Édition d'Élite

 Historical Tales

 The Romance of Reality

 By

 CHARLES MORRIS

 _Author of "Half-Hours with the Best American Authors, " "Tales from the Dramatists, " etc. _

 IN FIFTEEN VOLUMES

 Volume IV

 English

 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON

 Copyright, 1893, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. Copyright, 1904, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. Copyright, 1908, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 

[Illustration: WARWICK CASTLE. ]

 _CONTENTS_ PAGE

 HOW ENGLAND BECAME CHRISTIAN 9

 KING ALFRED AND THE DANES 19

 THE WOOING OF ELFRIDA 35

 THE END OF SAXON ENGLAND 49

 HEREWARD THE WAKE 62

 THE DEATH OF THE RED KING 77

 HOW THE WHITE SHIP SAILED 86

 A CONTEST FOR A CROWN 93

 THE CAPTIVITY OF RICHARD COEUR DE LION 107

 ROBIN HOOD AND THE KNIGHT OF THE RUEFUL COUNTENANCE 121

 WALLACE, THE HERO OF SCOTLAND 136

 BRUCE AT BANNOCKBURN 149

 THE SIEGE OF CALAIS 162

 THE BLACK PRINCE AT POITIERS 174

 WAT TYLER AND THE MEN OF KENT 185

 THE WHITE ROSE OF ENGLAND 196

 THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD 213

 THE STORY OF ARABELLA STUART 228

 LOVE'S KNIGHT-ERRANT 241

 THE TAKING OF PONTEFRACT CASTLE 262

 THE ADVENTURES OF A ROYAL FUGITIVE 276

 CROMWELL AND THE PARLIAMENT 297

 THE RELIEF OF LONDONDERRY 305

 THE HUNTING OF BRAEMAR 315

 THE FLIGHT OF PRINCE CHARLES 324

 TRAFALGAR AND THE DEATH OF NELSON 339

 THE MASSACRE OF AN ARMY 349

 THE JUBILEES OF QUEEN VICTORIA 358

 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 

 ENGLISH. 

 PAGE

 WARWICK CASTLE _Frontispiece_. 

 CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL 12

 AN ANGLO-SAXON KING 19

 ELY CATHEDRAL 66

 STATUE OF RICHARD COEUR DE LION 116

 ROBIN HOOD'S WOODS 123

 THE WALLACE MONUMENT, STIRLING 141

 STIRLING CASTLE 153

 THE PORT OF CALAIS 162

 CHURCH OF NOTRE DAME, POITIERS 177

 WAT TYLER'S COTTAGE 188

 BATTLE IN THE WAR OF THE ROSES 196

 HENRY THE EIGHTH 218

 ROTTEN ROW, LONDON 235

 THE ROYAL PALACE, MADRID 251

 SCENE ON THE RIVER AVON 286

 OLIVER CROMWELL 298

 EDINBURGH CASTLE 319

 THE OLD TEMERAIRE 340

 NORTH FRONT OF WINDSOR CASTLE 362

_HOW ENGLAND BECAME CHRISTIAN. _

One day, in the far-off sixth century, a youthful deacon of the RomanChurch walked into the slave-market of Rome, situated at one extremityof the ancient Forum. Gregory, his name; his origin from an ancientnoble family, whose genealogy could be traced back to the days of theearly Cæsars. A youth was this of imperial powers of mind, one who, hadhe lived when Rome was mistress of the physical world, might have becomeemperor; but who, living when Rome had risen to lordship over thespiritual world, became pope, --the famous Gregory the Great. 

In the Forum the young deacon saw that which touched his sympatheticsoul. Here cattle were being sold; there, men. His eyes were speciallyattracted by a group of youthful slaves, of aspect such as he had neverseen before. They were bright of complexion, their hair long and golden, their expression of touching innocence. Their fair faces were strangelyunlike the embrowned complexions to which he had been accustomed, and hestood looking at them in admiration, while the slave-dealers extolledtheir beauty of face and figure. 

"From what country do these young men come?" asked Gregory. 

"They are English, Angles, " answered the dealers. 

"Not Angles, but angels, " said the deacon, with a feeling of poeticsentiment, "for they have angel-like faces. From what country comethey?" he repeated. 

"They come from Deira, " said the merchants. 

"_De irâ_" he rejoined, fervently; "ay, plucked from God's ire andcalled to Christ's mercy. And what is the name of their king?"

"Ella, " was the answer. 

"Alleluia shall be sung there!" cried the enthusiastic young monk, hisimagination touched by the significance of these answers. He passed on, musing on the incident which had deeply stirred his sympathies, andconsidering how the light of Christianity could be shed upon the paganlands whence these fair strangers came. 

It was a striking picture which surrounded that slave-market. From wherethe young deacon stood could be seen the capitol of ancient Rome and thegrand proportions of its mighty Coliseum; not far away the temple ofJupiter Stator displayed its magnificent columns, and other statelyedifices of the imperial city came within the circle of vision. Rome hadceased to be the mistress of the world, but it was not yet in ruins, andmany of its noble edifices still stood almost in perfection. Butpaganism had vanished. The cross of Christ was the dominant symbol. Themarch of the warriors of the legions was replaced by long processionsof cowled and solemn monks. The temporal imperialism of Rome hadceased, the spiritual had begun; instead of armies to bring the worldunder the dominion of the sword, that ancient city now sent out itslegions of priests to bring it under the dominion of the cross. 

Gregory resolved to be one of the latter. A fair new field formissionary labor lay in that distant island, peopled by pagans whoseaspect promised to make them noble subjects of Christ's kingdom uponearth. The enthusiastic youth left Rome to seek Saxon England, movedthereto not by desire of earthly glory, but of heavenly reward. But thiswas not to be. His friends deemed that he was going to death, and beggedthe pope to order his return. Gregory was brought back and Englandremained pagan. 

Years went by. The humble deacon rose to be bishop of Rome and head ofthe Christian world. Gregory the Great, men named him, though he styledhimself "Servant of the servants of God, " and lived in like humility andsimplicity of style as when he was a poor monk. 

The time at length came to which Gregory had looked forward. Ethelbert, king of Kentish England, married Bertha, daughter of the French kingCharibert, a fervent Christian woman. A few priests came with her toEngland, and the king gave them a ruined Christian edifice, the Churchof St. Martin, outside the walls of Canterbury, for their worship. Butit was overshadowed by a pagan temple, and the worship of Odin and Thorstill dominated Saxon England. 

Gregory took quick advantage of this opportunity. The fair faces of theEnglish slaves still appealed to his pitying soul, and he now sentAugustine, prior of St. Andrew's at Rome, with a band of forty monks asmissionaries to England. It was the year of our Lord 597. Themissionaries landed at the very spot where Hengist the Saxon conquerorhad landed more than a century before. The one had brought the sword toEngland, the others brought the cross. King Ethelbert knew of theircoming and had agreed to receive them; but, by the advice of hispriests, who feared conjuration and spells of magic, he gave themaudience in the open air, where such spells have less power. The placewas on the chalk-down above Minster, whence, miles away across theintervening marshes, one may to-day behold the distant tower ofCanterbury cathedral. 

The scene, as pictured to us in the chronicles of the monks, was apicturesque and inspiring one. The hill selected for the meetingoverlooked the ocean. King Ethelbert, with Queen Bertha by his side, awaited in state his visitors. Around were grouped the warriors of Kentand the priests of Odin. Silence reigned, and in the distance the monkscould be seen advancing in solemn procession, singing as they came. Hewho came first bore a large silver crucifix. Another carried a bannerwith the painted image of Christ. The deep and solemn music, thevenerable and peaceful aspect of the strangers, the solemnity of theoccasion, touched the heart of Ethelbert, already favorably inclined, aswe may believe, to the faith of his loved wife. 

Augustine had brought interpreters from Gaul. By their aid he conveyedto the king the message he had been sent to bring. Ethelbert listened insilence, the queen in rapt attention, the warriors and priests doubtlesswith varied sentiments. The appeal of Augustine at an end, Ethelbertspoke. 

"Your words are fair, " he said, "but they are new, and of doubtfulmeaning. For myself, I propose to worship still the gods of my fathers. But you bring peace and good words; you are welcome to my kingdom; whileyou stay here you shall have shelter and protection. "

His land was a land of plenty, he told them; food, drink, and lodgingshould be theirs, and none should do them wrong; England should be theirhome while they chose to stay. 

With these words the audience ended. Augustine and his monks fell againinto procession, and, with singing of psalms and display of holyemblems, moved solemnly towards the city of Canterbury, where Bertha'schurch awaited them. As they entered the city they sang:

"Turn from this city, O Lord, thine anger and wrath, and turn it fromThy holy house, for we have sinned. " Then Gregory's joyful cry of"Alleluia! Alleluia!" burst from their devout lips, as they moved intothe first English church. 

[Illustration: CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL. ]

The work of the "strangers from Rome" proceeded but slowly. Someconverts were made, but Ethelbert held aloof. Fortunately for Augustine, he had an advocate in the palace, one with near and dear speech in theking's ear. We cannot doubt that the gentle influence of Queen Berthawas a leading power in Ethelbert's conversion. A year passed. At its endthe king gave way. On the day of Pentecost he was baptized. Christ hadsucceeded Odin and Thor on the throne of the English heart, for thestory of the king's conversion carried his kingdom with it. The men ofKent, hearing that their king had adopted the new faith, crowded thebanks of the Swale, eager for baptism. The under-kings of Essex andEast-Anglia became Christians. On the succeeding Christmas-day tenthousand of the people followed the example of their king. The new faithspread with wonderful rapidity throughout the kingdom of Kent. 

When word of this great event reached Pope Gregory at Rome his heart wasfilled with joy. He exultingly wrote to a friend that his missionarieshad spread the religion of Christ "in the most remote parts of theworld, " and at once appointed Augustine archbishop of Canterbury andprimate of all England, that he might complete the work he had sopromisingly begun. Such is the story of the Christianizing of England astold in the ancient chronicle of the venerable Bede, the earliest ofEnglish writers. 

As yet only Kent had been converted. North of it lay the kingdom ofNorthumbria, still a pagan realm. The story of its conversion, as toldby Bede, is of no less interest than that just related. Edwin was itsking, a man of great ability for that early day. His prowess is shown ina proverb: "A woman with her babe might walk scathless from sea to seain Edwin's day. " The highways, long made dangerous by outlaw andruthless warrior, were now safe avenues of travel; the springs by theroad-side were marked by stakes, while brass cups beside them awaitedthe traveller's hand. Edwin ruled over all northern England, asEthelbert did over the south. Edinburgh was within his dominions, andfrom him it had its name, --Edwin's burgh, the city of Edwin. 

