

"Yes, then," said Sir George, "I have it now. I guessed it was her from the very beginning."

"Nay, nay," interrupted Dorothy, "you suspected the smith at first."

"Well, Doll, it makes no matter of difference if I did. 'Tis the old witch, sure enough, and she will either hang or drown for it, I swear."

"Not so fast, either though, worthy knight," interrupted Stanley. "I am not yet satisfied that it really was the witch, for she seems to have been at home all day, except when she was by the side of the stocks."

"Courting the proud smith," added Lady Vernon, referring to a rumour in the neighbourhood.

"But he was killed in the woods," said Dorothy.

"Tut, there's not a doubt about the matter," pursued Sir George, "not the shadow of a doubt."

"Nevertheless there is something in what Dorothy urges, and we had better make some sort of inquiry," suggested the more cautious Stanley; "for thou hast many jealous enemies, Sir George, who would gladly score a triumph over thee an they had but half a chance."

"Sir Ronald Bury, for instance," added Margaret.

"But why Sir Ronald?" asked De Lacey. "He is a simple enough knight, I trow."

"Pooh, I care naught for him," replied Sir George Vernon; "he is jealous of the beauty of my daughters."

"And wants a husband for his child," added Lady Maude.

"Let him want, then," testily returned the baron. "He may turn green with envy for aught I care. I'll do it to his face, I will."

But in the end wiser counsels prevailed, and the knight gave way so far as to order a trial of touch—a superstitious form of trial much relied upon in the times when witchcraft was commonly believed in.

The witching hour of twilight was chosen for this crude but solemn trial, and at the time appointed a large crowd was gathered in the great courtyard of Haddon in obedience to a mandate of the King of the Peak, which they dared not disobey.

As the crowd swayed to and fro it was in marked contrast to the usual way in which they were wont to assemble within the great walls of Haddon. No loud laugh or sound of boisterous merriment broke the stillness of this solemn eventide; no tricks were attempted now upon unconscious friends, and even the almost invariable little groups of admirers listening to the marvellously strange tales of those who had crossed the seas were not to be found. All was silent save the screeching of the owls every now and again, and the subdued hum of conversation which rose up from the awestruck assembly as they patiently awaited the test which was to bring home the guilt of the murderer.

They had a long time to wait, and the moon had long been out before the proceedings were properly commenced.

A loud blast from the trumpets of the sentries gave the first intimation of the approach of the head of the house of Vernon. The great gates swung open and Sir George slowly advanced through the throng, which respectfully fell back on either side and made an open passage for him. A few yards behind followed a bare-headed priest, chanting prayers for the departed, and heading a diminutive procession, in the midst of which the body of the unfortunate pedlar was carried on a bier. They stopped at the foot of the steps which stretch across the courtyard; the doleful chant ceased, and an impressive hush fell upon the assembly, as with bated breath they awaited the next scene in the awful drama.

Sir George did not hurry himself, for it was necessary to the success of the ordeal that the culprit, whoever that was, should be duly impressed with a sense befitting the character of the moment, and a little suspense, he shrewdly guessed, would tend to make the guilty one tremble and offer signs which would make detection the easier.

At last he spoke.

"Mary Durden, Joel Cobbe, Henry Bridge, and Nathan Grene, step out," he said, "take the oath; touch the body in our presence, and prove your innocence if you are able."

Every whisper was smothered into silence as they watched to see the individuals named perform the test. No one stirred, however, and the order had to be repeated.

"Mary Burden, Joel Cobbe, Henry Bridge, and Nathan Grene," thundered the baron, "I command you to answer to your names, or by your silence shall you be condemned."

Joel Cobbe and Henry Bridge, two of the most disreputable men in the whole district, went forward in company, and succeeded in touching the body without a rupture of blood taking place or the body moving its position one iota.

"Mary Durden, spinster, Nathan Grene, locksmith," repeated Sir George, "answer to this third, last challenge, or thy last hope of escape is gone."

Nathan Grene, fuming with ill-concealed rage, stepped out, and a loud shriek announced the presence of Mary Durden, who was unwillingly pushed into view by those around her. As soon as she had gained the little open space that was yet left she fell upon the ground and swooned away.

"See," said one, "the witch is guilty, she dare not touch the body."

"Drown her," shouted another. "Drown her or burn her."

The clouds which for some time had been gathering together, and which by this time had completely obscured the moon, now burst with a torrent of rain. A flash of lightning for a brief moment illuminated the scene, and then died away again, leaving it more weird even than it had been before. A faint roll of thunder broke upon the unpleasant reverie into which the company had fallen, and Sir George's voice ordering the oil lamps to be lighted, somewhat reassured the more fearful among the spectators. A long five minutes elapsed before the lights appeared, minutes of darkness and suspense, disturbed only by the flashes of lightning and peals of thunder, which rapidly grew louder in sound.

Nathan Grene had touched the body, and the trial had proclaimed him innocent. Indeed, Sir George fully expected it would do so, seeing that Nathan had been fast bound in the stocks at the time the crime was perpetrated. His name had only been called out because the baron had a standing dislike to the man. But the woman still lay on the rough stones without offering a sign of life.

"Sir George, is that the witch?" asked De Lacey.

"It is."

"Then she is praying to her master the devil. Listen!"

In the dread stillness of those awful minutes it was not difficult to discover that she was moaning. The crowd was stricken with terror, and catching up the words which Sir John had let fall, reiterated the cry which even yet added to the dismal terror of the scene.

"This cannot long endure," said Sir George, as a vivid flash of lightning almost, for the moment, blinded him.

A long, loud roll of thunder, which terminated in a crashing peal, was the only answer he received, and while the noise was at its loudest, Mary Durden started to her feet and dashed forward to touch the body.

She just reached the bottom of the steps when, catching her foot on the uneven pavement of the yard, she over-balanced herself, and tumbled heavily upon the bier, almost knocking the body off as she fell.

"Guilty!" eagerly shouted Sir George; "she is guilty; seize her."

But before he had finished the sentence, Mary had turned and fled, and far from attempting to hinder her in her headlong flight, the awe-struck people, one and all, shrunk eagerly back to escape being brought into contact with one who had just given such unmistakable proofs of witchcraft, and who had been condemned a murderess by the almost infallible ordeal of the bier.

CHAPTER V.

A VISIT TO NOTTINGHAM.

One sole desire, one passion now remains,
To keep life's fever still within his veins.
Vengeance, dire vengeance, on the wretch who cast
On him and all he had the ruinous blast.

MOORE.

It was upon the third day after the occurrences narrated in the last chapter had taken place that a lonely traveller might have been seen urging his way across the fields just outside the town of Nottingham. The gates closed at dusk: it was now past sunset, and he hastened forward to gain admittance.

It was the man known at Haddon by the name of Nathan Grene, the locksmith, whose actions had ever been at variance with his character, and whose nature had always seemed to have been unequally yoked with the common occupation of a smith.

Nathan, in fact, was no true smith. He was a brother-in-law of Sir Ronald Bury, and having taken up the practice of astrology and alchemy, this fact had been seized upon by his foes, and he had been obliged to fly in disguise to save himself from one of those persecutions which were so readily and frequently levelled against the followers of the "black arts."

In the character of a locksmith he had lived for some months in an uneasy state of security at Haddon. The lack of comfort which he was compelled to experience in his new position being compensated for in some small degree by the kind attentions he had received at the hands of the widow Durden, which began directly upon his arrival, and which soon rapidly ripened into a sincere regard for each other, and from that eventually progressed into love.

Being well born, Nathan Grene—or rather Edmund Wynne, for such was his proper name—had never taken kindly to the conditions imposed upon him by the disguise he had chosen to assume. He had never sought for work, and had done as little of it as he possibly could, and he had held aloof from the people around him, treating them with a supercilious indifference which they were not slow to resent. Under such conditions it was by no means surprising that he was decidedly unpopular in the neighbourhood, and the dislike to him was heightened by the intimacy which grew up between himself and the woman who was regarded as a witch.

It was for his vigorous defence of Mary Durden that he had been placed in the stocks. His whole spirit revolted from such a degradation; he had pleaded and had raged, but all in vain, and even Dorothy's appeal on his behalf had failed to save him from the bitter humiliation.

The ordeal, again, had been a very trying scene for him, and his annoyance was more than doubled when he saw how his beloved was being persecuted by her neighbours and oppressed by the baron. As she escaped through the gateway he made up his mind to strike Sir George down, but in spite of his resistance he was carried out beyond the limits of the Hall in the wild rush that took place when the first moment of surprise and terror had passed away.

All night long he lay upon the floor of his little smithy pondering schemes of revenge, but when he ventured out on the following morning all his ideas were dispelled by the sight which met his gaze, for there was Mary Durden hanging from the branch of a tree at the foot of the slope which led up to the gateway of the Hall.

He rubbed his eyes in sheer astonishment and looked again, but the second view only confirmed the vision of the first. His worst fears were realised; his Mary was dead!

Mechanically he walked to the tree; there was a paper fastened to it upon which was some writing in the hand of the baron. He read it:—

MARY DURDEN.

THE STORM AVAILED HER NAUGHT.

Impatiently he snatched it down, and tearing it into a hundred fragments, cast them down upon the ground, and slowly turning on his heels, he walked homewards, utterly dejected and cast down, and with a bitter heart. The last tie which bound him to Haddon was now severed, and he longed to get away.

In melancholy silence he dug a grave in the little garden behind his lowly cottage, and then, with all the coolness which is lent by desperation, he proceeded again to where the body was hanging, and cut it down. He had brought another paper with him, and this he affixed in exactly the same place as the one he had destroyed. It was laconical enough, for it had but one word, and that was

REVENGE!

He laid the body in the grave, and put some plants upon the top, and then, after watering them with the tears which copiously ran down his cheeks, he turned his back on Haddon, and started for Nottingham with few regrets, leaving behind him little enough to love, and much to be revenged.

Footsore and weary he hastened to the Chapel Bar, glad indeed to find himself so near the end of his journey; but before he had quite reached it he had the mortification to hear the sound of the closing bell, and when he arrived there the gates were shut.

"Ho, ho, there, porter!" he cried, and he violently kicked the iron post by way of emphasis to the call.

"Aye, aye, there; steady now, thou'rt over late," replied the burly porter as he tantalisingly rattled the heavy keys in his hand.

"Yes, but only a minute," Edmund replied; "you can let me in, and you will."

"Nay, master, not till next sunrise," he returned. Edmund groaned.

"But I cannot stay outside all night," he said. "Come, open the gate, there's a good fellow."

"I were like to lose my position if I did," answered the other. "I cannot unless—," and he significantly jingled some coins in his pocket.

"Unless what?"

The gatekeeper thought Edmund Wynne uncommonly dull of comprehension, and with a little hesitation he suggested that it were surely worth a trifle if he did break through the rule.

"Here, here's a groat then," exclaimed the smith, bringing out his last coin as he saw the other moving away.

"Pooh, a sorry groat!" said the keeper, "Make it two, and then!"

"But I must get in to-night," expostulated Edmund, "I have urgent business with Sir Ronald Bury. It is important, it is a matter of the State."

At the mention of Sir Ronald's name the key was inserted in the lock, and by the time the sentence was completed the great gate was swung open, and the visitor found himself, to his great satisfaction, beyond the barrier.

"I was but jesting," humbly said the man as he re-locked the gate; "for you must well know that we are not allowed to take bribes, though where the harm of it would be, I confess I cannot see."

Having succeeded in passing the barrier, Edmund did not stay to argue the question with the gatekeeper. He turned his steps towards the Castle, and in a very few minutes found himself at its embattled entrance.

The gates, of course, were fastened, but the bell-rope was hanging down, so seizing hold of that he gave it a vigorous pull.

"Holloa, my hearty, what's amiss?" asked a stentorian voice. "That's the third summons to-night."

"I want to see the constable of the Castle," replied the traveller.

"Well, thou hadst better hie thee to London, and happen, if you're lucky, you may find him there."

"Sir Ronald at London!" exclaimed Edmund, in blank dismay.

"Sir Ronald!" repeated the other. "No, the Earl of Rutland."

"But Sir Ronald Bury?"

"He's the deputy-constable."

"Well, I would see him. Is he here?"

"Yes, he is here," responded a gruff voice. "I am Sir Ronald; who art thou? What dost thou require at this time o' night?"

"I want to see thee privately, upon a matter of much importance," answered the pseudo smith, somewhat annoyed not to be recognised by his brother-in-law.

"See if he has any weapons on him, Wilton," said the knight, "and let him enter if there is no suspicion of foul play. It will go badly with him, though, I trow, has he ventured here on no sufficient reason."

Wilton approached him to obey his master's commands, but Edmund waved him back by an imperious gesture of the arm.

"Nay, cousin Ronald," he exclaimed in high dudgeon. "It is beyond a joke to take matters so far. Ellice might well expect that a little kinder treatment would have been extended to her brother at the hands of her husband."

"Eh, what! Are you Edmund; risen from the grave?" asked the knight in high surprise.

"I am Edmund, sure enough," was the reply, "but I have not risen from the grave. I am not astrologer enough for that. This is a sorry welcome, and no mistake."

"Faith, man, how could I tell it were thee? We thought thee dead twelve months agone. Come in, man, come in; there's no occasion for thee to tarry there now. Let him in, Wilton, and be sure the gates are well fastened to-night. Robert and Lucy will be right glad to see you again," he said, "especially Little Robert, who has never forgotten those little iron toys that you made for him two years ago."

Edmund Wynne needed no second invitation. He hurried through the open portals and the two walked up together towards the inhabited part of the building.

"This is indeed a strange surprise," began Sir Ronald, as soon as they were out of danger of being overheard. "We felt sure that thou wast dead, and have often thought of thee. Where hast thou been?"