Christianity came to this monarch's heart in some such manner as it hadreached that of Ethelbert, through the appealing influence of his wife. A daughter of King Ethelbert had come to share his throne. She, likeBertha her mother, was a Christian. With her came the monk Paulinus, from the church at Canterbury. He was a man of striking aspect, --of talland stooping form, slender, aquiline nose, and thin, worn face, roundwhich fell long black hair. The ardent missionary, aided doubtless bythe secret appeals of the queen, soon produced an influence upon theintelligent mind of Edwin. The monarch called a council of his wise men, to talk with them about the new doctrine which had been taught in hisrealm. Of what passed at that council we have but one short speech, butit is one that illuminates it as no other words could have done, alesson in prose which is full of the finest spirit of poetry, perhapsthe most picturesque image of human life that has ever been put intowords. 

"So seems to me the life of man, O king, " said an aged noble, "as asparrow's flight through the hall when you are sitting at meat inwinter-tide, with the warm fire lighted on the hearth, while outside allis storm of rain and snow. The sparrow flies in at one door, and tarriesfor a moment in the light and heat of the fire within, and then, flyingforth from the other, vanishes into the wintry darkness whence it came. So the life of man tarries for a moment in our sight; but of what wentbefore it, or what is to follow it, we know nothing. If this newteaching tells us something more certain of these things, let us followit. "

Such an appeal could not but have a powerful effect upon his hearers. Those were days when men were more easily moved by sentiment than byargument. Edwin and his councillors heard with favoring ears. Not lastamong them was Coifi, chief priest of the idol-worship, whose ardentsoul was stirred by the words of the old thane. 

"None of your people, King Edwin, have worshipped the gods more busilythan I, " he said, "yet there are many who have been more favored and aremore fortunate. Were these gods good for anything they would help theirworshippers. "

Grasping his spear, the irate priest leaped on his horse, and riding atfull speed towards the temple sacred to the heathen gods, he hurled thewarlike weapon furiously into its precincts. 

The lookers-on, nobles and commons alike, beheld his act with awe, indoubt if the deities of their old worship would not avenge with deaththis insult to their fane. Yet all remained silent; no thunders rent theskies; the desecrating priest sat his horse unharmed. When, then, hebade them follow him to the neighboring stream, to be baptized in itswaters into the new faith, an eager multitude crowded upon his steps. 

The spot where Edwin and his followers were baptized is thus describedby Camden, in his "Description of Great Britain, " etc. : "In the Romantimes, not far from its bank upon the little river Foulness (whereWighton, a small town, but well-stocked with husbandmen, now stands), there seems to have formerly stood Delgovitia; as it is probable bothfrom the likeness and the signification of the name. For the Britishword _Delgwe_ (or rather _Ddelw_) signifies the statues or images of theheathen gods; and in a little village not far off there stood anidol-temple, which was in very great honor in the Saxon times, and, fromthe heathen gods in it, was then called Godmundingham, and now, in thesame sense, Godmanham. " It was into this temple that Coifi flung hisdesecrating spear, and in this stream that Edwin the king receivedChristian baptism. 

But Christianity did not win England without a struggle. After thedeath of Ethelbert and Edwin, paganism revived and fought hard for themastery. The Roman monks lost their energy, and were confined to thevicinity of Canterbury. Conversion came again, but from the west insteadof the east, from Ireland instead of Rome. 

Christianity had been received with enthusiasm in Erin's isle. Less thanhalf a century after the death of St. Patrick, the first missionary, flourishing Christian schools existed at Darrow and Armagh, letters andthe arts were cultivated, and missionaries were leaving the shores ofIreland to carry the faith elsewhere. From the famous monastery whichthey founded at Iona, on the west coast of Scotland, came the newimpulse which gave Christianity its fixed footing in England, andfinally drove paganism from Britain's shores. Oswald, of Northumbria, became the bulwark of the new faith; Penda, of Mercia, the sword ofheathendom; and a long struggle for religion and dominion ensued betweenthese warlike chiefs. Oswald was slain in battle; Penda led hisconquering host far into the Christian realm; but a new king, Oswi byname, overthrew Penda and his army in a great defeat, and the worship ofthe older gods in England was at an end. But a half-century of struggleand bloodshed passed before the victory of Christ over Odin was fullywon. 

_KING ALFRED AND THE DANES. _

In his royal villa at Chippenham, on the left bank of the gently-flowingAvon, sat King Alfred, buried in his books. It was the evening of the6th of January, in the year 878, a thousand years and more backward intime. The first of English kings to whom a book had a meaning, --and thelast for centuries afterwards, --Alfred, the young monarch, had aninsatiable thirst for knowledge, a thirst then difficult to quell, forbooks were almost as rare as gold-mines in that day. When a mere child, his mother had brought to him and his brothers a handsomely illuminatedbook, saying, --

"I will give this to that one of you four princes who first learns toread. "

Alfred won the book; so far as we know, he alone sought to win it, forthe art of reading in those early times was confined to monks, anddisdained by princes. Ignorance lay like a dismal cloud over England, ignorance as dense as the heart of the Dark Ages knew. In the whole landthe young prince was almost alone in his thirst for knowledge; and whenhe made an effort to study Latin, in which language all worthyliterature was then written, we are told that there could not be foundthroughout the length and breadth of the land a man competent to teachhim that sealed tongue. This, however, loses probability in view of thefact that the monks were familiar with Latin and that Alfred succeededin acquiring a knowledge of that language. 

When little more than a boy Alfred became king. There was left him thenlittle time for study, for the Danes, whose ships had long beendescending in annual raids on England's shores, gave the youthfulmonarch an abundance of more active service. For years he fought them, yet in his despite Guthrum, one of their ablest chiefs, sailed up theSevern, seized upon a wide region of the realm of Wessex, madeGloucester his capital, and defied the feebly-supported English king. 

It was midwinter now, a season which the Danes usually spent in rest andrevelry, and in which England gained some relief from their devastatingraids. Alfred, dreaming of aught but war, was at home with his slenderstore of much-beloved books in his villa at Chippenham. With him were afew of his thanes and a small body of armed attendants, their enjoymentthe pleasures of the chase and the rude sports of that early period. Doubtless, what they deemed the womanish or monkish tastes of theiryoung monarch were objects of scorn and ridicule to those hardy thanes, upon whom ignorance lay like a thick garment. Yet Alfred could fight aswell as read. They might disdain his pursuits; they must respect hisprowess. 

While the king lay thus in ease at Chippenham, his enemies atGloucester seemed lost in enjoyment of their spoils. Guthrum had dividedthe surrounding lands among his victorious followers, the Saxons hadbeen driven out, slain, or enslaved, and the brutal and barbarousvictors dwelt in peace and revelry on their new lands, spending thewinter in riot and wassail, and waiting for the spring-time budding ofthe trees to renew the war with their Saxon foes. 

[Illustration: AN ANGLO-SAXON KING. ]

Not so with Guthrum. He had sworn revenge on the Saxons. Years before, his father, a mighty chieftain, Ragnar by name, had fallen in a raid onEngland. His sons had vowed to Odin to wash out the memory of his deathin English blood, and Guthrum now determined to take advantage of themidwinter season for a sudden and victorious march upon his unsuspectingenemy. If he could seize Alfred in his palace, the war might be broughtto an end, and England won, at a single blow. 

If we can take ourselves back in fancy to New-Year's day of 878, and toan open plain in the vicinity of Gloucester, we shall see there theplanted standard of Guthrum floating in the wind, while from every sidearmed horsemen are riding into the surrounding space. They know not whythey come. A hasty summons has been sent them to meet their chieftainhere on this day, armed and mounted, and, loyal to their leader, andever ready for war, they ride hastily in, until the Danish championfinds himself surrounded by a strong force of hardy warriors, eager tolearn the cause of this midwinter summons. 

"It is war, " said Guthrum to his chiefs. "I have sworn to have England, and England shall be mine. The Saxons are scattered and at rest, notdreaming of battle and blood. Now is our time. A hard and sudden blowwill end the war, and the fair isle of England will be the Raven'sspoil. "

We may still hear in fancy the wild shouts of approval with which thisstirring declaration was heard. Visions of slaughter, plunder, and richdomains filled the souls of chiefs and men alike, and their eagerness totake to the field was such that they could barely wait to hear theirleader's plans. 

"Alfred, the Saxon king, must be ours, " said Guthrum. "He is the one manI dread in all the Saxon hosts. They have many hands, but only one head. Let us seize the head, and the hands are useless. Alfred is atChippenham. Thither let us ride at speed. "

Their bands were mustered, their arms examined, and food for theexpedition prepared, and then to horse and away! Headlong over thenarrow and forest-bordered roads of that day rode the host of Danes, intriumphant expectation of victory and spoil. 

In his study sat Alfred, on the night of January 6, poring over anilluminated page; or mayhap he was deep in learned consultation withsome monkish scholar, mayhap presiding at a feast of his thanes: we mayfancy what we will, for history or legend fails to tell us how he wasengaged on that critical evening of his life. 

But we may imagine a wide-eyed Saxon sentinel, seared and hasty, breaking upon the monarch's leisure with the wild alarm-cry, --

"Up and away, my king! The Danes are coming! hosts of them, armed andhorsed! Up and away!"

Hardly had he spoken before the hoof-beats of the advancing foe wereheard. On they came, extending their lines as they rode at headlongspeed, hoping to surround the villa and seize the king before the alarmcould be given. 

They were too late. Alfred was quick to hear, to heed, and to act. Forest bordered the villa; into the forest he dashed, his followersfollowing in tumultuous haste. The Danes made what haste theobstructions in their way permitted. In a few minutes they had sweptround the villa, with ringing shouts of triumph. In a few minutes morethey were treading its deserted halls, Guthrum at their head, furious tofind that his hoped-for prey had vanished and left him but the emptyshell of his late home. 

"After him!" cried the furious Dane. "He cannot be far. This place isfull of signs of life. He has fled into the forest. After him! A king'sprize for the man who seizes him. "

In vain their search, the flying king knew his own woods too well to beovertaken by the Danes. Yet their far cries filled his ears, and rousedhim to thoughts of desperate resistance. He looked around on his handfulof valiant followers. 

"Let us face them!" he cried, in hot anger. "We are few, but we fightfor our homes. Let us meet these baying hounds!"

"No, no, " answered the wisest of his thanes. "It would be worse thanrash, it would be madness. They are twenty--a hundred, mayhap--to ourone. Let us fly now, that we may fight hereafter. All is not lost whileour king is free, and we to aid him. "

Alfred was quick to see the wisdom of this advice. He must bide histime. To strike now might be to lose all. To wait might be to gain all. He turned with a meaning look to his faithful thanes. 

"In sooth, you speak well, " he said. "The wisdom of the fox is nowbetter than the courage of the lion. We must part here. The land for thetime is the Danes'. We cannot hinder them. They will search homesteadand woodland for me. Before a fortnight's end they will have swarmedover all Wessex, and Guthrum will be lord of the land. I admire thatman; he is more than a barbarian, he knows the art of war. He shalllearn yet that Alfred is his match. We must part. "

"Part?" said the thanes, looking at him in doubt. "Wherefore?"