"Hiding in the country. I have been a village smith."

"A smith!" cried the knight. "Then that fancy of yours for working with metals has stood thee in good stead for once?"

"It has indeed; but it was a base use withal."

"Thou has been well hidden, for Her Majesty's servants have scoured the country to discover your where-about."

"I have been at Haddon in the Peak," he replied.

"Haddon: phew! Do you know that arrogant knight, Sir George Vernon?"

"Do I know him?" echoed Edmund. "Would to heaven I had never cast my eyes upon him."

"Ah! he has stung thee too, I perceive?" exclaimed Sir Ronald. "I hate him like poison. It should go ill with him did I ever have the power. I hear he is a Papist; cannot we prove aught against him on that score?" and the excited knight wistfully regarded his companion's face, waiting for a favourable reply.

"I should like some supper first," drily suggested the toil-worn traveller, "and then," he added, "I may satisfy your eagerness to the fullest extent. I have a score of my own against him to clear off yet, and, what is more to the point, Ronald, I have the power. It was for that I came to visit you."

"Ha!" ejaculated the knight, expectantly. "He can satisfy my craving to the fullest extent," he mused. "This is fortunate."

"Yes," continued Edmund, "we shall have him cited to London; he is surely within our power. He hath grievously broken the law, and will have to answer to the charge of murder and treason; and if we cannot compass his ruin, then, between us, I have other ways, of which no man knows."

"Hush," said Sir Ronald. "That led thee into trouble aforetime. Here is Lettice coming down the steps."

"That is not Nicholas with her, surely?" exclaimed Edmund.

"No, Nicholas has discarded us and turned monk, I hear, but where he is I cannot tell. That is John Manners, the nephew of the Earl of Rutland. He is after my Lucy, I trow."

"Manners, Manners, John Manners," murmured Edmund; "I have heard that name before. I have met him somewhere I am sure."

"Well, hither he comes," said the knight; "now do you remember him?"

As soon as Edmund caught sight of the young man's face he recognised him.

"Why," he exclaimed, "that's—I know him well enough: I have seen him at Haddon."

"At Haddon!"

"Yes, let me hide myself; I would rather not meet him here; it were better so for both of us. Where shall I go, tell me; quick?"

"Steady, ho! steady, man," said the knight. "Hie thee back again to the lodge and wait for me there. Wilton shall let you share his supper if thou wilt. I will tell them you are a gardener if they ask aught about thee," and in answer to the beckoning of his wife, Sir Ronald left his newly-discovered relation and hastened across the green.

CHAPTER VI.

DE LA ZOUCH INDULGES IN A LITTLE VILLANY.

If I can do it
By aught that I can speak in his dispraise,
She shall not long continue love to him.

SHAKESPEARE.

The Courtly hall of Haddon was never quiet for long together, and very soon both the death of the witch and the warning of the locksmith were forgotten amid the preparations which were being made for a grand ball. Sir Thomas Stanley, having wooed Margaret, had successfully petitioned the sanction and blessing of Sir George and Lady Vernon, and the event was to celebrate their betrothal.

The morning of the festive day had opened fair, and as the day sped on, the guests rapidly assembled. De Lacey was there, delighting the ladies, as usual, with his braggadocio. Manners and Crowleigh were both there too, by special invitation, and, of course, cousin Benedict à Woode, who made no scruple of inviting himself to Haddon Hall if by any means his invitation had not come; and also, to Dorothy's great disgust, Sir Henry de la Zouch was there.

The musicians struck up a lively tune, and very soon the steaming boar's head was placed upon the table. Father Philip pronounced a very long benediction, and the singing of an old Latin rhyme beginning—

"Caput apri defero,"

announced that the feast had commenced in earnest. The venison pasties of Margaret's make disappeared with a truly marvellous rapidity, while Dorothy's confections had a very short lease of life, and fared no better, either because they were nice or that Dorothy was the maker of them.

"Pass round the wine," hailed the baron, "and drink to the health of the ladies of Haddon Hall."

"Hurrah!" vociferously replied the guests, "to the health of the ladies of Haddon."

"But stay; what's the matter with Master Manners?" asked De la Zouch, whose eagle eye had discovered that HIS tankard was not upraised with the rest. "A discourteous guest, upon my troth."

"May I drink it in water?" asked Manners, as he felt the eyes of his host fixed sternly upon him.

"Nay, you must have the wine, sir," replied Sir George, "but whether it goes down your throat or your arm makes little matter," and as he spoke he pointed to the iron ring fastened in the door post ready for such contingencies.

"I suppose the arm must have it, then," he replied, "for I am sworn to taste no wine until I have performed a solemn vow."

"Waste good wine!" exclaimed De Lacey, as he gazed in blank astonishment at the speaker; "what a pity."

"Have you forsworn ale too?" asked Dorothy.

"No, only wine, sweet demoiselle," replied Manners, smiling as he caught the drift of the question.

"Then fill his glass with ale," commanded Doll, "and drink the toast without delay."

This happy suggestion was loudly applauded, and the healths were drunk off amid acclamation, the only one who did not heartily join in it being Sir Henry de la Zouch, who was annoyed to find that his petty attempt to spite his rival had failed, and that, too, by the intervention of Dorothy herself.

"Confound it all," he muttered, "he shall not escape me like this.
Eustace."

"Did you call?" asked the page, bending down.

"Yes," whispered De la Zouch. "Listen, you remember the Derby packman?"

"Aye, too well, I do."

"Nonsense," he replied, softly; "Master Manners killed him."

"Oh!" gasped the astounded page.

"Remember," added his master, "it was Manners."

"Yes, Master John Manners," repeated Eustace.

"Hush, that is all. A little more of that delicious jelly of yours, sweet Dorothy," he added in a louder tone as he turned round again to the table.

Whilst the feast was progressing, De la Zouch was pondering the fittest way of broaching the topic which lay so heavily upon his mind. Sir Thomas Stanley had won the elder sister, he argued, why should he not win the younger? He clearly saw that Dorothy was receding from his grasp, and that the longer he delayed, the fainter grew his chance of success. Lady Vernon daily grew less favourable too, he noticed, and so without delay he resolved to ask Dorothy for her hand. The present occasion was most propitious, and he determined to carry his plan into operation at once.

When the meal was ended—and that was not very soon—the company broke up into little parties and separated, to amuse themselves in whatever fashion they liked best. Margaret, as the heroine of the day, was surrounded by a number of knights and ladies, who contentedly watched her as she played at chess with Benedict. Sir John de Lacey racked his brains to the uttermost in order to sufficiently garnish the veracious little scraps of his own autobiography, and succeeded both in making the group around him open their eyes wide with surprise, and at the same time in making his listeners roar with laughter.

A marvellous hero was Sir John. He had been the ruling spirit in more than one Continental Court during his one brief sojourn in France. He had slain dragons, in different parts of the globe, in numbers enough to make St. George turn green with envy; and only his excessive modesty has prevented his name from being handed down to posterity.

Manners, naturally enough, joined Dorothy's party, and went out upon the lawn to take part in a game at bowls.

"Dear me, how careless I am to-day," she exclaimed; "there are six of us, and I have only brought four balls; I must fetch some more," and she started to go back.

"Let me go," said Manners.

"You," replied Doll, "you could never find them; I will go, and you must entertain the ladies while I am away," and she tripped across the green to the Hall.

"Ha, Doll, dearest," said a voice, as she turned the corner of the terrace, "I have been searching for thee."

Dorothy turned round and met the gaze of Sir Henry de la Zouch.

"For me!" she exclaimed, without pausing.

"Nay, prithee, now don't hurry so," he replied, catching hold of her arm, "I would ask thee a weighty question."

"But I am in a great hurry," she replied.

"Then I shall not keep thee long, but thou canst stay a little while, surely?"

"Indeed, I cannot, Sir Henry," she replied. "There are some visitors awaiting my return."

"John Manners for one," sneered the knight.

Dorothy blushed deeply, and bit her lip to repress the sharp retort which came readily to her tongue. Sir Henry saw that he had committed an error, and he endeavoured to recover his position.

"Sir Thomas has wooed thy sister Margaret," he exclaimed, "and I have long been wooing thee, and now the time has come when I am to offer you my hand."

Dorothy struggled to get away, but her suitor held her fast.

"Nay, cruel one," he continued, "I must have an answer. I shall be an earl in good time, perchance, and if you will but say 'aye' to my proposal you may be a countess—think of it, Dorothy, a countess—and the hostess of Ashby Castle."

He let go his hold of her, and dropping down upon his knee, he raised his clasped hand in the most approved fashion of the time, and continued his suit.

"Dorothy," he went on, "will you—?"

"Never," she replied, cutting him short in the middle of his speech, and, finding herself at liberty, she rushed precipitately into the Hall.

De la Zouch gazed after her in mute astonishment, and, staggered as he was, he remained in the same position until he was startled by a voice behind him.

"At prayers, sir knight?" asked the baron. "Father Phillip's grace at the table was long enough to serve me through the day."

"No, Sir George," replied the crestfallen lover, "I have been pleading my suit with Dorothy."

"And what said she?"

"She is bashful."

"What! My Doll bashful? That were hardly polite to thee, methinks."

"Perchance I should have more success with thee?" pleaded Sir Henry, as pathetically as he could.

"Let us withdraw into the bower, then," replied Sir George, "we can talk it over there, and we shall not be disturbed. Ha! here comes Lady Vernon, she will know what to do."

Lady Vernon came up at the bidding of her lord. The lover would fain have seen Sir George alone, but there was no help for it, and he had to brave the circumstances with the best grace possible.

"Maude, we must take your counsel," began the baron. "Sir Henry de la Zouch would take advantage of to-day's festivity to ask for the hand of Doll. What think you; can we spare her too, as well as Margaret? We should lose them both together then. What dost thou advise?"

"That depends upon many things," replied the stately dame, as she seated herself. "Dorothy would be a splendid match for anybody. What has Sir Henry to say?"

"I hope to be an earl soon," he replied, "and she would be a countess as you will. My father is infirm, he cannot live much longer, and I expect news of his death from Florence every day. And as for the estates, though they may not be equal to those of Haddon, yet they are by no means insignificant."

Dame Vernon knew all this, and the knowledge of it had influenced her before; but lately she had heard ill tidings of Sir Henry, and she was by no means so enthusiastic on his behalf. And, besides, a fresh competitor had entered the lists.

"Humph," growled the old knight, "we don't want to sell the girl."

"Be quiet, Sir George," interrupted his worthy spouse. "The thing must be done properly. Does Ashby Castle fall to your share, sir knight?" she asked.

"Certainly. To whom else should it go?"

"Have you spoken to Doll about it?" continued the dame.

"She is too dutiful a daughter to commit herself without the consent of her parents," answered De la Zouch. "But I doubt not, that when once again you have spoken to her, I shall speedily be rewarded with success."

"Ay," exclaimed Sir George, "Doll was ever a dutiful child."

"She would bow to our will, anyway," replied Lady Vernon, "but I think she has another suitor. We must think the matter well over ere we settle anything."

"Another suitor," laughed the baron; "why there are scores of them."

"Ah, you see, Sir Henry, the baron has not the quick, discerning eye of a mother—or a love either," she added shyly. "Bless his innocence, he knows naught of it yet. Sir George, I trust Master Manners is a trusty young man?"

"John Manners is goodly enough, forsooth, for aught I trow," returned the King of the Peak, reflectively. "Aye, and a likely enough young man, too!"

"But Manners cannot seek the hand of so guileless a maiden as sweet Dorothy," interrupted the dismayed lover. "His hands are stained with blood."

"A soldier should do his duty," quickly returned Sir George."

"But he is a murderer!"

"That is a bold statement, De la Zouch, to make against a guest of mine," exclaimed the baron quickly, "and I fear an thou persist in it that it will prove awkward for thee if thou canst not prove it, and worse still for him if it be true."

"Are you certain of it?" asked Lady Maude.

"I have a witness," was the calm reply.

"Then by my halidame," quoth the irate knight, "as I'm a justice o' the peace, he shall be faced with the offence. When was it perpetrated?"

"At the hawking party."

"What, here at Haddon?"

"You don't mean the pedlar, surely?" inquired Lady Vernon.

"Aye, but I do; he was murdered in the wood."

"Tut," angrily exclaimed Sir George, "'tis all a tale, and I for one don't believe a word of it. The witch killed him, and was punished for it too."

"But I saw it," stubbornly returned Sir Henry, "and I have a witness; one who saw it done."

"We tried Dame Durden by the ordeal, an she was found guilty and hanged," persisted the baron. "And, beshrew me, that's enough for any man"; and the Lord of Haddon reverently crossed himself to show that the trial had had the approval of his conscience.

"But," urged De le Zouch, "I tell you I saw it done myself, and I am ready to prove it any way you choose."

"Come now, Sir George," interrupted Lady Vernon, "the trial may for once have led us astray, as it did in the case of Thomas Bayford sixteen years ago. Doubtless Mary Durden got no more than she deserved, and mayhap she was punished for deeds we wot not of. Perchance Master Manners would not deny the charge if he were here, and faith! I remember me now that Margaret did say he was left behind with Dorothy, and then Doll left him and galloped on."

"Yes, that was it," Sir Henry said, "and Eustace, who was left behind, saw them quarrelling and fetched me back to stay the strife."

"Well, prithee now, go on," exclaimed the knight. "You saw him killed, and said naught?"

"No."

"And let me hang another for it. Truly, 'tis a right noble way to treat a host."

"Nay, you are too hard upon me. I thought he was but thrashing the knave, and as that was no affair of mine I left him to it, but afterwards his body was found in exactly the same spot. I was away when the ordeal was performed, else I had told thee what I had seen. Eustace will bear me out in all I have told you; question him for yourselves. But now, if you still think well enough of Master Manners to mate him with the peerless Dorothy, I am sorry alike for her and your vows of knighthood."

"Come that is right enough," exclaimed the dame, "and Master Manners has not denied the accusation yet."

"Then he shall soon have the opportunity," said the baron, "for hither he comes; he could not have come at a readier moment."

John Manners had waited a long time for Dorothy's return, and now, half fearing that some accident had befallen her, he had willingly acceded to the request of the ladies and had set forth to find her. Hearing voices in the house, he approached it to pursue his inquiries, when the watchful eye of Sir George Vernon immediately espied him.

"Pardon my intrusion," exclaimed Manners, "but I am in search of Mistress Dorothy. She left us to fetch some balls and has not returned."

"Hie, man," interrupted Sir George, "we have a serious charge preferred against thee; thou art just come right to answer it."

"Have I been stealing some fair maiden's heart?" he laughingly inquired.

"Nay, listen! 'tis a charge of murder; but I tell thee frankly, I don't believe a word of it."

"A charge of murder," echoed Manners blankly, "a charge of murder, and against me! This is past endurance, 'tis monstrous! Whom have I slain, I pray thee tell me?"

"The Derby packman," promptly returned De la Zouch, "and thou knowest
I saw thee do it."

"You lie. I never saw the man until he was dead. Thou shalt prove thy words, Sir Henry de la Zouch," returned the esquire, "or I shall have thee branded as a knave. There is some cause for this, Sir George," he added, turning to the baron, "of which I am in ignorance. I am the victim of some plot."

"Like enough, like enough," returned the baron, sympathetically. "Then you deny the charge? I knew De la Zouch was wrong. The ordeal—"

"But I saw him myself, and so did Eustace," stuck out the disappointed lover; "and Margaret remembers that Master Manners was left behind."

"And for the matter of that, so were you," said Sir George sharply.

"And Eustace is but a page who must, perforce, obey his master's will in everything," continued Manners. "Crowleigh was with me all the day, save when I went back to Mistress Dorothy. How tallies that with your account, eh?"

"That was precisely the time it occurred, and bears me out in all that I have said," glibly responded the scion of the house of Zouch. "It all but proves his guilt, Sir George."

"Nay, not so much as that," quoth Lady Maude; "but since it cannot be agreed upon, I should advise you to let the matter drop."

"Stop," exclaimed Manners. "If De la Zouch has a spark of honour left within him he will step out and measure swords with me, for by my troth I swear he will have to render me the satisfaction my honour demands."

This was by no means to the taste of the knight of Ashby. He had not calculated for such a course as this; but, fortunately for him, Lady Vernon spoke, and unwittingly released him from his difficulty.

"Nay, not before me," she said, "and on so festal a day as this."

"As you will it," said De la Zouch, assuming an air of injured dignity.

"They must settle it in true old knightly fashion at the tourney," exclaimed Sir George decisively.

"Since you command it I suppose I must obey," replied Sir Henry; "but I had rather not have stained my weapons with the blood of so foul a caitiff."

"You will be good enough to leave me to decide that matter," said the baron testily.

"Then, by St. George, I shall be ready," replied Manners. "I am as well born as he, and can give him a lesson or two in good breeding, besides showing him a trick or two with the sword that I learned in the Netherlands. In the meantime I disdain him as a dog;" and boiling over with rage the maligned esquire left the little group and stalked across the terrace to rejoin the ladies on the green.

CHAPTER VII.

DOROTHY OVERHEARS SOMETHING.

The cruel word her heart so tender thrilled,
That sudden cold did run through every vein;
And stoney horror all her senses filled
With dying fit, that down she fell for pain.

SPENSER.

And, meanwhile, where was the innocent cause of this disturbance?

Dorothy had been half expecting some such course of action on the part of De la Zouch for some time past, and had carefully prepared a stinging answer which should once and for ever decide the question between them. Though she was petted and admired on almost every hand, yet she had sense enough to value such conduct at its proper worth; and whilst with the coquetry of a queen of hearts she accepted all the homage that love-sick cavaliers brought to her, she looked below the surface, and had a private opinion of her own about all those with whom she was brought into contact.

Her opinion of Sir Henry de la Zouch was distinctly unfavourable to that knight; for, with the instinct of a woman, she had divined from the very beginning that his motives were more mercenary than genuine, and in spite of all his protestations of love towards her, he had failed to convince her that he loved her for herself alone. A little watching on her part had quickly convinced her that the dislike she felt for him was not without sufficient reason, and as the evidence against him accumulated, she congratulated herself that she had escaped the clutches of a villain of so wily a disposition.

Long before the appearance of John Manners she had determinedly refused all the advances of her would-be lover, and his every attempt had been met by her with chilling sarcasm; or, were she in a lighter mood, she had retreated into safer ground under cover of a burst of merriment. Had De la Zouch been possessed of ordinary perceptions he would have noticed that his conduct was alienating Dorothy from him more and more; but, like many others, he was so eager to gain his ends that he was partially blind as to the means employed.

The manner in which Sir Henry had just preferred his suit had taken her so completely by surprise that she had entirely forgotten what she meant to say; but the indignation she felt at his conduct in detaining her against her will would have deprived her of the power of expressing the prettily turned speech so long prepared, even if she had remembered it. She fled into the house, and without casting a look behind to see if she were being pursued or not, she rushed through the deserted state chambers and never stopped until she found herself in her own room and had turned the key in the lock.

She flung herself down upon the bed, and her overwrought feelings found relief in tears. How long she would have so remained would be impossible to say, but she had barely succeeded in locking herself in when she was startled by a gentle rap at the door.

She stopped her sobbing and listened. Surely De la Zouch would never venture to follow her to her own boudoir! No, it was incredible, and she dismissed the idea.

The silence was broken only by a second rap at the door. It was too gentle for Sir Henry, it must be her tire-maid, Lettice, or her sister Margaret, maybe. She rose up, and in a tremulous voice inquired who was there.

"It is I, Lettice, your maid," replied a gentle voice.

Lettice was of all people just the one whom she stood in need of most at such a moment, so she unfastened the door and let her in.

"My lady is troubled," exclaimed the maid, as she entered. "Is there aught that I may do for thee?"

"Oh, Lettice," she sobbed, as the tears chased each other down her cheeks in quick succession, "see that he does not come. Stop him, keep him outside. Don't let him come to me."

"Who, my lady, whom shall I stop? No one dare follow thee here."

Dorothy returned no answer, she was trembling all over with excitement; she fell upon the bed and wept, while the sympathetic Lettice could only look on in silence, and wonder what it all meant.

"My lady is troubled," she repeated at length. "Someone has been frightening thee. Tell me who it was! Who is it thou art feared would try to come at thee here?"

Still there was no answer.

"You ran through the hall," the maid went on, "just like a frightened hare, and cast never a look at one of us, and now—the saints preserve us, thou look'st as if thou hadst seen the ghost of Mary Durden."

"Was he following me, Lettice?" asked Dorothy, raising her head from the pillow. "Was he there?"

"Following thee, no. Who's he? There was no one else went through."

"I thought he was close behind."

"Who?"

"De la Zouch."

"Sir Henry de la Zouch!" repeated the maid. "'Tis he then who has been treating thee so ill. Were he not a noble, my Will should thrash him soundly for daring to offend so sweet a lady."

"Take these balls to Master Manners, Lettice," said her mistress, composing herself as well as she was able. "You will find him waiting for them on the bowling green. Tell him I will rejoin him soon."

Lettice unfastened the door and disappeared down the passage in obedience to the command whilst Dorothy re-arranged her disordered head-dress, hesitating the while whether to venture out again or to stay within doors.

Ere she had decided which course to take, Lettice returned. Her face was deeply flushed and her manner unusually agitated.

"Why, what's the matter?" asked Dorothy. "Has he assailed thee, too?"

"He is telling the baron such a tale," replied the maid. "He says thou lovest him, and he is asking Sir George and my lady for thy hand. O, Dorothy, believe me, 'tis only that thou art so fair and so rich that he seeks thee, and when he has thy gold and the bloom of thy beauty begins to fade (which God forfend!) he will care naught for thee, and leave thee for another."

"I know it, Lettice."

"They are in the little bower, and I could hear everything," pursued the maid. "That De la Zouch is jealous of another, and is seeking to get him out of the way. He says that Master Manners killed the pedlar, and 'fore heaven, we all know it was the witch."

"Master Manners?" echoed Dorothy.

"Yes," returned the maid, "and he says he can prove it, but the good knight, your father, won't believe him. Master Manners denies it, of course—but lack-a-day, what ails thee now? Thou art as white as the veriest ghost!"

"'Tis nothing," replied Doll, as she sank down into a chair. "I am a trifle faint; give me some water, Lettice."

"Nay, but it is something," returned the other, as she speedily complied with her mistress's behest. "Thou canst not throw me off like that. Come, my good lady, tell me what it is; there are few things you hide from me."

"There is nothing to tell you, Lettice," she replied, "but prithee go on; what did Sir Henry de la Zouch make answer?"

"He said he had a witness, but I had to hasten away, for I heard footsteps approaching; but come, I can read your secret; Master Manners will make a worthy knight."

"Keep such thoughts to thyself, Lettice," Dorothy blushingly replied.

"Trust me," said the maid, with a toss of her pretty head. "I will do thy bidding; but faith! you will be a comely pair."

"Hush, or I shall be angry with thee. I tell thee he has said naught yet."

"And I tell thee, Mistress Dorothy," returned Lettice, "he is head and ears in love with thee. I would stake my troth on it; there!"

"I wish it were so," sighed Dorothy, "for I love him dearly."

"It is so, assuredly it is," replied her companion, decisively. "Let me give him a hint, my lady."

"No, Lettice, not another word; don't breathe it to a soul unless I bid thee."

"My Will could do it," continued the other, "an you would but let him try. He can do anything that way, Will can."

"Be quiet, Lettice; and mind you take care of your tongue. No one must even so much as guess at the truth; there, begone."

"Happen you would like to see if they have settled the matter?" suggested the tire-maid; "let us go and see."

Dorothy willingly agreed, and away they went through room after room, until at last Lettice stopped.

"Let me open the window," she said; "we shall hear better here than anywhere else," and she stepped upon a chair and silently pushed the latticed window open. The balmy breeze came pouring into the room, bringing in with it the sound of the conversation from outside.

"That's splendid," she said. "Now, my lady, listen."

"I tell you it's of no use, Sir Henry. I don't believe a word of it."

"Nevertheless, Sir George, it's perfectly true."

"Well, I cannot believe it," returned the baron, sharply, "but all the same, you will have to fight him now. We shall make quite a grand affair of it; 'tis a rare long time since there was a tournament at Haddon."

"I had rather it passed off quietly," suggested De la Zouch, who was by no means confident of his own prowess in a stern contest with naked weapons. "It is only by thy direct command that I have consented to enter the lists to fight him. 'Tis more a case for the assize than for thee. Sir George, and I have my honour to maintain."

"You must let that remain with me," replied the baron. "Eustace is but a page, and as Manners rightly enough pointed out, his word would count for little in such a circumstance. But apart from all such considerations, I flatly tell you, Sir Henry, that I don't for a minute think him guilty. The ordeal—"

"Tut, bother the ordeal," broke in De la Zouch, who was rapidly losing control of his temper. "Then you doubt me?"

"You are rash, sir knight," interrupted Lady Maude. "You do not do proper justice to the baron."

"Hark! what's that?" whispered Lettice, "There's someone coming."

"Inside?"

"No, don't you hear them coming on the gravel?"

"Listen," exclaimed Doll, nervously, "'twas but Eustace, the page, stealing away; he's been playing eavesdropper."

"Like us," laughed the maid.

"Hush! Sir Henry is talking. How excited he is. Listen."

"I humbly crave his pardon then, fair lady. When shall I learn what fate you have in store for me?"

"Not till after the tournament, at least," promptly replied Lady
Vernon.

"And that will be—prithee when?"

"This day week, and in the meantime I would advise you as a friend to practise well with your arms," and, added the baron with grim humour, "say your prayers day by day, Sir Henry, for Manners has not fought in the Netherlands for naught."

"Then I shall present myself before you, Lady Vernon, at the conclusion of the tourney," he loftily replied, "and I will have my answer then."

"If so be, that is, that there be aught left of thee to come," supplemented Sir George, considerably nettled at the other's tone, "for I hear that Manners is terrible with the sword."

"Thank you, sir baron," was the proud retort, "but I have learnt ere now how to hold the lance, and can wield the mace;" and without deigning to cast a look behind him he strode away in an ill humour with himself and everybody else, to scowl in silence at the group of merrymakers on the green.

"There, a pretty lover!" exclaimed Dorothy, as her suitor walked away, "but I have given him his answer."

"Hush, my lady," whispered the maid.

"We shall be able to get it all arranged for a week to-day, and you shall be queen of the tourney, Maude, if it so please you."

"I, Sir George? I indeed!" replied the dame. "Pooh! my queening days are gone. It must be either Margaret or Dorothy."

"Fancy," whispered Lattice, "you the queen of the tournament!"

"Hush!"

"But I hear he is likely to lose the Ashby estates. Think of that, Sir
George; think of that. He would be a poor man directly."

"Why, how?"

"The Ashby estates were forfeited to the De la Zouches, but King Henry granted them back before he died, and I hear they are like to go at last."

"It were a pity for Sir Henry, but in truth, Maude, I like him not."

"Pooh, nonsense! He wants none of our pity, but I tell thee Dorothy is too good a match to throw away upon him."

"Perhaps so, Maude," replied the baron; "it may be so, but I shall be much mistaken if, after the tournament, he is able to ask for her again, but if he does I will refer him to you."