"I must seek safety alone and in disguise. There are not enough of youto help me; there are enough to betray me to suspicion. Go your ways, good friends. Save yourselves. We will meet again before many weeks tostrike a blow for our country. But the time is not yet. "

History speaks not from the depths of that woodland whither Alfred hadfled with his thanes. We cannot say if just these words were spoken, butsuch was the purport of their discourse. They separated, the thanes andtheir followers to seek their homes; Alfred, disguised as a peasant, tothread field and forest on foot towards a place of retreat which he hadfixed upon in his mind. Not even to the faithfulest of his thanes did hetell the secret of his abode. For the present it must be known to nonebut himself. 

Meanwhile, the cavalry of Guthrum were raiding the country far and wide. Alfred had escaped, but England lay helpless in their grasp. Newstravelled slowly in those days. Everywhere the Saxons first learned ofthe war by hearing the battle-cry of the Danes. The land was overrun. England seemed lost. Its only hope of safety lay in a man who would notacknowledge defeat, a monarch who could bide his time. 

The lonely journey of the king led him to the centre of Somersetshire. Here, at the confluence of the Tone and the Parret, was a small island, afterwards known as Ethelingay, or Prince's Island. Around it spread awide morass, little likely to be crossed by his pursuers. Here, stilldisguised, the fugitive king sought a refuge from his foes. 

For several months Alfred remained in this retreat, his place of refugeduring part of the time being in the hut of a swineherd; and thereuponhangs a tale. Whether or not the worthy herdsman knew his king, certainly the weighty secret was not known to his wife. One day, whileAlfred sat by the fire, his hands busy with his bow and arrows, his headmayhap busy with plans against the Danes, the good woman of the housewas engaged in baking cakes on the hearth. 

Having to leave the hut for a few minutes, she turned to her guest, andcurtly bade him watch the cakes, to see that they did not get overdone. 

"Trust me for that, " he said. 

She left the room. The cakes smoked on the hearth, yet he saw them not. The goodwife returned in a brief space, to find her guest buried in adeep study, and her cakes burned to a cinder. 

"What!" she cried, with an outburst of termagant spleen, "I warrant youwill be ready enough to eat them by-and-by, you idle dog! and yet youcannot watch them burning under your very eyes. "

What the king said in reply the tradition which has preserved thispleasant tale fails to relate. Doubtless it needed some of theswineherd's eloquence to induce his irate wife to bake a fresh supplyfor their careless guest. 

It had been Guthrum's main purpose, as we may be assured, in his rapidride to Chippenham, to seize the king. In this he had failed; but theremainder of his project went successfully forward. Through Dorset, Berkshire, Wilts, and Hampshire rode his men, forcing the peopleeverywhere to submit. The country was thinly settled, none knew the fateof the king, resistance would have been destruction, they bent beforethe storm, hoping by yielding to save their lives and some portion oftheir property from the barbarian foe. Those near the coast crossed withtheir families and movable effects to Gaul. Elsewhere submission wasgeneral, except in Somersetshire, where alone a body of faithfulwarriors, lurking in the woods, kept in arms against the invaders. 

Alfred's secret could not yet be safely revealed. Guthrum had not givenover his search for him. Yet some of the more trusty of his subjectswere told where he might be found, and a small band joined him in hismorass-guarded isle. Gradually the news spread, and others sought theisle of Ethelingay, until a well-armed and sturdy band of followerssurrounded the royal fugitive. This party must be fed. The islandyielded little subsistence. The king was obliged to make foraging raidsfrom his hiding-place. Now and then he met and defeated stragglingparties of Danes, taking from them their spoils. At other times, whenhard need pressed, he was forced to forage on his own subjects. 

Day by day the news went wider through Saxon homes, and more warriorssought their king. As the strength of his band increased, Alfred mademore frequent and successful forays. The Danes began to find thatresistance was not at an end. By Easter the king felt strong enough totake a more decided action. He had a wooden bridge thrown from theisland to the shore, to facilitate the movements of his followers, whileat its entrance was built a fort, to protect the island party against aDanish incursion. 

Such was the state of Alfred's fortunes and of England's hopes in thespring of 878. Three months before, all southern England, with theexception of Gloucester and its surrounding lands, had been his. Now hiskingdom was a small island in the heart of a morass, his subjects alurking band of faithful warriors, his subsistence what could be wrestedfrom the strong hands of the foe. 

While matters went thus in Somerset, a storm of war gathered in Wales. Another of Ragnar's sons, Ubbo by name, had landed on the Welsh coast, and, carrying everything before him, was marching inland to join hisvictorious brother. 

He was too strong for the Saxons of that quarter to make head againsthim in the open field. Odun, the valiant ealderman who led them, fled, with his thanes and their followers, to the castle of Kwineth, astronghold defended only by a loose wall of stones, in the Saxonfashion. But the fortress occupied the summit of a lofty rock, and badedefiance to assault. Ubbo saw this. He saw, also, that water must bewanting on that steep rock. He pitched his tents at its foot, and waitedtill thirst should compel a surrender of the garrison. 

He was to find that it is not always wise to cut off the supplies of abeleaguered foe. Despair aids courage. A day came in the siege in whichOdun, grown desperate, left his defences before dawn, glided silentlydown the hill with his men, and fell so impetuously upon the Danishhost that the chief and twelve hundred of his followers were slain, andthe rest driven in panic to their ships. The camp, rich with the spoilof Wales, fell into the victors' hands, while their trophies includedthe great Raven standard of the Danes, said to have been woven in onenoontide by Ragnar's three daughters. This was a loss that presageddefeat to the Danes, for they were superstitious concerning thisstandard. If the raven appeared to flap its wings when going intobattle, victory seemed to them assured. If it hung motionless, defeatwas feared. Its loss must have been deemed fatal. 

Tidings of this Saxon victory flew as if upon wings throughout England, and everywhere infused new spirit into the hearts of the people, newhope of recovering their country from the invading foe. To Alfred thenews brought a heart-tide of joy. The time for action was at hand. Recruits came to him daily; fresh life was in his people; trustymessengers from Ethelingay sought the thanes throughout the land, andbade them, with their followers, to join the king at Egbert, on theeastern border of Selwood forest, in the seventh week after Easter. 

Guthrum, meanwhile, was not idle. The frequent raids inmid-Somersetshire had taught him where his royal enemy might be found. Action, immediate and decisive, was necessary, or Alfred would be againin the field with a Saxon army, and the fruits of the successfulmidwinter raid be lost. Messengers were sent in haste to call in thescattered Danish bands, and a fortified camp was formed in a strongplace in the vicinity of Ethelingay, whence a concerted movement mightbe made upon the lurking foe. 

The time fixed for the gathering of the Saxon host was at hand. It wasof high importance that the numbers and disposition of the Danes shouldbe learned. The king, if we may trust tradition, now undertook anadventure that has ever since been classed among the choicest treasuresof romance. The duty demanded was too important to trust to any doubtfulhands. Alfred determined himself to venture within the camp of theDanes, observe how they were fortified and how arranged, and use thisvital information when the time for battle came. 

The enterprise was less desperate than might seem. Alfred's form andface were little known to his enemies. He was a skilful harper. Theglee-man in those days was a privileged person, allied to no party, freeto wander where he would, and to twang his harp-strings in any camp. Hemight look for welcome from friend and foe. 

Dressed in Danish garb, and bearing the minstrel's harp, the daring kingboldly sought and entered the camp of the invaders, his coming greetedwith joy by the Danish warriors, who loved martial music as they lovedwar. 

Songs of Danish prowess fell from the disguised minstrel's lips, to thedelight of his audience. In the end Guthrum and his chiefs heard reportof the coming of this skilled glee-man, and ordered that he should bebrought to the great tent, where they sat carousing, in hopefulanticipation of coming victory. 

Alfred, nothing loath, sought Guthrum's tent, where, with stirring songsof the old heroes of their land, he flattered the ears of the chiefs, who applauded him to the echo, and at times broke into wild refrains tohis warlike odes. All that passed we cannot say. The story is told bytradition only, and tradition is not to be trusted for details. Doubtless, when the royal spy slipped from the camp of his foes he borewith him an accurate mind-picture of the numbers, the discipline, andthe arrangement of the Danish force, which would be of the highest valuein the coming fray. 

Meanwhile, the Saxon hosts were gathering. When the day fixed by theking arrived they were there: men from Hampshire, Wiltshire, Devonshire, and Somerset; men in smaller numbers from other counties; all glad tolearn that England was on its feet again, all filled with joy to seetheir king in the field. Their shouts filled the leafy alleys of theforest, they hailed the king as the land's avenger, every heart beathigh with assurance of victory. Before night of the day of meeting thewoodland camp was overcrowded with armed men, and at dawn of the nextday Alfred led them to a place named Icglea, where, on the forest'sedge, a broad plain spread with a morass on its front. All day longvolunteers came to the camp; by night Alfred had an army in open field, in place of the guerilla band with which, two days before, he hadlurked in the green aisles of Selwood forest, like a Robin Hood of anearlier day, making the verdant depths of the greenwood dales his home. 

At dawn of the next day the king marshalled his men in battle array, andoccupied the summit of Ethandune, a lofty eminence in the vicinity ofhis camp. The Danes, fiery with barbaric valor, boldly advanced, and thetwo armies met in fierce affray, shouting their war-cries, dischargingarrows and hurling javelins, and rushing like wolves of war to thecloser and more deadly hand-to-hand combat of sword and axe, of theshock of the contending forces, the hopes and fears of victory anddefeat, the deeds of desperate valor, the mighty achievements of notedchiefs, on that hard-fought field no Homer has sung, and they mustremain untold. All we know is that the Danes fought with desperatevalor, the English with a courage inspired by revenge, fear of slavery, thirst for liberty, and the undaunted resolution of men whose every blowwas struck for home and fireside. 

In the end patriotism prevailed over the baser instinct of piracy; theDanes were defeated, and driven in tumultuous hosts to their intrenchedcamp, falling in multitudes as they fled, for the incensed English laidaside all thought of mercy in the hot fury of pursuit. 

Only when within the shelter of his works was Guthrum able to make headagainst his victorious foe. The camp seemed too strong to be taken byassault, nor did Alfred care to immolate his men while a safer and surerexpedient remained. He had made himself fully familiar with itsformation, knew well its weak and strong points and its sparseness ofsupplies, and without loss of time spread his forces round it, besiegingit so closely that not a Dane could escape. For fourteen days the siegewent on, Alfred's army, no doubt, daily increasing, that of his foewasting away before the ceaseless flight of arrows and javelins. 

Guthrum was in despair. Famine threatened him. Escape was impossible. Hardly a bird could have fled unseen through the English lines. At theend of the fortnight he yielded, and asked for terms of surrender. Thewar was at an end. England was saved. 

In his moment of victory Alfred proved generous. He gave the Danes anabiding-place upon English soil, on condition that they should dwellthere as his vassals. To this they were to bind themselves by oath andthe giving of hostages. Another condition was that Guthrum and hisleading chiefs should give up their pagan faith and embraceChristianity. 

To these terms the Danish leader acceded. A few weeks after the fightAubre, near Athelney, was the scene of the baptizing of Guthrum andthirty of his chiefs. To his heathen title was added the Saxon name ofAthelstan, Alfred standing sponsor to the new convert to the Christianfaith. Eight days afterwards Guthrum laid off the white robe andchrysmal fillet of his new faith, and in twelve days bade adieu to hisvictorious foe, now, to all seeming, his dearest friend. What sum ofChristian faith the baptized heathen took with him to the new landsassigned him it would be rash to say, but at all events he was removedfrom the circle of England's foes. 

The treaty of Wedmore freed southern England from the Danes. The shoresof Wessex were teased now and then by after-descents, but theseincursions were swept away like those of stinging hornets. In 894 afleet of three hundred ships invaded the realm, but they met a crushingdefeat. The king was given some leisure to pursue those studies to whichhis mind so strongly inclined, and to carry forward measures for theeducation of his people by the establishment of schools which, likethose of Charlemagne in France, vanished before he was fairly in thegrave. This noble knight died in 901, nearly a thousand years ago, afterhaving proved himself one of the ablest warriors and most advanced mindsthat ever occupied the English throne. 

_THE WOOING OF ELFRIDA. _

Of all the many fair maidens of the Saxon realm none bore such fame forbeauty as the charming Elfrida, daughter of the earl of Devonshire, andthe rose of southern England. She had been educated in the country andhad never been seen in London, but the report of her charms of face andperson spread so widely that all the land became filled with the tale. 

It soon reached the court and came to the ears of Edgar, the king, ayouthful monarch who had an open ear for all tales of maidenly beauty. He was yet but little more than a boy, was unmarried, and a born lover. The praises of this country charmer, therefore, stirred his susceptibleheart. She was nobly born, the heiress to an earldom, the very rose ofEnglish maidens, --what better consort for the throne could be found? Ifreport spoke true, this was the maiden he should choose for wife, thisfairest flower of the Saxon realm. But rumor grows apace, and commonreport is not to be trusted. Edgar thought it the part of discretion tomake sure of the beauty of the much-lauded Elfrida before making aformal demand for her hand in marriage. 

Devonshire was far away, roads few and poor in Saxon England, travelslow and wearisome, and the king had no taste for the journey to thecastle of Olgar of Devon. Nor did he deem it wise to declare hisintention till he made sure that the maiden was to his liking. He, therefore, spoke of his purpose to Earl Athelwold, his favorite, whom hebade to pay a visit, on some pretence, to Earl Olgar of Devonshire, tosee his renowned daughter, and to bring to the court a certain accountconcerning her beauty. 

Athelwold went to Devonshire, saw the lady, and proved faithless to histrust. Love made him a traitor, as it has made many before and since hisday. So marvellously beautiful he found Elfrida that his heart fellprisoner to the most vehement love, a passion so ardent that it droveall thoughts of honor and fidelity from his soul, and he determined tohave this charming lass of Devonshire for his own, despite king orcommons. 

Athelwold's high station had secured him a warm welcome from his brotherearl. He acquitted himself of his pretended mission to Olgar, basked aslong as prudence permitted in the sunlight of his lady's eyes, and, almost despite himself, made manifest to Elfrida the sudden passion thathad filled his soul. The maiden took it not amiss. Athelwold was young, handsome, rich, and high in station, Elfrida susceptible and ambitious, and he returned to London not without hope that he had favorablyimpressed the lady's heart, and filled with the faithless purpose ofdeceiving the king. 

"You have seen and noted her, Athelwold, " said Edgar, on giving himaudience; "what have you to say? Has report spoken truly? Is she indeedthe marvellous beauty that rumor tells, or has fame, the liar, played usone of his old tricks?"

"Not altogether; the woman is not bad-looking, " said Athelwold, withstudied lack of enthusiasm; "but I fear that high station and a prettyface have combined to bewitch the people. Certainly, if she had been oflow birth, her charms would never have been heard of outside her nativevillage. "

"I' faith, Athelwold, you are not warm in your praise of this queen ofbeauty, " said Edgar, with some disappointment. "Rumor, then, has lied, and she is but an every-day woman, after all?"

"Beauty has a double origin, " answered Athelwold; "it lies partly in theface seen, partly in the eyes seeing. Some might go mad over thisElfrida, but to my taste London affords fairer faces. I speak but formyself. Should you see her you might think differently. "

Athelwold had managed his story shrewdly; the king's ardor grew cold. 

"If the matter stands thus, he that wants her may have her, " said Edgar. "The diamond that fails to show its lustre in all candles is not the gemfor my wearing. Confess, Athelwold, you are trying to overpaint thiswoman; you found only an ordinary face. "

"I saw nothing in it extraordinary, " answered the faithless envoy. "Somemight, perhaps. I can only speak for myself. As I take it, Elfrida'snoble birth and her father's wealth, which will come to her as soleheiress, have had their share in painting this rose. The woman may havebeauty enough for a countess; hardly enough for a queen. "

"Then you should have wooed and won her yourself, " said Edgar, laughing. "Such a faintly-praised charmer is not for me. I leave her for alower-born lover. "

Several days passed. Athelwold had succeeded in his purpose; the kinghad evidently been cured of his fancy for Elfrida. The way was open forthe next step in his deftly-laid scheme. He took it by turning theconversation, in a later interview, upon the Devon maiden. 

"I have been thinking over your remark, that I should woo and winElfrida myself, " he said. "It seems to me not a bad idea. I must confessthat the birth and fortune of the lady added no beauty to her in myeyes, as it seems to have done in those of others; yet I cannot butthink that the woman would make a suitable match for me. She is anearl's daughter, and she will inherit great wealth; these are advantageswhich fairly compensate some lack of beauty. I have decided, therefore, sire, if I can gain your approbation, to ask Olgar for his daughter'shand. I fancy I can gain her consent if I have his. "

"I shall certainly not stand in your way, " said the king, pleased withthe opportunity to advance his favorite's fortunes. "By all means do asyou propose. I will give you letters to the earl and his lady, recommending the match. You must trust to yourself to make your way withthe maiden. "

"I think she is not quite displeased with me, " answered Athelwold. 

What followed few words may tell. The passion of love in Athelwold'sheart had driven out all considerations of honor and duty, of the goodfaith he owed the king, and of the danger of his false and treacherouscourse. Warm with hope, he returned with a lover's haste to Devonshire, where he gained the approval of the earl and countess, won the hand andseemingly the heart of their beautiful daughter, and was speedily unitedto the lady of his love, and became for the time being the happiest manin England. 

But before the honey-moon was well over, the faithless friend andsubject realized that he had a difficult and dangerous part to play. Hedid not dare let Edgar see his wife, for fear of the instant detectionof his artifice, and he employed every pretence to keep her in thecountry. His duties at the court brought him frequently to London, butwith the skill at excuses he had formerly shown he contrived to satisfyfor the time the queries of the king and the importunities of his wife, who had a natural desire to visit the capital and to shine at the king'scourt. 

Athelwold was sailing between Scylla and Charybdis. He could scarcelyescape being wrecked on the rocks of his own falsehood. The enemies whoalways surround a royal favorite were not long in surmising the truth, and lost no time in acquainting Edgar with their suspicions. Confirmation was not wanting. There were those in London who had seenElfrida. The king's eyes were opened to the treacherous artifice ofwhich he had been made the victim. 

Edgar was deeply incensed, but artfully concealed his anger. Reflection, too, told him that these men were Athelwold's enemies, and that the manhe had loved and trusted ought not to be condemned on the insinuationsof his foes. He would satisfy himself if his favorite had played thetraitor, and if so would visit him with the punishment he deserved. 

"Athelwold, " said Edgar, in easy tones, "I am surprised you do not bringyour wife to court. Surely the woman, if she is true woman, must craveto come. "

"Not she, " answered Athelwold. "She loves the country well and is apattern of the rural virtues. The woman is homely and home-loving, and Ishould be sorry to put new ideas in her rustic pate. Moreover, I fear mylittle candle would shine too poorly among your courtly stars to offerher in contrast. "

"Fie on you, man! the wife of Athelwold cannot be quite a milkmaid. Ifyou will not bring her here, then I must pay you a visit in your castle;I like you too well not to know and like your wife. "

This proposition of the king filled Athelwold with terror and dismay. Hegrew pale, and hesitatingly sought to dissuade Edgar from his project, but in vain. The king had made up his mind, and laughingly told himthat he could not rest till he had seen the homely housewife whomAthelwold was afraid to trust in court. 

"I feel the honor you would do me, " at length remarked the dismayedfavorite. "I only ask, sire, that you let me go before you a few hours, that my castle may be properly prepared for a visit from my king. "

"As you will, gossip, " laughed the king. "Away with you, then; I willsoon follow. "

In all haste the traitor sought his castle, quaking with fear, andrevolving in his mind schemes for avoiding the threatened disclosure. Hecould think of but one that promised success, and that depended on thelove and compliance of Elfrida. He had deceived her. He must tell herthe truth. With her aid his faithless action might still be concealed. 

Entering his castle, he sought Elfrida and revealed to her the wholemeasure of his deceit, how he had won her from the king, led by hisoverpowering love, how he had kept her from the king's eyes, and howEdgar now, filled, he feared, with suspicion, was on his way to thecastle to see her for himself. 

In moving accents the wretched man appealed to her, if she had anyregard for his honor and his life, to conceal from the king that fatalbeauty which had lured him from his duty to his friend and monarch, andled him into endless falsehoods. He had but his love to offer as awarrant for his double faithlessness, and implored Elfrida, as shereturned his affection, to lend her aid to his exculpation. If she lovedhim as she seemed, she would put on her homliest attire, employ thedevices of the toilette to hide her fatal beauty, and assume an awkwardand rustic tone and manner, that the king might be deceived. 

Elfrida heard him in silence, her face scarcely concealing theindignation which burned in her soul on learning the artifice by whichshe had been robbed of a crown. In the end, however, she seemed moved byhis entreaties and softened by his love, and promised to comply with hiswishes and do her utmost to conceal her charms. 

Gratified with this compliance, and full of hope that all would yet besafe, Athelwold completed his preparations for the reception of theking, and met him on his appearance with every show of honor andrespect. Edgar seemed pleased by his reception, entered the castle, butwas not long there before he asked to see its lady, saying merrily thatshe had been the loadstone that had drawn him thither, and that he waseager to behold her charming face. 

"I fear I have little of beauty and grace to show you, " answeredAthelwold; "but she is a good wife withal, and I love her for virtueswhich few would call courtly. "

He turned to a servant and bade him ask his mistress to come to thecastle hall, where the king expected her. 

Athelwold waited with hopeful eyes; the king with curious expectation. The husband knew how unattractive a toilet his wife could make if shewould; Edgar was impatient to test for himself the various reports hehad received concerning this wild rose of Devonshire. 

The lady entered. The hope died from Athelwold's eyes; the pallor ofdeath overspread his face. A sudden light flashed into the face of theking, a glow made up of passion and anger. For instead of theill-dressed and awkward country housewife for whom Athelwold looked, there beamed upon all present a woman of regal beauty, clad in herrichest attire, her charms of face and person set off with all theadornment that jewels and laces could bestow, her face blooming into itsmost engaging smile as she greeted the king. 