"That will do, Lettice," said Dorothy. "I have heard quite sufficient. Shut the window; I will go now and see how they are faring on the bowling green. I have a lighter heart now." And followed by a "God speed you" from her maid, she opened the door and passed out of the room.

CHAPTER VIII.

A TOURNAMENT. THE COMBAT.

At this the challenger, with fierce defy,
His trumpet sounds; the challenged makes reply.

DRYDEN.

Grass did not grow beneath the feet of the good people of Haddon during the week which ensued. Inside the Hall everything was in confusion and disorder. Rooms were being emptied of hangings which had lain undisturbed repose for many a long year, and everybody was eager to bring to light such old relics of previous tourneys which had ever taken place there as could be discovered outside, and the stir was not one whit less. The level sward through which the Wye rippled on its way to join the Derwent, having once been selected as the battle ground, was immediately transformed from a scene of lovely rustic peacefulness to a very pandemonium of noisy workmen, out of which slowly evolved tents and pavilions for the accommodation of the numerous visitors who were expected to witness the struggle.

The news had spread far and wide, and a large number of persons, attracted by the well-known splendour and hospitality of the King of the Peak, as well as by the desire to witness the rare exhibition of a tournament, which was now about extinct, assembled at Haddon as the time appointed for the fray drew nigh.

At length the eventful morning dawned. Everything was fully prepared. The white tents, with their fluttering pennons of many lines, occupied one side of the ground; the balconies, decked with their brightly coloured hangings, faced them from the other side, and a slightly elevated platform, upon which was the throne for the queen of the tourney, filled one end, while the other was left open for such of the neighbouring villagers as liked to come.

Long before the appointed hour the space had been filled up by eager sightseers. Men and women, lads and lasses, old folk and young, all alike were there, tricked out in holiday attire. Not a coign of vantage was lost sight of, and every tree which might reasonably have been expected to yield a glimpse of the scene was crowded by rustics, eager to gaze upon so rare an exhibition. Behind all rose the grey old towers of the Hall, which presented a very picturesque appearance as the sun flashed upon its turrets, and its flags waved to and fro in the gentle breeze. Haddon had witnessed many stirring scenes before, but surely never a more brilliant one than was about to be enacted.

Jousts were divided into two classes. The "joust a plaisir" was a mere knightly display of skill, and was fought with weapons, the edges of which were dulled; but the other, the "joust a l'outrance," was of a far more dangerous kind. Lances, swords, and even, occasionally, mace-like weapons with sharp spikes were used, and it rarely happened that serious injuries did not result, while not unfrequently it was accompanied by a fatal termination.

Additional interest was attached to this tournament, inasmuch as it was of the latter class, and when the sound of the herald's trumpets was heard, a shout of admiration went up from the assemblage, as the gates swung open and the party descended from the Hall; and round after round of praise was accorded by the crowd as the cavalcade wended its way through it, and took up its allotted position in the tents and on the balconies.

Without waiting any time Dorothy seated herself upon the throne, and giving the signal to commence by waving a dainty little flag, the trumpeters took it up and blew a loud blast upon their instruments.

This was the summons for the combatants to appear, and amid the tumultuous greetings of the whole assembly, Manners and De la Zouch came forward from either side of the balcony, and each, well protected with armour, stood leaning upon his charger while the herald read aloud the order of the King of the Peak, by whose command the tourney was held.

Having read it out, this functionary retired with all the grace and speed at his command; the trumpet sounded again, and the two assailants leapt simultaneously into the saddle. A minute later the galloping rush, the sound of contending horsemen, and the noise of shivering lances told the outsiders that the conflict had begun.

So terrible was the shock as the two met together in the centre of the ring that it seemed utterly impossible that either of them could recover from it, but after the first thrust and parry they each passed on, apparently uninjured, and wheeling their horses around, with lances couched they paused to spy out a weak point in the other's defence.

Every breath was hushed, and every eye was strained, to the uttermost as the anxious onlookers stood on tiptoe to follow every movement of the competitors.

But neither the knight nor the esquire appeared to be particularly eager to commence the struggle. Each waited for the other to advance, and for a moment or two they stood perfectly still, keenly regarding each other through the bars of their visors.

"They are not going to fight, Sir George," exclaimed De Lacey, in piteous, tones, "and I've come all this weary way to see the sport."

"Never fear, Sir John," replied the baron cheerily, "you'll see sport enough soon; they will begin directly, but they don't know each other's mettle yet."

Even as he spoke Manners rode forward and the conflict was renewed.

Sir Henry de la Zouch was famous at the London schools for his brilliant lance play, and many of his friends had accepted his invitation to witness his triumph; but, although it was anticipated that he would win easily enough with that weapon, it was feared by his well-wishers that unless he succeeded in placing his combatant hors de combat then, his chance of doing so with the sword would be considerably less.

De la Zouch himself knew this, although he would not own it, and it made him cautious. For a long time he stood carefully upon his guard, but at last, espying a favourable opportunity, he darted a fierce blow at the vizor of his opponent, hoping it would pierce the bars and transfix itself there. It was a well-aimed thrust, and almost proved successful, but, unfortunately for De la Zouch, Manners unwittingly foiled him by rising in his saddle at the same time to deliver a similar blow at him, and instead of receiving the lance upon his helmet, he caught it in the very centre of his breast-plate. Still the blow was delivered with so powerful a stroke that, standing in the stirrups as Manners was, it completely upset his balance, and he fell over.

A great shout rose up at this feat, but Dorothy turned her face aside, fearing that he whom she loved was stricken down never to rise again, and wishing, for the fiftieth time, that she was in her own chamber, peacefully occupied in stitching at her tapestry.

But the shout was broken off suddenly—to be succeeded the next moment by another, louder and more prolonged, for, although taken unawares and overturned, Manners put into execution a trick he had learned in Holland, and sliding under the belly of the horse, he nimbly swung himself up by the girths on the other side, and reseated himself in the saddle, much to the astonishment of De la Zouch, who imagined he had unhorsed him, and much to the delight of the audience, which greeted him with plaudits again and again renewed.

"See!" exclaimed De Lacey, with eyes wide open with astonishment, "where's he come from?"

"Never saw a neater thing in my life," replied Sir George, enraptured at the trick. "Look now!"

Sir John looked as he was bidden, and saw the astounded De la Zouch receive a stinging blow on his arm from his opponent ere he had recovered from his surprise.

As the lances of both were now broken, the trumpet sounded, and the combatants, nothing loth, rode off for a few minutes' rest, and a fresh supply of weapons.

The latter having been procured, they very quickly renewed the struggle, and this time De la Zouch had better fortune, for just as the bugles were sounding for them to cease he pierced the joint of Manners' armour, and inflicted a nasty flesh wound upon his elbow.

As the latter would not own himself vanquished, even at Dorothy's request, the conflict was resumed, and this time with swords, and here the inferiority of De la Zouch was soon apparent. Though he was no mean swordsman, yet his opponent was far more than a match for him, and blow after blow was rained down upon him, whilst on his own part Sir Henry was too busily engaged in defending himself to attempt to act on the offensive. He was hard pressed, and it was fortunate indeed for him when the signal was given which called upon them both to desist awhile, in order to gain fresh breath, and to put to rights, as far as they were able, the damages they had already received.

The interval was filled up by the shouts of the onlookers, who now made up for their previous silence by loudly criticising the deeds of their respective champion, and vociferously calling out their particular favourite worthless instructions how to proceed when the conflict was continued.

Eustace stood ready to receive his master, and give him cordials wherein to reinvigorate his nerves, while Crowleigh was in waiting in lieu of a page, to bathe his friend's wounds with water.

The sight of blood, which slowly trickled from Manners' arm, reminded à Woode that he was a doctor, and, leaping from his seat, he clambered over the balcony and rushed across the arena to where the wounded esquire was standing.

"Let me see it," he cried. "This must be stopped at once. Sir Henry, I declare you the winner of the——"

"Hold there," cried Manners, "I have not yielded yet."

"Leave him alone, Sir Benedict," added Crowleigh. "He will make a sorry example of De la Zouch even yet."

"But," persisted the old knight, "I declare——"

His speech was rudely cut short, for with a yell of pain he darted off across the arena, closely followed by a huge mastiff, whose tail he had been unfortunate enough to tread upon.

With the doctor out of the way the conflict was speedily renewed. It was a terrible combat. De la Zouch, intent on ridding himself of his adversary, declared he would give no quarter, and, altering his tactics, he hewed and lunged away with all the temerity of a man who fights for death or victory.

Manners' superiority with the sword, however, was so apparent that after the restarting of the contest the final issue of it was never for a moment doubted, not even by the veriest tyro present. Sir Henry's wild thrusts were parried with consummate ease, and while the knight's sword moved hither and thither with lightning-like rapidity, the trusty blade of the other moved equally quick, but with far more certainty.

He waited until De la Zouch began to tire before he exerted himself. The time came at last, and then with a few quick strokes he laid his foeman before him on the ground.

"Strike!" shouted a score of voices. "Strike!"

The victor uplifted his sword, and poised it high above his head to bring it down with all his might. The people waited with throbbing hearts to witness the stroke which should finish the combat, but instead of striking Manners paused and turned round.

"Strike, man, strike!" yelled a chorus of onlookers.

Humbly bowing before Dorothy, he magnanimously declared that the fate of his rival rested with her.

"'Tis a tournament, not a murder," decided Doll promptly; "you have proved your cause, and if your foe will yield we are ready to spare him."

Amid the plaudits of the crowd, Manners bowed low upon his knee, kissed the hand held graciously out towards him. He murmured his perfect acquiescence to her will, and was about to pass out of the ring, an easy victor, when a horseman rode in, and without in anyway announcing himself, he sprang off his horse and scanned the company.

"What does this fellow want?" growled Sir George, as with knitted eyebrows he scrutinised the intruder. "Thou art a Royal messenger," he added, turning to the man, who had advanced until he stood before the baron.

There was little sympathy between the Court at London and the King of the Peak, and the baron surmised little good from the arrival of the courtier. As the latter urged his horse through the crowd, and entered the arena, Sir George anticipated trouble.

"I want the King of the Peak," replied the new comer.

"I am Sir George Vernon."

"Then," replied the other, "I deliver into thine hand this summons, which cites thee to appear at Westminster to answer the charge of slaying Mary Durden."

The baron started with surprise, and thought for a moment of laying violent hands upon the man, but a moment's reflection convinced him of the unwisdom of such an act.

"And if I refuse to come," he doggedly said, "what then?"

"Then you do so at your peril," he replied, and leaping again upon his horse, he departed as suddenly as he had appeared, leaving the awe-stricken assembly to disperse with much less pleasure than they had anticipated from the scene of such an exciting exhibition of manly prowess.

CHAPTER IX.

AT THE COCK TAVERN, LONDON.

London! the needy villain's general home,
The common sewer of Paris and of Rome.
Here malice, rapine, accident conspire,
And now a rabble rages, now a fire;
Their ambush mere relentless villains lay,
And here the fell attorney prowls for prey.

JOHNSON.

Five days after the tournament had taken place, two travellers reined in their steeds at the gates of the Cock Hostelry, just within the Temple Bar. They were dusty with hard riding, and evidently in no good humour with themselves nor with anyone with whom they were brought into contact—a result doubtless attributable to the discomforts of a long journey on roads rough enough to try the patience of any man.

The elder of the two, throwing the reins upon his horse's neck, alighted, and leaving the ostler to take the steed away, he strode quickly into the inn without uttering a word. The young man, however, got off his saddle in a more leisurely fashion, and before he followed his companion he proceeded to the stable to see that the horses were properly attended to.

"The old man is a trifle out of sorts," the ostler ventured to remark, as they entered the yard together.

"Perchance so," returned the other, "but that is no affair of thine; but an you keep good care of his horse he will think well of thee."

"Yes, yes; certainly!" replied the man, grinning. "I always look well after gentlemen's horses, I do. You'll not be wanting them in the morning, I suppose?

"Yes, no; that is—I don't think we shall, but anyway you had better have them in readiness, we may possibly want them for the return journey to-morrow: tend them well;" and leaving a few final instructions, Sir Thomas Stanley, for he it was, passed out of the stables and entered the parlour of the inn.

Sir George Vernon was so engrossed in poring over a document which lay stretched out on the table before him that he did not notice the approach of his friend, and it was not until the latter inquired whether the meal was already ordered that the baron looked up and saw him.

"Oh, it's you," he exclaimed; "yes, we shall fall to directly; but I want you just to look at this first."

"What is it," inquired Stanley, "the summons again?"

"The summons, of course," replied Sir George, as he thrust it into the other's hands.

"What did the attorney say?"

"He said it was a bad case; a very bad case. He said, in fact, that he never came across a more unpromising case for a client of his since he set himself up as a lawyer."

"Humph!" returned Sir Thomas, "they always do say so. I tell you it will come out all right in the end."

"Happen so; but he says the ordeal would go for nothing, they don't count now in courts of law here. They would do if the trial came off at Derby, I know."

"Aye," assented his friend, "I'll warrant it would count there, for no one would dare to resist thee; but you see, Sir George, it's at London, and that makes all the difference."

"Warder, read the summons through," pursued the baron. "I could not understand it, of course, I'm not much of a lawyer; but he says 'tis the work of that villainous locksmith. I wish I had hanged him at the same time, and then—"

"Well, what then?"

"It's too late, now," said Sir George, bitterly. "If they do condemn me I shall claim the benefit of clergy. I know some of the prayers, and if I can only find the right page I shall get on well enough. They will only fine me, though, at worst."

"But you have enemies at Court, remember."

"Well, let them do their worst. I shall not disgrace myself when the time comes, and in the meantime I will address myself to Lord Burleigh; he is all-powerful now."

"And if he fail us," added Sir Thomas, "I will take thee to Sir
Nicholas Bacon."

"The Lord Keeper?"