She had deceived her trusting husband. His story of treachery had drivenfrom her heart all the love for him that ever dwelt there. He had robbedher of a throne; she vowed revenge in her soul; it might be hers yet;with the burning instinct of ambition she had adorned herself to theutmost, hoping to punish her faithless lord and win the king. 

She succeeded. While Athelwold stood by, biting his lips, striving tobring back the truant blood to his face, making hesitating remarks tohis guest, and turning eyes of deadly anger on his wife, the schemingwoman was using her most engaging arts of conversation and manner to winthe king, and with a success greater than she knew. Edgar beheld herbeauty with surprise and joy, his heart throbbing with ardent passion. She was all and more than he had been told. Athelwold had baselydeceived him, and his new-born love for the wife was mingled with afierce desire for revenge upon the husband. But the artful monarchdissembled both these passions. He was, to a certain extent, inAthelwold's power. His train was not large, and those were days in whichan angry or jealous thane would not hesitate to lift his hand against aking. He, therefore, affected not to be struck with Elfrida's beauty, was gracious as usual to his host, and seemed the most agreeable ofguests. 

But passion was burning in his heart, the double passion of love andrevenge. A day or two of this play of kingly clemency passed, thenAthelwold and his guests went to hunt in the neighboring forest, and inthe heat of the chase Edgar gained the opportunity he desired. Hestabbed his unsuspecting host in the back, left him dead on the field, and rode back to the castle to declare his love to the suddenly-widowedwife. 

Elfrida had won the game for which she had so heartlessly played. Ambition in her soul outweighed such love as she bore for Athelwold, andshe received with gracious welcome the king whose hands were still redfrom the murder of her late spouse. No long time passed before Edgar andElfrida were publicly married, and the love romance which haddistinguished the life of the famed beauty of Devonshire reached itsconsummation. 

This romantic story has a sequel which tells still less favorably forthe Devonshire beauty. She had compassed the murder of her husband. Itwas not her last crime. Edgar died when her son Ethelred was but sevenyears of age. The king had left another son, Edward, by his first wife, now fifteen years old. The ambitious woman plotted for the elevation ofher son to the throne, hoping, doubtless, herself to reign as regent. The people favored Edward, as the rightful heir, and the nobility andclergy, who feared the imperious temper of Elfrida, determined to thwarther schemes. To put an end to the matter, Dunstan the monk, theall-powerful king-maker of that epoch, had the young prince anointed andcrowned. The whole kingdom supported his act, and the hopes of Elfridawere seemingly at an end. 

But she was a woman not to be easily defeated. She bided her time, andaffected warm regard for the youthful king, who loved her as if he hadbeen her own son, and displayed the most tender affection for hisbrother. Edward, indeed, was a character out of tone with those rudetenth-century days, when might was right, and murder was often the firststep to a throne. He was of the utmost innocence of heart and amiabilityof manners, so pure in his own thoughts that suspicion of others foundno place in his soul. 

One day, four years after his accession, he was hunting in a forest inDorsetshire, not far from Corfe-castle, where Elfrida and Ethelredlived. The chances of the chase led him to the vicinity of the castle, and, taking advantage of the opportunity to see its loved inmates, herode away from his attendants, and in the evening twilight sounded hishunting-horn at the castle gates. 

This was the opportunity which the ambitious woman had desired. Therival of her son had put himself unattended within her reach. Hastilypreparing for the reception she designed to give him, she came from thecastle, smiling a greeting. 

"You are heartily welcome, dear king and son, " she said. "Pray dismountand enter. "

"Not so, dear madam, " he replied. "My company will miss me, and fear Ihave met with some harm. I pray you give me a cup of wine, that I maydrink in the saddle to you and my little brother. I would stay longer, but may not linger. "

Elfrida returned for the wine, and as she did so whispered a few wordsto an armed man in the castle hall, one of her attendants whom she couldtrust. As she went on, this man slipped out in the gathering gloom andplaced himself close behind the king's horse. 

In a minute more Elfrida reappeared, wine-cup in hand. The king took thecup and raised it to his lips, looking down with smiling face on hisstep-mother and her son, who smiled their love-greeting back to him. Atthis instant the lurking villain in the rear sprang up and buried hisfatal knife in the king's back. 

Filled with pain and horror, Edward involuntarily dropped the cup andspurred his horse. The startled animal sprang forward, Edward clingingto his saddle for a few minutes, but soon, faint with loss of blood, falling to the earth, while one of his feet remained fast in thestirrup. 

The frightened horse rushed onward, dragging him over the rough grounduntil death put an end to his misery. The hunters, seeking the king, found the track of his blood, and traced him till his body wasdiscovered, sadly torn and disfigured. 

Meanwhile, the child Ethelred cried out so pitifully at the frightfultragedy which had taken place before his eyes, that his heartless motherturned her rage against him. She snatched a torch from one of theattendants and beat him unmercifully for his uncontrollable emotion. 

The woman a second time had won her game, --first, by compassing themurder of her husband; second, by ordering the murder of her step-son. It is pleasant to say that she profited little by the latter base deed. The people were incensed by the murder of the king, and Dunstan resolvedthat Ethelred should not have the throne. He offered it to Edgitha, thedaughter of Edgar. But that lady wisely preferred to remain in theconvent where she lived in peace: so, in default of any other heir, Ethelred was put upon the throne, --Ethelred the Unready, as he cameafterwards to be known. 

Elfrida at first possessed great influence over her son; but her powerdeclined as he grew older, and in the end she retired from the court, built monasteries and performed penances, in hopes of providing a refugefor her pious soul in heaven, since all men hated her upon the earth. 

As regards Edward, his tragical death so aroused the sympathy of thepeople that they named him the Martyr, and believed that miracles werewrought at his tomb. It cannot be said that his murder was in any sensea martyrdom, but the men of that day did not draw fine lines ofdistinction, and Edward the Martyr he remains. 

_THE END OF SAXON ENGLAND. _

We have two pictures to draw, preliminary scenes to the fatal battle ofHastings Hill. The first belongs to the morning of September 25, 1066. At Stamford Bridge, on the Derwent River, lay encamped a stalwart host, that of Harold Hardrada, king of Norway. With him was Tostig, rebelbrother of King Harold of England, who had brought this army ofstrangers into the land. On the river near by lay their ships. 

Here Harold found them, a formidable force, drawn up in a circle, theline marked out by shining spears. The English king had marched hitherin all haste from the coast, where he had been awaiting the coming ofWilliam of Normandy. Tostig, the rebel son of Godwin, had brought ruinupon the land. 

Before the battle commenced, twenty horsemen rode out from Harold'svanguard and moved towards the foe. Harold, the king, rode at theirhead. As they drew near they saw a leader of the opposing host, clad ina blue mantle and wearing a shining helmet, fall to the earth throughthe stumbling of his horse. 

"Who is the man that fell?" asked Harold. 

"The king of Norway, " answered one of his companions. 

"He is a tall and stately warrior, " answered Harold, "but his end isnear. "

Then, under command of the king, one of his noble followers rode up tothe opposing line and called out, --

"Is Tostig, the son of Godwin, here?"

"It would be wrong to say he is not, " answered the rebel Englishman, stepping into view. 

The herald then begged him to make peace with his brother, saying thatit was dreadful that two men, sons of the same mother, should be in armsagainst each other. 

"What will Harold give me if I make peace with him?" asked Tostig. 

"He will give you a brother's love and make you earl of Northumberland. "

"And what will he give to my friend, the king of Norway?"

"Seven feet of earth for a grave, " was the grim answer of the envoy;"or, as he seems a very tall man, perhaps a foot or two more. "

"Ride back, then, " said Tostig, "and bid Harold make ready for battle. Whatever happens, it shall never be said of Tostig that he basely gaveup the friend who had helped him in time of need. "

The fight began, --and quickly ended. Hardrada fought like a giant, butan arrow in his throat brought him dead to the ground. Tostig fell also, and many other chiefs. The Northmen, disheartened, yielded. Harold gavethem easy terms, bidding them take their ships and sail again to theland whence they had come. 

This warlike picture on the land may be matched by one upon the sea. Over the waves of the English Channel moved a single ship, such a one ashad rarely been seen upon those waters. Its sails were of differentbright colors; the vanes at the mast-heads were gilded; the three lionsof Normandy were painted here and there; the figure-head was a childwith a bent bow, its arrow pointed towards the land of England. At themainmast-head floated a consecrated banner, which had been sent fromRome. 

It was the ship of William of Normandy, alone upon the waves. Threethousand vessels in all had left with it the shores of France, six orseven hundred of them large in size. Now, day was breaking, and theking's ship was alone. The others had vanished in the night. 

William ordered a sailor to the mast-head to report on what he couldsee. 

"I see nothing but the water and the sky, " came the lookout's cry fromabove. 

"We have outsailed them; we must lay to, " said the duke. 

Breakfast was served, with warm spiced wine, to keep the crew in goodheart. After it was over the sailor was again sent aloft. 

"I can see four ships, low down in the offing, " he proclaimed. 

A third time he was sent to the mast-head. His voice now came to thoseon deck filled with merry cheer. 

"Now I see a forest of masts and sails, " he cried. 

Within a few hours afterwards the Normans were landing in Pevensey Bay, on the Sussex coast. Harold had been drawn off by the invasion in thenorth, and the new invaders were free to land. Duke William was amongthe first. As he set foot on shore he stumbled and fell. The hearts ofhis knights fell with him, for they deemed this an unlucky sign. ButWilliam had that ready wit which turns ill into good fortune. Graspingtwo handfuls of the soil, he hastily rose, saying, cheerily, "Thus do Iseize upon the land of England. "

Meanwhile, Harold was feasting, after his victory, at York. As he satthere with his captains, a stir was heard at the doors, and in rushed amessenger, booted and spurred, and covered with dust from riding fastand far. 

"The Normans have come!" was his cry. "They have landed at Pevensey Bay. They are out already, harrying the land. Smoke and fire are the beaconsof their march. "

That feast came to a sudden end. Soon Harold and his men were in fullmarch for London. Here recruits were gathered in all haste. Within aweek the English king was marching towards where the Normans layencamped. He was counselled to remain and gather more men, leaving someone else to lead his army. 

"Not so, " he replied; "an English king must never turn his back to theenemy. "

We have now a third picture to draw, and a great one, --that of themighty and momentous conflict which ended in the death of the last ofthe Saxon kings, and the Norman conquest of England. 