"Yes, why not?"

"He is a hard man."

"He is honest, and will take no bribe, if that is what you mean, Sir George; but if there is a flaw in the proceedings he will point it out for us, and that will be better than naught. We shall have the satisfaction of knowing that everything was properly done, at least."

"We will try my Lord Burleigh first," sighed the knight.

"Sir Nicholas might intercede for thee with the Queen," Stanley went on. "He owes me some service, and is not ungrateful."

"Hush! there is someone coming," interposed the baron. "Let us say no more at present."

It was the maid bringing in the dinner; and, folding up the paper, Sir George carefully deposited it within his breast pocket, and relapsed into a moody silence as they began and continued the meal.

Meanwhile, outside the inn a very different scene was being enacted.

No sooner had Sir Thomas Stanley entered the house than the ostler, having quickly stabled the horses, emerged into the yard again, and putting his fingers into his mouth he blew a soft peculiar whistling note, and reared himself up beside the wall to await the answer.

It was not long in coming, for almost directly the door of the stable loft above him opened, and the head of the locksmith of Haddon cautiously peeped out.

"Is all clear?" he inquired.

"Yes, they have both gone in to dine. I didn't know you were there. I will come up and join you."

In another minute the ostler stood beside the once more disguised Edmund Wynne, and the two, secure from intrusion, began to converse with unrestrained freedom.

"Well, are they the right ones?" he asked, as he fastened the trap-door down.

"Yes," replied Edmund; "what did Sir Thomas say to you; I could hear him speaking?"

"Who's Sir Thomas?"

"Sir Thomas Stanley, of course."

"Oh! He didn't mention the affair at all."

"H'm! Did he say aught about me?"

"How should I know even if he had?" returned the ostler, "for I don't know your name yet. He did not mention anybody, only to say how that the old man, the baron would think well of me when parting time came if I took good care of his horse."

"Call me James," quickly replied Edmund.

"Very well," returned the other, "it shall be so; but I don't believe your name is James, nor do I think you are a broken-down wool merchant either; but so long as you pay me what we have bargained for, I don't care a straw what you are or what you call yourself."

"Just so, that will do exactly," Edmund promptly replied. "That is just what I require."

"I'll call you James, then, and if anybody asks about you I don't know aught of any such person."

"Exactly; yes."

"And I will get to know as much as I can from the maids, and will keep you well informed of the movements of your friends. Their trial comes off, you say, to-morrow?"

"I think it does."

"They will not go far to-day, then?"

"I cannot say, but they will be well watched. What accommodation have you here for half-a-dozen stalwart fellows?"

"Plenty in the inn."

"I don't need telling that: but here—-in the yard. I am expecting some guests for the night."

"Let me see. It means money."

"Of course it does."

"And I shall run great risks."

"You will be well repaid, though," said Edmund, "and they might as well be here, I trow, as elsewhere; only see that they don't have too much drink, and be careful that they are not seen lounging together about in the yard."

"Trust me," laughed the ostler, "I shall manage that easily enough. I shall bolt the doors and fasten them in, and nothing except a rat could get out then."

"Nay, you misunderstand me. They are not prisoners, but men who have been hired for the journey."

"I see now; ah, I see," returned his companion in the most unconcerned manner possible. "In that case they only want a little watching."

"And, mayhap, a little restraining, yes. Here is a shilling for some ale, which they will be expecting. You will meet them for me, and take charge of them?"

"Very well, James, so be it; where shall I meet though? It would never do for them to hang about here that's very certain, for our landlord would have his eyes upon them in a minute. He is awfully sharp on tramps and beggars and such."

"No, certainly not," agreed Edmund; "meet them at the Temple Gates at six."

"It shall be done; and in the meanwhile you will have a first-rate view of the entertainment from here."

"What entertainment?"

"The players are here to-day. See, there is the stage and everything. 'Tis the Earl of Leicester's company, too," and pushing the door still farther open, he pointed out to Edmund Wynne's astonished eyes one of the rudely extemporised platforms which passed in those days for stages.

Those who have witnessed the splendid scenic triumphs which have been achieved by managers of late years would be astonished indeed were they confronted by one of the theatres of the earliest dramatic times. Nothing could present a much greater contrast than the elaborate drapery and the ingenious trap-doors, side wings, and numerous other mechanical contrivances which are now a necessary complement of the modern stage, and the superlative simplicity which characterised the theatres of three hundred years ago.

Theatres, indeed, there were none, and the troupes of players wandered about from city to town, and from village to hamlet, giving their performances in open-air; or, if they were fortunate, in the courtyards of inns.

It was a scene such as this that the two men gazed upon.

A slight wooden shed afforded protection to the actors from the burning rays of the sun or the more uncomfortable showers of rain. The stage, which was a movable wooden platform, was supported at a little distance from the ground by a number of empty boxes—which a torn piece of faded tapestry vainly endeavoured to hide from view. A small gallery ran along the wall at the rear of the stage, which was ready to do duty as the wall of a castle, a fort, a mountain, an upper room, or a window, or anything else, just as the necessity might be; while a flag, which floated in the breeze from the summit of a stunted pole, announced to the general public that the play was about to commence.

Edmund Wynne had never witnessed such an elaborate display before, and for a time he watched in silent wonder as the people congregated below.

"There will be a goodly company to-day, my lord," exclaimed the ostler, as he drew his head in after a prolonged look round the yard. "'Twill be a notable day, will this."

"I tell you I am not a lord," angrily interrupted Edmund Wynne. "I only wish I were."

"So do I, James, with all my heart, but look here; here is a proper lord for you, a great lord, too. See, do you know him?"

"No, where?" he quickly replied.

"Do you see that little platform there?"

"With a lamp hanging from the roof?"

"No, that's the moon for the players. They will light it soon, and we shall know that it is night then, and folks can't see each other without the moon. Look there;" and he pointed to where two or three gaily-bedecked ladies and some equally gaily-attired gallants were conversing together in a part of the courtyard which was separated from the rest by a rope which stretched from end to end.

"Well, I see them," he said. "Who might they be, prithee?"

"They might be Pope Joan and the cardinals, but they are not."

"Then who are they?"

"That thin man, with the big buckles on his shoes, is Sir Henry
Sidney."

"Never!" ejaculated Edmund, "he is too gray haired."

"Even so, James. He is the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and that light-haired boy beside him is little Philip. He is the pet of the Court already, but heigho! whom have we here? Why, it is, yes—it is the Lord High Treasurer himself!"

"So it is," murmured Edmund, as he carefully retreated well into the shade. "This door won't attract attention, eh?"

"No, thank goodness, for I can't very well get out now. You see, 'tis only a loft door, and it is as often open as shut. They will think I have been pitching some hay in."

Nevertheless, Edmund was by no means satisfied. There was only the distance now of a few yards which separated him from his persecutor, and he feared, in spite of his disguise, lest he should be discovered. He upbraided himself a thousand times for his foolhardiness in exposing himself to the perils which he knew beforehand would beset him in the capital; and in the extremity of his fear he absolutely shook with terror. Fortunately, however, for him, his companion was too engrossed in watching the new arrivals, as they rapidly flocked in, to notice his agitation, and for some time he was left to his own uncomfortable reflections. In vain he wished himself safe within the walls of Nottingham Castle. Even Haddon would have been preferable, but even that sorry refuge was denied him too. However much he wished it, he could not break away from the fact that he was at London, almost within arm's length of his persecutor, and he already began to look upon himself as lost.

CHAPTER X.

IN DIRE STRAITS.

And if the worst had fall'n which could befall,
He stood, a stranger in this breathing world,
An erring spirit from another hurled;
A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped
By choice the perils he by chance escaped;
But 'scaped in vain.

Edmund Wynne was rudely awakened from the train of thought into which he had fallen by the rough hand of the ostler, which alighted upon his shoulders with a smack which was re-echoed in the farthest corner of the yard.

"Now, James," said his companion, whose ready familiarity was becoming exceedingly distasteful, "they are about to begin, see!"

The courtyard was, in fact, already more than comfortably filled. Those of the audience who formed the pit squatted unceremoniously down in groups upon the ground, and having brought with them a plentiful supply of fruit and provisions, they were already busily engaged in discussing them; whilst the more select company, which paid a higher price and represented the modern gallery, occupied the reserved part on the other side of the rope, and was amusing itself in a general way, by looking down with supercilious contempt upon the common folk below.

Edmund stretched himself slightly forward, and peering out of the darkness of his retreat, was just in time to witness the appearance of the musicians, who, after making their bow to the audience, passed along the stage and made their exit through a doorway at the other end. A profound silence fell upon the company, and as the music of the violins floated gently on the breeze, the players made their appearance on the stage.

"What grotesque figures," he exclaimed, as an involuntary smile stole across his face; "why, they are covered with ivy leaves."

"See how Lord Burleigh cheers," interrupted the delighted ostler, as the play commenced, "and Sir Henry, too; see! Hang him, that's old Boniface rooting about; what can he want, I wonder? I believe he is looking for me."

"Who is Boniface?" meekly asked Edmund.

"The landlord, of course; and your friends are with him, too," was the curt reply.

Edmund shrank back still further into the shadow of the room. "It would never do for them to see me here," he explained; "it would upset all our plans. You must screen me somehow, won't you?"

"Take care of yourself, sir," returned the ostler as he snatched up the pitchfork and began to toss the hay about. "Take care of yourself, sir, for he's coming up here, upon my faith he is. Here's luck!" and the hay flew about in all directions.

No second bidding was required. Edmund scrambled over the heaps of hay and straw which lay upon the floor and never slackened his haste until he found himself hidden from view behind the stack in the further-most corner of the loft. Barely had he succeeded in ensconcing himself there, when footsteps were heard ascending the ladder, and a moment later a sharp knocking at the door announced to the only too conscious conspirators that the landlord was waiting to enter.

"Halloa," shouted the ostler, as he stamped upon the floor with his fork, to convey the impression that he was busily engaged, at work. "You can't get in here, I've got my work to do."

Edmund was astonished at the cool impudence of his friend, and he lifted his head to accord him a nod of approval, but a bundle of straw which the ostler purposely tossed at him from the other side of the room made him quickly withdraw his cranium again into the shelter.

"Let me in, I say," shouted a voice from below. "You knave, let me in,
I tell you."

The ostler had played his little game, and, having sheltered his companion, he now anxiously awaited the result. Glancing round to see that Edmund was completely buried from sight, he dropped upon his knees, and moving the catch on one side he slowly raised the door.

"You knave! you villain!" exclaimed his irate master, as he stepped into the room. "Wasting your time in looking at puppet-shows. How dare you, sir; how dare you? Get you gone, sirrah!" and he gave him a kick which considerably accelerated the speed with which he disappeared below.

Having thus satisfactorily vented his displeasure, his brow relaxed and he turned to the baron and Sir Thomas and conducted them to a seat so lately vacated by the guilty pair, with an urbanity which looked positively impossible to ruffle.

"You see, my lord, there is a seat ready provided," he exclaimed, as he pointed to the bale of hay which stood beside the wall. "Perhaps your lordships will be pleased to seat yourself on that? I'll warrant me 'tis clean enough, for I espied the rogue sitting on it."

Sir George Vernon, nothing loth, accepted the proffered seat.

"I will reach another bundle down for you," continued the loquacious innkeeper, turning to the younger knight. "I will get you one of a convenient size; most of them are far too big to be comfortable, I fear, but I have them in all shapes and sizes; you shall be made comfortable in a trice, my lord."

He cast his eyes about in search of the bundle "of convenient size," and his choice fell upon the one which covered the gap where Edmund Wynne lay hidden. Having once selected this he proceeded straightway to climb over the impeding bundles to reach it from the corner where the ostler had tossed it just before.

This, however, proved no slight task. He was burly and heavy, while the bundles were frail and loosely stacked and failed to yield to his feet that amount of support which, of all men, the stouter ones are supposed most to require. This being so, it was not surprising to find that ere he reached it he stumbled and fell several times, until at last Sir Thomas took pity upon him and told him to desist.

"I would stand, my good man," he said, "rather than thou should'st break thy neck, or I might lay upon some of this soft straw for the nonce."

"A prison bed," chimed in Sir George. "Well, some folks like one thing and some another, there's no accounting for tastes."

The landlord scouted the proposal at once. He felt that somehow he was on his mettle, and it was incumbent upon him to vindicate the honour of his house. "Had the kind nobleman been possessed of a better acquaintance with him," he said, "he would have known that it was not in his nature to be overcome by trifles. Things, thank goodness, were managed better than that at the Cock hostelry," and to support his statement he wiped away the perspiration from his brow, and made a further attempt to reach it down.

Edmund's feelings during these critical moments would be easier to imagine than describe. Every moment he expected that the bundle would be lifted off, and he anticipated the mortification of being dragged out and being brought face to face with the man whom he now most dreaded. As the other advanced and the unstable walls of his shelter quivered until they threatened to fall upon him, he crouched down further and further into the corner, preferring rather to be buried under the solid squares of hay than to be discovered in such a position. Sir Thomas' words inspired him with a ray of hope, but his expectations were dashed as suddenly as they had arisen by the words of the baron and the action of the busy landlord, who, all unconscious of the torture he was inflicting, struggled valiantly on towards his quarry.

At last his perseverance was rewarded, and he found himself able to grasp the object of his toil; but Edmund as he felt the protecting roof of hay departing, snatched at the withes which bound it round, and dragged it down with all his might.

In vain did the furious landlord pull and tug. Try as he would, it would not move an inch, and he was about to give it up in disgust and offer some reason for his lack of success, when Stanley again came to his aid.

"Stand aside, man; thou art too old for such a task, and too fat, too, perchance. Let me get it out. Odd's fish, my good fellow, but there's been much to do about a little thing. Here it is, see."