The force of William greatly outnumbered that of Harold. It comprisedabout sixty thousand men, while Harold had but twenty or thirtythousand. And the Normans were more powerfully armed, the English havingfew archers, while many of them were hasty recruits who bore onlypitchforks and other tools of their daily toil. The English king, therefore, did not dare to meet the heavily-armed and mail-clad Normansin the open field. Wisely he led his men to the hill of Senlac, nearHastings, a spot now occupied by the small town of Battle, so named inmemory of the great fight. Here he built intrenchments of earth, stones, and tree-trunks, behind which he waited the Norman assault. Marshyground covered the English right. In front, at the most exposedposition, stood the "huscarls, " or body-guard, of Harold, men clad inmail and armed with great battle-axes, their habit being to interlocktheir shields like a wall. In their midst stood the standard ofHarold, --with the figure of a warrior worked in gold and gems, --andbeside it the Golden Dragon of Wessex, a banner of ancient fame. Back ofthem were crowded the half-armed rustics who made up the remainder ofthe army. 

Duke William had sought, by ravaging the land, to bring Harold to anengagement. He had until now subsisted by plunder. He was now obliged toconcentrate his forces. A concentrated army cannot feed by pillage. There was but one thing for the Norman leader to do. He must attack thefoe in his strong position, with victory or ruin as his onlyalternatives. 

The night before the battle was differently passed by the two armies. The Normans spent the hours in prayer and confession to their priests. Bishop Odo celebrated mass on the field as day dawned, his whiteepiscopal vestment covering a coat of mail, while war-horse andbattle-axe awaited him when the benediction should be spoken. TheEnglish, on their side, sat round their watch-fires, drinking greathorns of ale, and singing warlike lays, as their custom for centurieshad been. 

Day had not dawned on that memorable 14th of October, of the year 1066, when both sides were in arms and busily preparing for battle. Williamand Harold alike harangued their men and bade them do their utmost forvictory. Ruin awaited the one side, slavery the other, if defeat fellupon their banners. 

William rode a fine Spanish horse, which a Norman had brought fromGalicia, whither he had gone on a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Iago. The consecrated standard was borne by his side by one Tonstain, "theWhite, " two barons having declined the dangerous honor. Behind him rodethe pride of the Norman nobility. 

On the hill-side before them stood Harold and his stout body-guard, trenches and earthworks in their front, their shields locked into a wallof iron. In the first line stood the men of Kent, this being theirancient privilege. Behind them were ranged the burgesses of London, theroyal standard in their midst. Beside the standard stood Harold himself, his brothers Gurth and Leofwin by his side, and around them a group ofEngland's noblest thanes and warriors. 

On came the Norman column. Steadily awaited them the English phalanx. "Dieu aide!" or "God is our help!" shouted the assailing knights. "Christ's rood! the holy rood!" roared back the English warriors. Nearerthey came, till they looked in each other's eyes, and the battle wasready to begin. 

And now, from the van of the Norman host, rode a man of renown, theminstrel Taillefer. A gigantic man he was, singer, juggler, and championcombined. As he rode fearlessly forward he chanted in a loud voice theancient "Song of Roland, " flinging his sword in the air with one hand ashe sang, and catching it as it fell with the other. As he sang, theNormans took up the refrain of his song, or shouted their battle cry of"Dieu aide. "

Onward he rode, thrusting his blade through the body of the firstEnglishman he met. The second he encountered was flung wounded to theground. With the third the "Song of Roland" ended; the giant minstrelwas hurled from his horse pierced with a mortal wound. He had sung hislast song. He crossed himself and was at rest. 

On came the Normans, the band of knights led by William assailingHarold's centre, the mercenary host of French and Bretons attacking hisflanks. The Norman foot led the van, seeking to force a passage acrossthe English stockade. "Out, out!" fiercely shouted the men of Kent, asthey plied axe and javelin with busy hands. The footmen were drivenback. The Norman horse in turn were repulsed. Again and again the dukerallied and led his knights to the fatal stockade; again and again heand his men were driven back. The blood of the Norseman in his veinsburned with all the old Viking battle-thirst. The headlong valor whichhe had often shown on Norman plains now impelled him relentlesslyforward. Yet his coolness and readiness never forsook him. The course ofthe battle ever lay before his eyes, its reins in his grasp. At one timeduring the combat the choicest of the Norman cavalry were driven upon adeep trench which the English had dug and artfully concealed. In theywent in numbers, men and horses falling and perishing. Disasterthreatened Duke William's army. The Bretons, checked by the marshes onthe right broke in disorder. Panic threatened to spread through thewhole array, and a wild cry arose that the duke was slain. Men innumbers turned their backs upon the foe; a headlong flight was begun. 

At this almost fatal moment Duke William's power as a leader revealeditself. His horse had been killed, but no harm had come to him. Springing to the back of a fresh steed, he spurred before the fugitives, and bade them halt, threatened them, struck them with his spear. Whenthe cry was repeated that the duke was dead, he tore off his helmet andshowed his face to the flying host. "Here I am!" he cried, in astentorian voice. "Look at me! I live, and by God's help will conqueryet!"

Their leader's voice gave new courage to the Norman host, the flightceased; they rallied, and, following the headlong charge of the duke, attacked the English with renewed fierceness and vigor. William foughtlike an aroused lion. Horse after horse was killed under him, but hestill appeared at the head of his men, shouting his terrible war-cry, striking down a foeman with every swing of his mighty iron club. 

He broke through the stockade; he spurred furiously on those who guardedthe king's standard; down went Gurth, the king's brother, before a blowof that terrible mace; down went Leofwin, a second brother of the king;William's horse fell dead under him, a rider refused to lend him hishorse, but a blow from that strong mailed hand emptied the saddle, andWilliam was again horsed and using his mighty weapon with deadly effect. 

Yet despite all his efforts the English line of defence remainedunbroken. That linked wall of shields stood intact. From behind it theterrible battle-axes of Harold's men swung like flails, making crimsongaps in the crowded ranks before them. Hours had passed in thisconflict. It began with day-dawn; the day was waning, yet still theEnglish held their own; the fate of England hung in the scale; it beganto look as if Harold would win. 

But Duke William was a man of resources. That wall of shields must berent asunder, or the battle was lost. If it could not be broken byassault, it might by retreat. He bade the men around him to feign adisorderly flight. The trick succeeded; many of the English leaped thestockade and pursued their flying foes. The crafty duke waited until theeager pursuers were scattered confusedly down the hill. Then, heading abody of horse which he had kept in reserve, he rushed upon thedisordered mass, cutting them down in multitudes, strewing the hill-sidewith English slain. 

Through the abandoned works the duke led his knights, and gained thecentral plateau. On the flanks the French and Bretons poured over thestockade and drove back its poorly-armed defenders. It wasmid-afternoon, and the field already seemed won. Yet when the sunsethour came on that red October day the battle still raged. Harold hadlost his works of defence, yet his huscarls stood stubbornly around him, and with unyielding obstinacy fought for their standard and their king. The spot on which they made their last fight was that marked afterwardsby the high altar of Battle Abbey. 

The sun was sinking. The battle was not yet decided. For nine hours ithad raged. Dead bodies by thousands clogged the field. The living foughtfrom a platform of the dead. At length, as the sun was nearing thehorizon, Duke William brought up his archers and bade them pour theirarrows upon the dense masses crowded around the standard of the Englishking. He ordered them to shoot into the air, that the descending shaftsmight fall upon the faces of the foe. 

Victory followed the flight of those plumed shafts. As the sun went downone of them pierced Harold's right eye. When they saw him fall theNormans rushed like a torrent forward, and a desperate conflict ensuedover the fallen king. The Saxon standard still waved over the serriedEnglish ranks. Robert Fitz Ernest, a Norman knight, fought his way tothe staff. His outstretched hand had nearly grasped it when an Englishbattle-axe laid him low. Twenty knights, grouped in mass, followed himthrough the English phalanx. Down they went till ten of them laystretched in death. The other ten reached the spot, tore down theEnglish flag, and in a few minutes more the consecrated banner ofNormandy was flying in its stead. 

The conflict was at an end. As darkness came the surviving English fledinto the woods in their rear. The Normans remained masters of the field. Harold, the king, was dead, and all his brothers had fallen; DukeWilliam was England's lord. On the very spot where Harold had fallen theconqueror pitched his tent, and as darkness settled over vanquishedEngland he "sate down to eat and drink among the dead. "

No braver fight had ever been made than that which Harold made forEngland. The loss of the Normans had been enormous. On the day after thebattle the survivors of William's army were drawn up in line, and themuster-roll called. To a fourth of the names no answer was returned. Among the dead were many of the noblest lords and bravest knights ofNormandy. Yet there were hungry nobles enough left to absorb all thefairest domains of Saxon England, and they crowded eagerly around theduke, pressing on him their claims. A new roll was prepared, containingthe names of the noblemen and gentlemen who had survived the bloodyfight. This was afterwards deposited in Battle Abbey, which William hadbuilt upon the hill where Harold made his gallant stand. 

The body of the slain king was not easily to be found. Harold's agedmother, who had lost three brave sons in the battle, offered DukeWilliam its weight in gold for the body of the king. Two monks soughtfor it, but in vain. The Norman soldiers had despoiled the dead, and thebody of a king could not be told among that heap of naked corpses. Inthe end the monks sent for Editha, a beautiful maiden to whom Harold hadbeen warmly attached, and begged her to search for her slain lover. 

Editha, the "swan-necked, " as some chroniclers term her, groped, witheyes half-blinded with tears, through that heap of mutilated dead, hersoul filled with horror, yet seeking on and on until at length herlove-true eyes saw and knew the face of the king. Harold's body wastaken to Waltham Abbey, on the river Lea, a place he had loved whenalive. Here he was interred, his tomb bearing the simple inscription, placed there by the monks of Waltham, "Here lies the unfortunateHarold!"

_HEREWARD THE WAKE. _

Through the mist of the far past of English history there looms upbefore our vision a notable figure, that of Hereward the Wake, the "lastof the Saxons, " as he has been appropriately called, a hero of romanceperhaps more than of history, but in some respects the noblest warriorwho fought for Saxon England against the Normans. His story is a fabricin which threads of fact and fancy seem equally interwoven; of much ofhis life, indeed, we are ignorant, and tradition has surrounded thispart of his biography with tales of largely imaginary deeds; but he is acharacter of history as well as of folk lore, and his true story is fullof the richest elements of romance. It is this noteworthy hero of oldEngland with whom we have now to deal. 

No one can be sure where Hereward was born, though most probably thecounty of Lincolnshire may claim the honor. We are told that he was heirto the lordship of Bourne, in that county. Tradition--for we have notyet reached the borders of fact--says that he was a wild and unrulyyouth, disrespectful to the clergy, disobedient to his parents, and sogenerally unmanageable that in the end his father banished him from hishome. 

Little was the truculent lad troubled by this. He had in him the spiritof a wanderer and outlaw, but was one fitted to make his mark whereverhis feet should fall. In Scotland, while still a boy, he killed, single-handed, a great bear, --a feat highly considered in those dayswhen all battles with man and beast were hand to hand. Next we hear ofhim in Cornwall, one of whose race of giants Hereward found reserved forhis prowess. This was a fellow of mighty limb and boastful tongue, vastin strength and terrible in war, as his own tale ran. Hereward foughthim, and the giant ceased to boast. Cornwall had a giant the less. Nexthe sought Ireland, and did yeoman service in the wars of that unquietisland. Taking ship thence, he made his way to Flanders, where legendcredits him with wonderful deeds. Battle and bread were the nutriment ofhis existence, the one as necessary to him as the other, and a journeyof a few hundreds of miles, with the hope of a hard fight at the end, was to him but a holiday. 

Such is the Hereward to whom tradition introduces us, an idol of popularsong and story, and doubtless a warrior of unwonted courage and skill, agile and strong, ready for every toil and danger, and so keenly alertand watchful that men called him the Wake. This vigorous and valiant manwas born to be the hero and champion of the English, in their finalstruggle for freedom against their Norman foes. 

A new passion entered Hereward's soul in Flanders, that of love. He metand wooed there a fair lady, Torfrida by name, who became his wife. Afaithful helpmeet she proved, his good comrade in his wanderings, hiswise counseller in warfare, and ever a softening influence in the fiercewarrior's life. Hitherto the sword had been his mistress, his temper theturbulent and hasty one of the dweller in camp. Henceforth he owed adivided allegiance to love and the sword, and grew softer in mood, gentler and more merciful in disposition, as life went on. 

To this wandering Englishman beyond the seas came tidings of saddisasters in his native land. Harold and his army had been overthrown atHastings, and Norman William was on the throne; Norman earls hadeverywhere seized on English manors, Norman churls, ennobled on thefield of battle, were robbing and enslaving the old owners of the land. The English had risen in the north, and William had harried wholecounties, leaving a desert where he had found a fertile and flourishingland. The sufferings of the English at home touched the heart of thisgenuine Englishman abroad. Hereward the Wake gathered a band of stoutwarriors, took ship, and set sail for his native land. 

And now, to a large extent, we leave the realm of legend, and enter thedomain of fact. Hereward henceforth is a historical character, but ahistory his with shreds of romance still clinging to its skirts. Firstof all, story credits him with descending on his ancestral hall ofBourne, then in the possession of Normans, his father driven from hisdomain, and now in his grave. Hereward dealt with the Normans asUlysses had done with the suitors, and when the hall was his there werefew of them left to tell the tale. Thence, not caring to be cooped up bythe enemy within stone walls, he marched merrily away, and sought asafer refuge elsewhere. 

This descent upon Bourne we should like to accept as fact. It has in itthe elements of righteous retribution. But we must admit that it is oneof the shreds of romance of which we have spoken, one of thoseinteresting stories which men believe to be true because they would likethem to be true, --possibly with a solid foundation, certainly with muchembellishment. 

Where we first surely find Hereward is in the heart of the fen countryof eastern England. Here, at Ely in Cambridgeshire, a band of Englishmenhad formed what they called a "Camp of Refuge, " whence they issued atintervals in excursions against the Normans. England had no safer havenof retreat for her patriot sons. Ely was practically an island, beingsurrounded by watery marshes on all sides. Lurking behind the reeds andrushes of these fens, and hidden by their misty exhalations, thatfaithful band had long defied its foes. 

Hither came Hereward with his warlike followers, and quickly foundhimself at the head of the band of patriot refugees. History wasrepeating itself. Centuries before King Alfred had sought just such ashelter against the Danes, and had troubled his enemies as Hereward nowbegan to trouble his. 

The exiles of the Camp of Refuge found new blood in their organizationwhen Hereward became their leader. Their feeble forays were quicklyreplaced by bold and daring ones. Issuing like hornets from their nests, Hereward and his valiant followers sharply stung the Norman invaders, hesitating not to attack them wherever found, cutting off armed bands, wresting from them the spoils of which they had robbed the Saxons, andflying back to their reedy shelter before their foes could gather inforce. 

Of the exploits of this band of active warriors but one is told in full, and that one is worth repeating. The Abbey of Peterborough, not farremoved from Ely, had submitted to Norman rule and gained a Normanabbot, Turold by name. This angered the English at Ely, and they made adescent upon the settlement. No great harm was intended. Food and someminor spoil would have satisfied the raiders. But the frightened monks, instead of throwing themselves on the clemency of theirfellow-countrymen, sent word in haste to Turold. This incensed theraiding band, composed in part of English, in part of Danes who hadlittle regard for church privileges. Provoked to fury, they set fire tothe monks' house and the town, and only one house escaped the flames. Then they assailed the monastery, the monks flying for their lives. Thewhole band of outlaws burst like wolves into the minster, which theyrapidly cleared of its treasures. Here some climbed to the great rood, and carried off its golden ornaments. There others made their way tothe steeple, where had been hidden the gold and silver pastoral staff. Shrines, roods, books, vestments, money, treasures of all sortsvanished, and when Abbot Turold appeared with a party of armed Normans, he found but the bare walls of the church and the ashes of the town, with only a sick monk to represent the lately prosperous monastery. Whether or not Hereward took part in this affair, history does not say. 

King William had hitherto disregarded this patriot refuge, and the bolddeeds of the valiant Hereward. All England besides had submitted to hisauthority, and he was too busy in the work of making a feudal kingdom offree England to trouble himself about one small centre of insurrection. But an event occurred that caused him to look upon Hereward with morehostile eyes. 

Among those who had early sworn fealty to him, after the defeat ofHarold at Hastings, were Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia andNorthumberland. They were confirmed in the possession of their estatesand dignities, and remained faithful to William during the generalinsurrection of northern England. As time went on, however, theirposition became unbearable. The king failed to give them his confidence, the courtiers envied them their wealth and titles, and maligned them tothe king. Their dignity of position was lost at the court; their safetyeven was endangered; they resolved, when too late, to emulate theirbraver countryman, and strike a blow for home and liberty. Edwin soughthis domain in the north, bent on insurrection. Morcar made his way tothe Isle of Ely, where he took service with his followers, and withother noble Englishmen, under the brave Hereward, glad to find one spoton which a man of true English blood could still set foot in freedom. 

His adhesion brought ruin instead of strength to Hereward. If Williamcould afford to neglect a band of outlaws in the fens, he could not restwith these two great earls in arms against him. There were forces in thenorth to attend to Edwin; Morcar and Hereward must be looked after. 

[Illustration: ELY CATHEDRAL. ]

Gathering an army, William marched to the fen country and prepared toattack the last of the English in their almost inaccessible Camp ofRefuge. He had already built himself a castle at Cambridge, and here hedwelt while directing his attack against the outlaws of the fens. 

The task before him was not a light one, in the face of an opponent soskilful and vigilant as Hereward the Wake. The Normans of that regionhad found him so ubiquitous and so constantly victorious that theyascribed his success to enchantment; and even William, who was not freefrom the superstitions of his day, seemed to imagine that he had anenchanter for a foe. Enchanter or not, however, he must be dealt with asa soldier, and there was but one way in which he could be reached. Theheavily-armed Norman soldiers could not cross the marsh. From one sidethe Isle of Ely could be approached by vessels, but it was here sostrongly defended that the king's ships failed to make progress againstHereward's works. Finding his attack by water a failure, William beganthe building of a causeway, two miles long, across the morasses from thedry land to the island. 

This was no trifling labor. There was a considerable depth of mud andwater to fill, and stones and trunks of trees were brought for thepurpose from all the surrounding country, the trees being covered withhides as a protection against fire. The work did not proceed in peace. Hereward and his men contested its progress at every point, attacked theworkmen with darts and arrows from the light boats in which theynavigated the waters of the fens, and, despite the hides, succeeded insetting fire to the woodwork of the causeway. More than once it had tobe rebuilt; more than once it broke down under the weight of the Normanknights and men-at-arms, who crowded upon it in their efforts to reachthe island, and many of these eager warriors, weighed down by the burdenof their armor, met a dismal death in the mud and water of the marshes. 

Hereward fought with his accustomed courage, warlike skill, andincessant vigilance, and gave King William no easy task, despite thestrength of his army and the abundance of his resources. But such acontest, against so skilled an enemy as William the Conqueror, and withsuch disparity of numbers, could have but one termination. Herewardstruck so valiant a last blow for England that he won the admiration ofhis great opponent; but William was not the man to rest content withaught short of victory, and every successful act of defence on the partof the English was met by a new movement of assault. Despite allHereward's efforts, the causeway slowly but surely moved forward acrossthe fens. 

But Hereward's chief danger lay behind rather than before; in the islandrather than on the mainland. His accessions of nobles and commons hadplaced a strong body of men under his command, with whom he might havebeen able to meet William's approaches by ship and causeway, had nottreason laid intrenched in the island itself. With war in his front andtreachery in his rear the gallant Wake had a double danger to contendwith. 

This brings us to a picturesque scene, deftly painted by the oldchroniclers. Ely had its abbey, a counterpart of that of Peterborough. Thurston, the abbot, was English-born, as were the monks under hispastoral charge; and long the cowled inmates of the abbey and the armedpatriots of the Camp of Refuge dwelt in sweet accord. In the refectoryof the abbey monks and warriors sat side by side at table, theirconverse at meals being doubtless divided between affairs spiritual andaffairs temporal, while from walls and roof hung the arms of thewarriors, harmoniously mingled with the emblems of the church. It was apicture of the marriage of church and state well worthy of reproductionon canvas. 

Yet King William knew how to deal with Abbot Thurston. Lands belongingto the monastery lay beyond the fens, and on these the king laid therough hand of royal right, as an earnest of what would happen when themonastery itself should fall into his hands. A flutter of terror shookthe hearts of the abbot and his family of monks. To them it seemed thatthe skies were about to fall, and that they would be wise to stand fromunder. 

While the monks of Ely were revolving this threat of disaster in theirsouls, the tide of assault and defence rolled on. William's causewaypushed its slow length forward through the fens. Hereward assailed itwith fire and sword, and harried the king's lands outside by suddenraids. It is said that, like King Alfred before him, he more than oncevisited the camp of the Normans in disguise, and spied out their waysand means of warfare. 

There is a story connected with this warlike enterprise so significantof the times that it must be told. Whether or not William believedHereward to be an enchanter, he took steps to defeat enchantment, if anyexisted. An old woman, who had the reputation of being a sorceress, wasbrought to the royal camp, and her services engaged in the king's cause. A wooden tower was built, and pushed along the causeway in front of thetroops, the old woman within it actively dispensing her incantations andcalling down the powers of witch-craft upon Hereward's head. Unfortunately for her, Hereward tried against her sorcery of thebroomstick the enchantment of the brand, setting fire to the tower andburning it and the sorceress within it. We could scarcely go back to alater date than the eleventh century to find such an absurdity as thispossible, but in those days of superstition even such a man as Williamthe Conqueror was capable of it. 

How the contest would have ended had treason been absent it is not easyto say. As it was, Abbot Thurston and his monks brought the siege to asudden and disastrous end. They showed the king a secret way of approachto the island, and William's warriors took the camp of Hereward bysurprise. What followed scarcely needs the telling. A fierce and sharpstruggle, men falling and dying in scores, William's heavy-armedwarriors pressing heavily upon the ranks of the more lightly cladEnglishmen, and final defeat and surrender, complete the story of theassault upon Ely. 