Edmund had, for the moment relaxed his hold, and it was at precisely that same moment that Sir Thomas Staley took hold of the top of the bundle to pull it up. There was but one chance left, and although it promised a little hope of success, he deemed his position desperate enough to warrant him in attempting it. He decided to leap out simultaneously with the withdrawal of the bundle, and, trusting to the confusion his unexpected appearance would create, to escape through the trap-door, and race away for his life.

However, when he saw the sole protection which had hidden him from his enemies begin to move away his courage failed him, and he had not sufficient boldness to carry out the plan he had so neatly arranged. Instinctively he threw his arms up to clutch the rope again, but it was too late, it had already passed beyond his reach; there was nothing left to save him. Another moment and his hiding place would be discovered, when——, Sir Thomas missed his footing, and with a gesture of impatience he let the bundle fall again, and turned his back upon it in disgust.

It alighted heavily upon the luckless Edmund's shoulders, and it struck him with so much force that almost before he was aware of it, he found himself most uncomfortably doubled up, and tight pinned beneath its weight upon the floor. He could neither free himself nor ease his position without attracting attention, for his arms were tightly wedged underneath him, while his legs had found a resting place between two lots of hay, at a height somewhat above the level of his head. One thing, and one alone, was at his command. He could at least, he thought, remain quietly there, an unwilling eavesdropper, until his persecutors had gone. This he resolved to do; meanwhile he could only submit to the conditions which a series of unfortunate incidents had brought upon him, and listen to the conversation in the hope that some of it, at least, might at some time or other prove profitable to him in the accomplishment of the object he had in view.

"How long will they be, mine host?" inquired Sir George, to whom the circumlocution of the stage proved uninteresting indeed.

"About two hours, my lord," suavely replied that individual, as he gazed proudly at the brilliant company assembled in the yard below, wondering the while how much they would expend at the inn when the play was over.

"Two hours!" Edmund groaned inwardly, but the groan was none the less sincere because it was inaudible.

"Two hours!" exclaimed the astonished baron, "then I'm off."

Hope again revived within the heart of the prisoner.

"Nay, stop, Sir George," interrupted the younger knight; "you cannot see a play like this at any time you choose. Stay awhile and bid me company, and forget your troubles in a stoup of ale."

"Aye, I have the best in the town," added the host; "there is nothing like it in all London."

This was quite a new idea, and Sir George scratched his head, as if by so doing he might facilitate his judgment, and then he did what so many other troubled ones have done, both before his time and since, he sought to drown his troubles by gorging himself with his favourite liquor.

"Ha! well," he muttered, "the ale is good, as London ale goes, I trow, but——"

"It is indeed," added the tavern-keeper promptly. "There's none better, though I say it."

"But I think I will have cider," continued the baron, not heeding the interruption.

"I will fetch it myself," exclaimed the proprietor of the Cock; "and sure I am, 'twill be the best that ever you have tasted."

"Nay, hold," interrupted Sir George, "I will go with thee. I will trust none to spice my drink except it be Lady Maude, or Dorothy. I will go with thee and spice it myself."

"And I will have some simple sack," said Sir Thomas.

Sir George Vernon and the landlord descended the ladder, and threaded their way through the crowd into the tavern, while Sir Thomas Stanley, left to his own devices, continued to lie quietly down upon his couch of straw, watching with intense interest the progress of the play.

Edmund, meanwhile, hearing no one stirring, and not being in a position to see, concluded that all three had descended together, and that he was the sole occupant of the room. He waited for a moment or two, and then, as the silence confirmed him in his opinion, he began to make strenuous efforts to free himself. There was no sign made in response to the noise he made in the attempt, and, without any interruption, he released himself from his uncomfortable position.

Slowly and painfully he raised himself up, but as he reached the top, the thrill of triumph to which his new-born hopes of liberty had given birth, died away, and a sigh of dismay escaped him as he discovered that he was not alone.

For a time he stood perfectly motionless, too terrified to advance, and too paralysed by fear to regain his hiding-place. Fortunately, however, for him, Sir Thomas Stanley's back was turned towards him, and so intently had he fixed his attention upon the scene which was being acted on the stage before him, that he was in complete ignorance of the events which were transpiring in his rear. Edmund wistfully cast a look at the ladder which protruded temptingly through the trap-door, but the look more than satisfied him that he could not hope to gain it without attracting the attention of his most unwelcome companion.

There was only one idea which presented itself to the unlucky man's mind which promised any fair successes, and that left no alternative. He must put Sir Thomas out of the way!

However repugnant this plan might be, and Edmund felt all its hideousness, he felt every moment more and more convinced that it was the only safe way. He had suffered too much already to venture willingly back into the torture-chamber from which he had just escaped, even if he could safely have regained its shelter—in itself no mean feat; and at the bare idea of spending two more hours of like agony he trembled. He resolved that rather than he would be driven to that uncertain refuge again, Sir Thomas should pay the penalty of death.

At this stage of his reflections he was rudely stopped, for the young knight, as if conscious of some impending danger, withdrew his head into the room and rolled over upon his back, leaving Edmund so little time in which to screen himself from view, that in attempting to secure a cover he toppled right over and fell back upon a thin scattering of straw.

Sir Thomas stopped the yawn with which he was indulging himself, and got upon his feet, surprised in no small degree to find that no one had entered the room. He went to the ladder to satisfy himself, but meeting with a like measure of ill-success there, he came away in a discontented mood; not perceiving Edmund, who lay, holding his breath, behind a heap of hay.

"I thought it was my sack coming," he muttered; "but it was only those confounded rats. What a time they are gone, to be sure," and as a last resource he sat himself down upon Sir George's seat and watched the play afresh.

Edmund during all this time was slowly making up his wavering mind. The memory of Dame Durden was still fresh within him, and it was in fulfilment of his scheme of revenge for that that he had united with Sir Ronald Bury to bring the baron to book for his misdeeds, and was now in London. Why should he not wreak his vengeance upon Sir Thomas Stanley, and then at once accomplish the work on which his heart was set? In the intensity of his passion he could find no satisfactory answer to the question. There were powerful reasons both for and against such a plan. Sir Thomas was seriously jeopardising his present safety; but would his death at all affect the baron? Margaret would feel it, mayhap, and so might Sir George to some extent, but he was fully aware that Sir Ronald's aim would be by no means compassed by such a termination; nor was he at all certain his own desire would be accomplished even then. The danger of his present position, however, was too apparent to be lightly put aside, and it proved too much for him. Were the others to return now his ruin would be assured; and realising this, he cautiously raised his head, and finding the young nobleman again deeply interested in the progress of the scene before him, he quickly drew out his knife and crept silently on towards his unsuspicious prey.

CHAPTER XI.

AN UNFORTUNATE DENOUEMENT.

But
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' mice and men
Gang aft a-gley.

BURNS.

As Edmund drew nearer to Sir Thomas Stanley his heart began to fail him, and when at last he was sufficiently near the knight to have carried out his design, his courage oozed out at his finger ends and he felt powerless to strike.

Finally he relinquished the attempt altogether, and a new idea flashing upon him, he tossed the knife into the furthest corner of the room, and rising to his feet, he tapped the still unconscious nobleman upon the shoulder, trusting that his careful disguise would preserve him from being recognised by Sir Thomas at least, for circumstances at Haddon had brought them into connection with each other but a few times at most.

"Come at last, eh! and time, too," exclaimed the young knight, as he listlessly held out his hand for his potion of sack. "What, not brought it yet?" he added, as he saw the other's empty hands; "I have been kept waiting for it more than a quarter of an hour."

"Will you have it cool or spiced, my lord?" meekly asked Edmund, following up the idea thus thrown out. "I have but just received the order for it."

"Spiced, indeed!" replied the knight contemptuously; "not I, let me have it fresh from the cellar, and that quickly. No, here, stay," he added by the way of afterthought, "where is Sir George?"

"Sir George! Is that the oldish gentleman with the master?"

"That is Sir George Vernon, yes."

"He is lying down in the parlour," was the ready reply.

"Humph, that's queer, poring over that confounded document again, I'll warrant me. I will go back with you," returned Sir Thomas.

"I will bring it to you in half a minute," gasped Edmund.

"Nay," returned the other, "I will accompany thee. Ha! here he is, coming up again. He's crossing the yard now, and Sir Nicholas Bacon is with him, I perceive."

Edmund had played his last card, and the game was lost. Fortune had forsaken him at every turn; not one of his efforts had met with any success, and after all his endeavours he found himself as securely caught as the rat which was even then writhing within a few inches of his feet, in its last vain endeavour to free itself from the trap in which it was held.

For a moment or two he stood irresolute, but then, quickly gaining a mastery over the feeling of despair which had at first stolen over him, he made for the ladder, only to find, as he put his foot on the topmost step, that Sir George had set his foot upon the one at the bottom.

There was no help for it. He could neither advance nor retreat, so he stood at the top, carefully selecting the darker side, to await the course of events which could bring him no good fortune, but only evil in a greater or lesser degree. The completeness of his disguise, which had so completely deceived Sir Thomas, encouraged him to hope, for the moment, that he might also pass unrecognised even before the eagle eyes of the King of the Peak, and he solaced himself by trusting that if he were discovered the landlord might dismiss him in as summary a manner as he had done the ostler before him.

As Sir George passed him by, deep in conversation with Sir Nicholas Bacon, Edmund's hopes were considerably augmented, but the same ill-luck which had followed him heretofore did not desert him now. His hopes were dashed as soon as they had arisen, for the eye of the worthy Boniface was fixed upon him ere that person had fully entered the room.

Had he been attired in a manner more befitting his station, Edmund would undoubtedly have received a more befitting reception; but clothed as he was in shabby knee-breeches, loosely tied at the knees, a coat which was out at the elbows, a hat minus a portion of its brim, and with a dilapidated ruffle round his neck, which had been in its prime years ago, he presented a striking similarity in appearance to the ordinary marauding beggar of the period, such as were then so exceedingly common, and for one of whom, indeed, the landlord took him to be.

As soon as this worthy had ascended, Edmund coolly made for the ladder, but he was motioned back by a sweep of the arm, as the landlord loosely fastened down the door.

"Who might you be, pray?" he asked, turning to the terror-stricken captive; "and what are you doing here, eh?"

At this sally Sir Thomas Stanley, who had just been exchanging compliments with the Lord Keeper, turned round.

"Who might he be," he laughed, repeating the words he had just overheard; "well, by my troth, Sir George, he does not remember his own servant, even the one he sent about my sack. You have been priming him with his own ale and this is the result.

"Not a drop," interrupted the baron.

"What do you say?" gasped out the astonished innkeeper. "This rascally knave a servant of mine! Pooh, does he look like it, I ask you? You impudent jackanapes," he pursued, as he clutched the unfortunate Edmund by the collar. "What are you here for, eh? What are you here for? Speak."

So far was Edmund from complying with this command that he remained absolutely silent. He dare not open his mouth for fear that Sir George would recognise his voice.

"Prowling about for as much as he can lay hold of, I'll warrant me," continued his captor, addressing Sir Thomas Stanley, who had advanced towards them. "How long has he been here, my lord?"

"Nay, I know not," said Sir Thomas. "I saw him but just before you came up."

"Then you may satisfy yourself that he had watched us out," replied the other sharply, "and was surprised enough to find anyone left up here."

"Like enough," assented the baron.

"He was pretty smart with his tricks, then," said Sir Thomas. "How was he to know I wanted any sack, I should like to know?"

The question was unanswerable, and no one attempted to reply.

"How did you know that, eh?" asked the proprietor, emphasising the question by a series of hearty shakings.

Still there was no answer; Edmund would not speak.

"Did you see him enter?" asked Sir Nicholas.

"I did not know he was in the room until he tapped me on the shoulder.
I was watching the play."

"These rogues are wonderfully sharp," muttered Sir George.

"Then probably he was in the room all the time," suggested the Lord
Keeper.

"What did the rascal say to you, my lord?" went on the tavern keeper.

"He asked me whether I would have my sack spiced or no."

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Sir George; "that was cool enough, at any rate.
I think we ought to let the knave free this time for his wit."

"And let him prey on somebody else?" added Sir Nicholas.

"Bad policy, Sir George, bad policy. He might try his hand on you next time."

"I wonder how much property of mine he has taken already?" continued the host. "I will have him thoroughly searched. I know the rascal well enough, he's been here before now many a time. There's a whole lot of them prowling around the neighbourhood; a regular gang. I'll make an example of this one, I will. You might as well give me what you have taken," he added, turning to his captive, "and save me the labour of taking it from you."

"I have nothing of yours," replied Edmund, in a strangely foreign voice.

"Not been through the house yet, maybe, eh!"

"No."

"Humph, I don't believe you. Here, Hugh," he cried, hearing the ostler moving about below, "come up here."

Edmund's quondam friend and fellow conspirator came up in answer to the summons in no very enviable frame of mind, anticipating very correctly what was about to take place, and debating within himself what course of action to pursue. He quickly decided, however, that inasmuch as he had not yet possessed himself of the money due to him from the captive, that he would screen him as far as he was able—compatibly with his own safety.

"What's this fellow doing here?" demanded his master, as soon as Hugh stepped into the room.

"Can't say, sir," replied Hugh, gazing at Edmund with well-simulated surprise, "maybe he's in drink."

"A likely story, that. Do drunken folk climb up ladders, eh?"

"Not always, sir."

"How long has he been up here, now?"

"Never seen him afore, sir," returned the unabashed ostler, with an air of perfect candour.

"You will be getting into serious trouble some day if you don't be careful to speak the truth," exclaimed his master, "so I warn you, sir. Now, out with it; he was here when you went down."

"I had not seen him then, by the blessed Virgin I had not. I have never clap't eyes on the knave before!"

"Now, mind, I warn you, so be careful."

"I had only just got up, master; upon my word I had. I had not sufficient time to see anybody before you came and sent me down," and at the remembrance of that event he stepped back a pace or two in order that his previous experience might not be repeated.

"You good-for-nothing rascal you!" broke out the landlord. "I stood and watched you myself, you were looking at the play. Get you gone, you idle vagabond," he added, in high dudgeon, "get you gone, and bring me up some stout cord."

Glad to escape, Hugh quickly made his exit, having come off far more easily than at one time he feared. He reappeared in a short time, but with empty hands.

"Well, where's the cord?" angrily enquired his master.

"An it please you, sir," he replied, with a sly wink at Edmund, "I cannot find one strong enough to bear him."

"You can't hang him yet; let him have a proper trial. There has been naught proved against him as yet," eagerly interrupted the baron, upon whom the lesson of his own trouble had not been lost.

"He shall have a proper trial, my lord," exclaimed the landlord, "and to-morrow we shall have him in the pillory. The proprietor of the Cock Tavern is no hangman; I only wanted to bind him. Fetch me a piece of cord, you knave, and be quick, or I'll lay it about your back when it does come. Nay, you don't do that," he added, turning to Edmund, who was struggling to free himself; "not yet, my fine fellow. I have not done with thee yet," and by Sir Nicholas' timely help the prisoner was laid upon his back and then firmly secured with the cords which the ostler brought up a minute later.

Leaving Edmund to bemoan his fate to himself, the party drew nigh to the window to witness the play afresh. They were just in time to witness the advent of another "silent scene."

"Let me explain it to you," proffered the once more equable Boniface. "I know all about these things, they oft-times visit us here. I know every bit of this play as well as I know my creed."

"Happen you may not be very familiar with the creed, though," laughed
Sir Thomas.

"Don't I know it, though?" he replied. "Sir Nicholas, if I might be pardoned for mentioning it, knows full well that every citizen of London knows the creed by heart."

"Yes," assented the Lord Keeper, "everyone is compelled to attend some church at least once a Sabbath."

"Or else they are smartly fined for staying away, as I was," ruefully added the landlord. "Yes, my lords, I know my creed full well."

"Well, what's that fellow drinking now?" asked Sir George.

"He's fainting, poor fellow," replied Sir Thomas.

"Fainting," laughed the host, "fainting! not a bit of it. He is drinking some of my best Malmesey wine, that's what he is doing; only you must think he is taking poison. He is Gorboduc, the king."

"Well?"

"Oh, I forgot, you know naught of him as yet. Well, he, a king of Britain years ago, has just told everybody that the kingdom is to be divided between his two sons, Ferrex and Porrex. Some of his councillors advised 'Yes,' and some said 'No,' but the old king was decided upon having his own way, and the land had just been divided between them."

"Get on," said the baron impatiently, as the other paused and finally came to a dead stop. "They are beginning to act again."

"And one of the old councillors strongly advised the king to keep his realm entire," continued the man, "I remember his very words. He told the king how bad any division would be, not only for himself, but also for his sons. He says:—

But worst of all for this our native land.
Within one land one single rule is best,
Divided reigns do make divided hearts,
But peace preserves the country and the prince."

"As correct as the creed itself," whispered Sir Nicholas.

"It may be so," exclaimed the young knight, "but we will let the poetry go. For my part I can't understand that new-fashioned poetry, and I don't want to either. I only like it when it rhymes, like Chaucer."

"That all means," resumed the landlord, "that Queen Mary of Scotland had far better leave our gracious Queen Elizabeth (God bless her) to herself. We don't want Roman Catholic princesses here again, Sir Nicholas."

"No, indeed not. Mary was enough."

Sir George Vernon frowned heavily. He was too sincere a Papist himself to relish such remarks, but he dared not show his displeasure in the face of the Queen's minister.

"And I don't care for poetry anyhow," he gruffly said, "so finish without any more of it if you can."

"I will then. You saw those two mugs offered to the king?"

"Both made of common horn, yes."

"They both came from my bar. One was full of wine, but the other held water."

"Then when my sack comes I would prefer it without the water," Sir
Thomas replied, amid a chorus of laughter.

"You exercise your wit upon me, my lord," replied the landlord with some asperity, "but I have not the means wherewith to retort. I am a man of business, not a Court fool." Here he paused, astonished at his own trepidity, and also in fear lest his aristocratic customers should be offended. As he stopped his virtuous indignation passed away, and when he resumed again it was in a tone at once apologetic and placid.

"The water," he continued, "was offered by the good councillors, but
Gorboduc took the poison, and now he has drunk it off, so——"

"Look at your prisoner," interrupted Sir Nicholas, "or very soon you will not have one to look after."

Edmund had, in fact, been thrown down just over his knife, and very soon finding this out he had, by dint of considerable trouble, succeeded in cutting the cord which bound his wrists, and was busily engaged in freeing his legs by a similar process when he unfortunately attracted the attention of the Queen's Councillor.

No time was lost in securing him afresh. In spite of his strenuous efforts he was quickly overpowered, and after all his labour he only found himself more hopelessly a prisoner than he had been before.

"Why, the fellow must be bewitched," exclaimed Sir George, "I never saw his like before. Take him away before he does us any injury. Take him away, we don't want him here."

"He is safe enough now, my lord."

"Take him away, I say," repeated the baron. "We want him here no longer. Do you hear me, sirrah! Take him away I say, and lock him up in safety," and amid the oft-continued reiteration of the baron's order, Edmund Wynne was carried below and consigned to the care of the ostler until such time as the gaol officials could be conveniently communicated with.

CHAPTER XII.

A CONFESSION OF LOVE.

It was my fortune, common to that age,
To love a lady fair, of great degree,
The which was born of noble parentage.
And set in highest seat of dignity.

SPENSER.

The sun was declining, after a gorgeous display of its fiery hues; gilding with a translucent light the grey walls of Haddon, and casting weird shadows on the closely-cropped bowling green, when two figures emerged from the shades of the neighbouring wood and passed into the meadow which lies below the Hall.

Sir George Vernon had not yet returned from London; indeed, nothing but a note from Margaret's lover had given them any information about the two travellers since they had departed, six days ago, and although news of them was now considered overdue, yet, in those days of bad roads and slow travelling, communications from distant places were never, or seldom at best, rapidly transmitted, and, bearing this in mind, no concern was felt on that account.

Haddon, usually so gay, wore for the time being a sombre aspect. Sir George was its life and soul, and now that he was away and exposed to the machinations of enemies who were hungering and thirsting after a share of his riches, a gloom settled down upon the place and enveloped it in an ill-befitting aspect of dreariness. Baits and hunting parties were alike abandoned; no one felt in the humour to participate in gaieties, of whatever kind, so long as the baron was away; and the guests who had assembled to witness the tournament had, with few exceptions, returned to their homes feeling deprived, in a large measure, of that succession of festivities and enjoyments to which they had looked forward with so much expectancy.

Sir Henry was still confined to his room from the injuries which he had received in his encounter with Manners; and Cousin Benedict, who had stayed to take the baron's place during his enforced absence, had found his position so intolerably lonely that he at last took refuge in such copious libations of wine that henceforward his interest in contemporary events entirely ceased.

This air of desolation had infected Lady Vernon, too. Her temper, never of the mildest disposition, now became exceedingly irritable, and finding little consolation forthcoming from Sir Benedict, she vented her spleen with all those with whom she came into contact, and finally shut herself up within her own room and added to the misery of the household by obstinately refusing to hold any intercourse with the family.

Margaret and Dorothy were thus thrown much upon their own resources, and they managed to spend the time wearily enough at the tapestry frame until Manners and Crowleigh paid a visit to the Hall—ostensibly to inquire after the health of the wounded knight. Their arrival, as might be readily imagined, was cordially welcomed by the girls, and nothing beyond a first request was required to induce the two gentlemen to stay; and, so once again, Manners found himself, to his heart's great contentment, housed under the same roof as the lady of his love.

This time, however, he had come with the firm determination to bring matters to a crisis. He felt that his passion for Dorothy could be no longer controlled. Her bearing towards him had fired him with hope, but her position and her surpassing beauty had brought so many suitors to worship at her shrine that he was driven to despair between the conflicting emotions of hope and fear.

For a whole day he waited a favourable opportunity to carry out his purpose, and in vain. The two sisters seemed to be inseparable in this time of trouble, and try as he might he could not get the interview for which he so ardently longed. The fates were unpropitious, and one after another his artifices were defeated until at last he was obliged to fall back upon the assistance of his friend, and ask him, as a last resource, to help him out of his difficulty.

As the shades of evening crept silently on, and the cooler air began to assert itself over the torrid atmosphere of the day, Sir Everard Crowleigh opened the campaign on behalf of his companion by suggesting that a walk would not only be refreshing to the two maidens, but also positively beneficial. "I don't pretend to know much of the skill of the leech," he added, "but I think that fresh country air is the finest physic out for young ladies, both for health and beauty too."

"And maybe 'tis good for gentlemen as well," laughed Dorothy.

"It is the true elixir of life, for which the alchemysts labour in vain to find," exclaimed Manners. "Sir Benedict knows leechcraft, let us take his opinion upon its merits.

"Nay," laughingly responded Margaret, "Cousin Benedict, I fear, is too much engaged in other affairs to attend to us just now."

"Why, how?" asked Crowleigh in surprise, "surely no one would be ungallant enough not to lend their services to two such fair maidens. Never! I cannot conceive it."

"Margaret means," interposed Dorothy, "that he has been taking too much wine again, and then he goes wandering about the cellars and passages until he falls down and goes to sleep. Nobody takes any notice of him now, though, we have all got too familiar with his ways."

"Well, we will go," decided the elder sister, "but which way—north, south, east, or west? Bakewell, Rowsley, or where? Let us determine quickly, for it will soon be dark."

"We are at your service," gallantly responded John Manners. "Any way will suit us equally well." Certainly, provided that the walk was long enough, the direction they should take was of little importance to him. He had a more important matter on his mind.

"Let it be Rowsley way, Margaret," asked Dorothy.

"Well, then," she agreed, "we will say Rowsley, 'tis a pretty walk; but we might first see our venerable protector in safety, then nothing could be nicer. Follow me, brave gentlemen," said Margaret, and the two girls led the way through the banqueting-room and down the stone-flagged passage into the capacious wine cellar below.

Benedict was not there, but it was evident, from signs which could not be mistaken, that he had been there shortly before. All the neighbouring cellars were thoroughly explored, but to no purpose; he could not be discovered, and, finding that he had just been seen in the vicinity of the old archer's room, they turned their feet in that direction, only to find themselves once more baffled when they arrived there.

"No, your ladyships," replied the serving-maid, in answer to their inquiry, "he has gone again just now; you will be sure to find him in the kitchen, though."

"'Tis as good as a badger hunt," laughed Crowleigh, as they trailed into the kitchen again, "but prithee, fair mistress, what shall we gain by discovering the august knight?"

"In truth I cannot tell," replied Dorothy; "but, trust me, Margaret has some plan or other in her head.

"Yes," said Margaret, "but see him, here he is; the master of the house, our guardian, our protector; behold him where he lies," and she pointed to where the too festive knight lay doubled uncomfortably up in the salting trough.

"I expected about as much," she went on, "and I want to cure him; what shall we do?"

"Salt him," slyly suggested Dorothy, "that is the usual way."

"Fasten him down in the box for the night," suggested Crowleigh.

"We will," she said; "here is the lid, we can easily fasten it down so that he cannot undo it, and we will have a peep at him to see that he is not smothered when we come back."

In accordance with this decision Sir Benedict was unconsciously made a prisoner, as securely as any culprit in Derby gaol, and leaving him in this position the merry quartette started off upon their evening stroll.

Disdaining the highway, they followed the beaten path which led through the wood to Rowsley, Crowleigh doing his part to aid his friend by walking on with Margaret in front, and so deeply engaged her interest by recounting some of his adventures in badger hunting that she entirely forgot her sister, who followed behind her in a more leisurely fashion with Master Manners.

In vain the anxious esquire sought to broach the topic which lay so near to his heart; the words would not come, and beyond a few gallant and courtier-like remarks—to the like of which Dorothy had often listened beforetimes with impatience—he could not succeed; and when at last he began to give expression to his feelings, it was in a wild and almost incoherent manner.

As for the maiden who lightly tripped by his side, although she wore a sober, pensive look, yet she was filled with a silent joy, and the great fire of love which was burning in her breast she found difficult to control. With that quick and subtle faculty which belongs to womankind alone she had intuitively guessed his mission at the outset, and with perceptions rendered keener by the intensity of her passion, she was on the alert to detect his advances and respond to them with a due amount of proper maidenly reserve. Finding, however, that he was slow to approach the subject, yet feeling sure of his intentions and fearing lest the opportunity should slip by, she sought to precipitate his movements by a few, delicate hints.

"Why, we are all alone," she exclaimed, "Wherever can my sister be?
Let us hasten on."

"She is in safe hands, fair Dorothy," he replied, "and you will not be missed awhile."

Dorothy noted with satisfaction that he had dropped the "Mistress" from before her name, and this, she argued, denoted that he was awakening at last, and encouraged her to venture again with another remark.

"Margaret is such a scold," she teasingly said; "I fear we must really hasten forward."

"Nay, we will not hurry, we should not catch her now were we to try."

"Why not, prithee?"

"Because—because: well, do not let us try," he responded. He had fully meant to have declared his love to her then, but that "because" stuck in his throat and blocked up all the other words he would have said. The very intensity of his love hindered him from declaring his passion.

"What would Sir Thomas Stanley say if he knew Sir Everard were out courting with Meg?" wickedly suggested Dorothy. "Would he not be in a towering rage?"

"There would be another tournament, maybe," laughed Manners, not noticing the tender tone in which his fair companion had addressed him.

"Poor De la Zouch will remember his attempt to provide amusement for us for some time yet, I fear," she continued coquettishly. As her previous efforts had led to nothing, she had started afresh in another vein, mentally resolving that her companion was wretchedly slow in responding to her advances.

"I fear he will," he replied; "but he is improving, I hear. Sir
Benedict seems to understand his case."

"He is like to be scarred for life, though," Dorothy returned. "Poor
Sir Henry."

"You are sorry for him," exclaimed Manners, who felt a little piqued at the tone of Dorothy's reply, as, indeed, she intended he should be.

"Yes," she said, "I am; very sorry."

Manners bit his lip with annoyance, and made a foolish remark.

"Ha, he was your lover, perchance?" he said.

Dorothy flushed up hotly at the taunt. Manners saw it, and would have done much to have recalled his hasty words, but they were gone.

"Master Manners!" Doll exclaimed, turning quickly round upon him; "I have spurned him; I have told him what I think. Once and for ever have I refused him, and he knows I shall not change."

"Fair Dorothy, sweet Dorothy," Manners penitently exclaimed, dropping hurriedly upon his knees; "you shall be my queen. Forgive me—or condemn. I sue you for your pardon, nor will I rise until I have gained it."

"I will visit you to-morrow, then," she said, turning to go.
"Farewell."

Her voice was sweet again, and her brow was once more clear.

"You have forgiven me?" he cried, rising up and following her.

"What, sir knight?" she exclaimed, in feigned surprise, "risen, eh? Upon my word, you are a fickle cavalier. Well, I suppose I must extend my clemency to you. At what price will you be willing to purchase my forgiveness?"

Manners was just going to tell her he would give himself and all he had to her if she would take it, but a sudden bend in the path brought them face to face with Margaret and Crowleigh, and the words were left unspoken.

It needed no question to inform Sir Everard that his friend's mission was not accomplished yet. He looked to see the sparkling eyes and a countenance beaming with delight, but was met by a face the very picture of disappointment; and shrewdly seeing that their company would be in no wise acceptable at such a juncture, he adroitly led Margaret on, still an interested listener to his wonderful tales, and intimating that they were returning to Haddon, they passed the lovers by.

For a time Dorothy and Manners walked on in perfect silence, the one preparing to pour out the story of his love, and the other waiting and expecting the declaration.

"We had better retrace our steps now," exclaimed Dorothy at length.

They turned round and began to wend their way again towards the Hall, in a silence that was positively painful to both.

"You are dreaming, Master Manners," she exclaimed, as they neared the narrow bridge which spans the Wye just outside the gates of Haddon.

"Come, sir, declare your thoughts; let me be your confessor, for I will shrive thee right easily, and the penance shall be pleasant enough, I assure thee. Now confess!"

"I was thinking of—of love," he stammered out.

"Love! then I forgive thee," she exclaimed with a beating heart, "'tis a common sin. Proceed, my son."

"I was thinking of a little poem."

"Oh!" That was a disappointing continuation.

"'Twas a verse of Sir Thomas Wyatt's. Shall I tell it thee?"

"'Hide nothing from me,' as Father Philip says," replied Doll, brightening up again, for she was well acquainted with the verse of that unfortunate nobleman, which was almost all on the subject of love. She thought she knew the verse which he would tell her, nor was she mistaken. Almost everyone knew that verse, even if they knew none other.

The young esquire fixed his eyes upon her, and began—

A face that should content me wondrous well.
Should not be fair, but lovely to behold;
Of lively look, all grief for to repel,
With right good grace as would I that it should
Speak, without words, such words as none can tell,
Her tress also should be of crisped gold;
With wit, and these, I might perchance be tried,
And knit again with knot that should not slide.

"Then I perceive you are difficult to please, my son," she replied.

"Listen, stay Dorothy," he said, quickly, as she stepped upon the footbridge, "surely that means you. Oh, Dorothy, let me speak. I must tell you. I cannot let you depart yet. I love you. I have loved you ever since I saw you first."

He paused, but as the maiden did not speak, he continued.

"Ever since the hawking party I have loved you. Do you remember that?"

"I do," she demurely replied.

"Nay, stay, leave me not thus," he cried, as Dorothy unconsciously moved. "You must stay, you must listen. Dorothy, I cannot flatter you like some; I speak the truth. I cannot live without you make me happy. Will you be mine?"

"But, sir knight—"

"Nay," he interrupted, "say it is so. I am no knight, I am but a simple esquire, but though you be the daughter of the rich King of the Peak—"

"Nay, do not talk like that," she interrupted quickly.

"Let me do something to show the vastness of my love," he went on. "What shall it be? Bid me do aught, or go anywhere; command me what you will, but say you love me."

"And if I do, what then?"

"What then?" he echoed; "I would live or die for you—for you alone."

"I do love you, then," she replied, with downcast eyes and blushing face.

Manners stood up erect, and glanced straight into the honest eyes of the beautiful girl as she stood on the bridge beside him.

"You do?" he exclaimed; "say it again."

"I do love you." she repeated; "and will be yours for ever if you love me as you say."

"What!" he cried, "you, the fair Dorothy Vernon, the Princess of the
Peak, the fairest jewel in the land, you give yourself to me—John
Manners, a simple esquire? I can scarce believe my ears."

"I will show you. John," she replied; "my life shall prove it. I have loved you dearly ever since that self-same hunt"; and permitting her love-troth to be sealed by a kiss, she buried her fair face in his bosom and quietly wept in the excess of her joy.

CHAPTER XIII.

FATHER PHILIP'S ACCIDENT.

And thou hast loved him! Faith, what next?
It had been better far for thee
That thou had'st ne'er been born, than this.
Brood on thy folly, and return,
But when thou hast repented on't.

A WOMAN'S WHIM.

As the two lovers, happy in their newly-pledged love-troth, entered the gateway of the Hall they were encountered by the news that Father Philip had met with an accident. Margaret and Sir Everard Crowleigh had not yet returned, and messengers were even then, by the chamberlain's commands, preparing to go out to secure aid.

"'Tis a sad mishap, my lady," said that functionary, as Dorothy entered. "That stupid old horse of his threw him against a tree, and we cannot find Sir Benedict anywhere; the poor father is bleeding to death. He's dying, my lady, dying; what will the baron do if he return?"

"Hush! Thomas, of course he will return."

"May the blessed Virgin take pity on us," pursued the wretched man, "there is an evil spirit o'er the place. Someone is working a spell against us."

"Where is the father?" asked Manners abruptly.

"He lies in the chaplain's room; I can hear him groaning now. The saints look down in——"

Dorothy passed on, heeding not the continued invocations which the old man made to all the saints in the calendar, and led her lover into the little room in which the unfortunate priest lay.

The portly form of Father Philip lay stretched at full length upon a wooden bench, and the room resounded with his painful groans. As they approached nearer to him they could see the fearful injuries he had received; and the continued reiteration of the sufferer that he was about to die needed no other confirmation than a glance at his pale face, upon which the mark of death was plainly written.

Father Philip, despite his faults, was universally beloved in the neighbourhood—by the poor for the bounty he dispensed at the gates from the well-stocked larder of the knight; by the rich because he was by far the best tale-teller of the district, and the success of a feast at which he was present was at once assured; and by the children generally, for the confections and little silver pence he bestowed upon them, along with his kind word and cheery smile, in a most liberal manner.

At Haddon he was a prime favourite with all alike. He had entered the service of the Vernons soon after the monasteries were dissolved, in the time of Henry VIII., and had grown old in his office. Throughout the critical and changeful reigns of Edward and Mary, as well as the early years of Elizabeth's time, he had, in spite of all the attempts made to oust him, retained his position as confessor to the family and priest of the chapel at Haddon, and, as he had christened Margaret, he was looking forward with pleasurable expectancy to the occasion when he would be called upon to marry her also.

Leaving Dorothy standing on the threshold of the doorway, Manners advanced to the injured man's side, and endeavoured to sooth him by instilling into his mind a ray of hope.

"O, Dorothy," gasped the priest, disregarding the words of his
would-be comforter, "I am dying, dying like a dog. O, for some of
Dame Durden's simples now. For the blessed Virgin's sake fetch Sir
Benedict. O, dear! O, dear!" and he sank back with a groan.

Dorothy turned, and with a fast-beating heart hastened to deliver the captive knight, while her lover endeavoured to staunch the flow of blood by binding the wound tightly up in strips of cloth.

By dint of much shaking and shouting cousin Benedict was at last roused from his drunken sleep, and also at last was made to understand somewhat of the exigencies of the case for which his aid was needed.

"I will come soon," he exclaimed, in answer to Dorothy's entreaties.

"You must come now!" she replied, in a peremptory tone, which admitted of no prevarication.

"Where is the wine?" he asked, as he rubbed his eyes and glanced around; "why, this is the kitchen."

"Come along, Benedict; Father Philip is dying, I tell you. Do you understand?"

Benedict à Woode stood up as still as he was able, and rubbed off a quantity of the salt which tenaciously adhered to his garments, then, noticing for the first time that he was in the great salt trough, he exclaimed in a tone of great surprise, "What! have I been here?"

"You have," she answered severely, "but why do you not come and succour Father Philip? He is bleeding to death, while you, who are staying here, might help him."

As the knight rapidly collected his scattered senses, he became more and more ashamed of himself; and now, clambering out of his ignominious confinement, with bowed head and tottering feet he humbly followed his fair companion across the yard. Not even the gigantic vat, which was still steaming from a recent brew, the pungent odour of which could be plainly scented, induced him to alter his course; he meekly entered the room at Dorothy's heels.

Whatever effects of his recent indulgence remained with him before he entered the room, they were quickly dispelled as he beheld the pallid countenance of his friend, and falling down upon his knees, he scrutinised the injuries the venerable father had received.

A brief examination satisfied Benedict that, unskilled as he was, the case was entirely beyond his power, and he knew not what to do. He unloosened the bandages which Manners had made, and let the already over-bled man bleed still more; and then, bethinking himself of summoning superior aid, he hastily concocted a dose of simples, which the sufferer could with difficulty be prevailed upon to take, despatched a mounted messenger to Derby, and sat himself down at the foot of the bench to await the course of events.

The effect produced by the dose was evidently what Benedict had wished, and for a long time the sufferer was far more quiet.

"O, Benedict," he feebly exclaimed, "my head, my head!"

"Well, it will be better soon."

"Nay, I know I'm dying; 'twas a fatal fall, and I cannot shrive myself."

Benedict saw that his patient was getting excited, and he mixed another draught, which the father absolutely refused to take.

"Oh, dear, I'm dying, dying," he gasped.

"Tut, man! rubbish. There's life enough left yet in you. We shall be out together again in a day or two."

"Send for another brother," pursued the unfortunate man. "I am dying; my end has come, and I know it."

"Tut, man!" returned the knight, "I tell you you will be better soon."

"A witch told me I should die like this," continued the father obstinately, "and the time has come. I am too old to survive it now."

"Go to sleep, father," interrupted Manners, "you ought not to talk now; you want rest."

"Yes, sleep," assented à Woode.

"I cannot, I am dying," he gasped; and he groaned in agony again and again.

"Father Philip," interposed Dorothy, "you must rest yourself. Master Manners is a soldier and has seen many hurt like you, and even worse; you must do his bidding an you would get well again."

"What in the name of faith does all this mean?" asked Margaret, as she stepped into the room. "What is all this stir and commotion about?"

"I am dying, Margaret," repeated the confessor, as he gasped for very breath. "I thought to marry thee, my daughter, but now it is denied me. You will pray for the repose of the soul of Father Philip, will you not?" he inquired, looking up into her face as she bent over him.

"When you are dead, yes," she replied, "but not until."

"Don't talk to him, Mistress Margaret," said Manners; "he will only injure himself by talking in return. I have enjoined quietness, but he will take no heed. He ought to refresh himself by quietness, and sleep if possible, does he not; is not that correct, Everard?"

"Aye, it is indeed,"

"I shall be dead soon, Margaret, and—"

"Go to sleep, man, or at least lie still," growled à Woode. "What is the use of all my care and simples if you won't do as I order you?"

"And you will ask the baron to forgive an old man's follies, Margaret?" slowly pursued the father, between the gasps, quite heedless of the counsel given him to remain silent.

"I'll stop this," Sir Benedict broke in savagely, as he proceeded to tie the bandages on afresh. "Father Philip, you shall be silent, or die you must. That's better," he exclaimed, as his patient fell back unconscious. "He will, perforce, be quiet now awhile, and we may safely remove him to his room."

"Is he badly hurt, think you?" asked Margaret.

"I don't think he will ever get better again," Benedict gravely replied; "he is old, and it is a terrible wound."

"Neither do I think he will weather it," added Crowleigh; "I have seen men hurt like that before, fair Mistress Margaret, and we soldiers soon recognise the mark of death."

Slowly and with great care the poor father was carried into the hall, and as soon as he was laid upon his bed, seeing that there were no signs of returning consciousness, Margaret and Dorothy quietly retired.

"Meg," exclaimed the younger sister, with glistening eyes, as they sat in cheerless solitude before the blazing logs in their own room, "I have something to tell thee, and I shall mayhap want your aid ere I have done."

She stopped short, to see if her sister had guessed her secret, but it was apparently undiscovered, so she went on.

"I don't expect Lady Maude will be very willing; she always opposes us, does she not?"

"Sometimes," said Margaret drily.

"He is not so rich as De la Zouch," pursued Dorothy, "so I don't think she will agree to it at first."

"To what? What do you mean? Father Philip's accident has turned your head, I verily believe," replied her sister, as a terrible suspicion of the truth flashed into her imagination.

"Nay, Meg, dear, listen. I have plighted my troth to-night."