William had won, but Hereward still defied him. Striking his last blowin defence, the gallant leader, with a small band of chosen followers, cut a lane of blood through the Norman ranks and made his way to a smallfleet of ships which he had kept armed and guarded for such anemergency. Sail was set, and down the stream they sped to the open sea, still setting at defiance the power of Norman William. 

We have two further lines of story to follow, one of history, the otherof romance; one that of the reward of the monks for their treachery, theother that of the later story of Hereward the Wake. Abbot Thurstonhastened to make his submission to the king. He and the inmates of themonastery sought the court, then at Warwick, and humbly begged the royalfavor and protection. The story goes that William repaid their visit bya journey to Ely, where he entered the minster while the monks, allunconscious of the royal visit, were at their meal in the refectory. Theking stood humbly at a distance from the shrine, as not worthy toapproach it, but sent a mark of gold to be offered as his tribute uponthe altar. 

Meanwhile, one Gilbert of Clare entered the refectory, and asked thefeasting monks whether they could not dine at some other time, and if itwere not wise to repress their hunger while King William was in thechurch. Like a flock of startled pigeons the monks rose, their appetitesquite gone, and flocked tumultuously towards the church. They were toolate. William was gone. But in his short visit he had left them a mostunwelcome legacy by marking out the site of a castle within theprecincts of the monastery, and giving orders for its immediate buildingby forced labor. 

Abbot Thurston finally purchased peace from the king at a high rate, paying him three hundred marks of silver for his one mark of gold. Norwas this the end. The silver marks proved to be light in weight. Toappease the king's anger at this, another three hundred silver markswere offered, and King William graciously suffered them to say theirprayers thenceforward in peace. Their treachery to Hereward had notproved profitable to the traitors. 

If now we return to the story of Hereward the Wake, we must once moreleave the realm of history for that of legend, for what further is toldof him, though doubtless based on fact, is strictly legendary instructure. Landing on the coast of Lincolnshire, the fugitives abandonedtheir light ships for the widespreading forests of that region, and longlived the life of outlaws in the dense woodland adjoining Hereward'sancestral home of Bourne. Like an earlier Robin Hood, the valiant Wakemade the greenwood his home and the Normans his prey, covering nineshires in his bold excursions, which extended as far as the distant townof Warwick. The Abbey of Peterborough, with its Norman abbot, was anobject of his special detestation, and more than once Turold and hismonks were put to flight, while the abbey yielded up a share of itstreasures to the bold assailants. 

How long Hereward and his men dwelt in the greenwood we are not able tosay. They defied there the utmost efforts of their foes, and KingWilliam, whose admiration for his defiant enemy had not decreased, despairing of reducing him by force, made him overtures of peace. Hereward was ready for them. He saw clearly by this time that the Normanyoke was fastened too firmly on England's neck to be thrown off. He hadfought as long as fighting was of use. Surrender only remained. A daycame at length in which he rode from the forest with forty stoutwarriors at his back, made his way to the royal seat of Winchester, andknocked at the city gates, bidding the guards to carry the news to theconqueror that Hereward the Wake had come. 

William gladly received him. He knew the value of a valiant soul, andwas thereafter a warm friend of Hereward, who, on his part, remained asloyal and true to the king as he had been strong and earnest againsthim. And so years passed on, Hereward in favor at court, and he andTorfrida, his Flemish wife, living happily in the castle which William'sbounty had provided them. 

There is more than one story of Hereward's final fate. One account saysthat he ended his days in peace. The other, more in accordance with thespirit of the times and the hatred and jealousy felt by many of theNorman nobles against this English protégé of the king, is so stirringin its details that it serves as a fitting termination to the Herewardromance. 

The story goes that he kept close watch and ward in his house againsthis many enemies. But on one occasion his chaplain, Ethelward, then onlookout duty, fell asleep on his post. A band of Normans wasapproaching, who broke into the house without warning being given, andattacked Hereward alone in his hall. 

He had barely time to throw on his armor when his enemies burst in uponhim and assailed him with sword and spear. The fight that ensued was onethat would have gladdened the soul of a Viking of old. Hereward laidabout him with such savage energy that the floor was soon strewn withthe dead bodies of his foes, and crimsoned with their blood. Finally thespear broke in the hero's hand. Next he grasped his sword and did withit mighty deeds of valor. This, too, was broken in the stress of fight. His shield was the only weapon left him, and this he used with suchvigor and skill that before he had done fifteen Normans lay dead uponthe floor. 

Four of his enemies now got behind him and smote him in the back. Thegreat warrior was brought to his knees. A Breton knight, Ralph of Dol, rushed upon him, but found the wounded lion dangerous still. With a lastdesperate effort Hereward struck him a deadly blow with his buckler, andBreton and Saxon fell dead together to the floor. Another of theassailants, Asselin by name, now cut off the head of this last defenderof Saxon England, and holding it in the air, swore by God and his mightthat he had never before seen a man of such valor and strength, and thatif there had been three more like him in the land the French would havebeen driven out of England, or been slain on its soil. 

And so ends the stirring story of Hereward the Wake, that mighty man ofold. 

_THE DEATH OF THE RED KING. _

William of Normandy, by the grace of God and his iron mace, had madehimself king of England. An iron king he proved, savage, ruthless, thedescendant of a few generations of pirate Norsemen, and himself a piratein blood and temper. England strained uneasily under the harsh reinwhich he placed upon it, and he harried the country mercilessly, turninga great area of fertile land into a desert. That he might have ahunting-park near the royal palace, he laid waste all the land that laybetween Winchester and the sea, planting there, in place of the homesdestroyed and families driven out, what became known as the "NewForest. " Nothing angered the English more than this ruthless act. A lawhad been passed that any one caught killing a deer in William's newhunting-grounds should have his eyes put out. Men prayed forretribution. It came. The New Forest proved fatal to the race of theConqueror. In 1081 his oldest son Richard mortally wounded himselfwithin its precincts. In May of the year 1100 his grandson Richard, sonof Duke Robert, was killed there by a stray arrow. And, as if toemphasize more strongly this work of retribution, two months afterwardsWilliam Rufus, the Red King, the son of the Conqueror, was slain in thesame manner within its leafy shades. 

William Rufus--William II. Of England--was, like all his Normanancestors, fond of the chase. When there were no men to be killed, thesefierce old dukes and kings solaced themselves with the slaughter ofbeasts. In early summer of the year 1100 the Red King was at WinchesterCastle, on the skirts of the New Forest. Thence he rode to Malwood-Keep, a favorite hunting-lodge in the forest. Boon companions were with him, numbers of them, one of them a French knight named Sir Walter Tyrrell, the king's favorite. Here the days were spent in the delights of thechase, the nights in feasting and carousing, and all went merrily. 

Around them spread far and wide the umbrageous lanes and alleys of theNew Forest, trees of every variety, oaks in greatest number, crowdingthe soil. As yet there were no trees of mighty girth. The forest wasyoung. Few of its trees had more than a quarter-century of growth, except where more ancient woodland had been included. The place wassolitary, tenanted only by the deer which had replaced man upon itssoil, and by smaller creatures of wing and fur. Barely a human foot trodthere, save when the king's hunting retinue swept through its verdantaisles and woke its solitary depths with the cheerful notes of thehunting-horn. The savage laws of the Conqueror kept all others but themost daring poachers from its aisles. 

Such was the stage set for the tragedy which we have to relate. Thestory goes that rough jests passed at Malwood-Keep between Tyrrell andthe king, ending in anger, as jests are apt to. William boasted that hewould carry an army through France to the Alps. Tyrrell, heated withwine, answered that he might find France a net easier to enter than toescape from. The hearers remembered these bitter words afterwards. 

On the night before the fatal day it is said that cries of terror camefrom the king's bed-chamber. The attendants rushed thither, only to findthat the monarch had been the victim of nightmare. When morning came helaughed the incident to scorn, saying that dreams were fit to scare onlyold women and children. His companions were not so easily satisfied. Those were days when all men's souls were open to omens good and bad. They earnestly advised him not to hunt that day. William jested at theirfears, vowed that no dream should scare him from the chase, yet, uneasyat heart, perhaps, let the hours pass without calling for his horse. Midday came. Dinner was served. William ate and drank with unusualfreedom. Wine warmed his blood and drove off his clinging doubts. Herose from the table and ordered his horse to be brought. The day wasyoung enough still to strike a deer, he said. 

The king was in high spirits. He joked freely with his guests as hemounted his horse and prepared for the chase. As he sat in his saddle awoodman presented him six new arrows. He examined them, declared thatthey were well made and proper shafts, and put four of them in hisquiver, handing the other two to Walter Tyrrell. 

"These are for you, " he said. "Good marksmen should have good arms. "

Tyrrell took them, thanked William for the gift, and the hunting-partywas about to start, when there appeared a monk who asked to speak withthe king. 

"I come from the convent of St. Peter, at Gloucester, " he said. "Theabbot bids me give a message to your majesty. "

"Abbot Serlon; a good Norman he, " said the king. "What would he say?"

"Your majesty, " said the monk, with great humility, "he bids me statethat one of his monks has dreamed a dream of evil omen. He deems theking should know it. "

"A dream!" declared the king. "Has he sent you hither to carry shadows?Well, tell me your dream. Time presses. "

"The dream was this. The monk, in his sleep, saw Jesus Christ sitting ona throne, and at his feet kneeled a woman, who supplicated him in thesewords: 'Saviour of the human race, look down with pity on thy peoplegroaning under the yoke of William. '"

The king greeted this message with a loud laugh. 

"Do they take me for an Englishman, with their dreams?" he asked. "Dothey fancy that I am fool enough to give up my plans because a monkdreams or an old woman sneezes? Go, tell your abbot I have heard hisstory. Come, Walter de Poix, to horse!"

The train swept away, leaving the monkish messenger alone, the king'sdisdainful laugh still in his ears. With William were his brother Henry, long at odds with him, now reconciled, William de Breteuil, and severalother nobles. Quickly they vanished among the thickly clustering trees, and soon broke up into small groups, each of which took its own routethrough the forest. Walter Tyrrell alone remained with the king, theirdogs hunting together. 

That was the last that was seen of William, the Red King, alive. Whenthe hunters returned he was not with them. Tyrrell, too, was missing. What had become of them? Search was made, but neither could be found, and doubt and trouble of soul pervaded Malwood-Keep. 

The shades of night were fast gathering when a poor charcoal-burner, passing with his cart through the forest, came upon a dead bodystretched bleeding upon the grass. An arrow had pierced its breast. Lifting it into his cart, wrapped in old linen, he jogged slowly onward, the blood still dripping and staining the ground as he passed. Not tillhe reached the hunting-lodge did he discover that it was the corpse of aking he had found in the forest depths. The dead body was that ofWilliam II. Of England. 

Tyrrell had disappeared. In vain they sought him. He was nowhere to befound. Suspicion rested on him. He had murdered the king, men said, andfled the land. 

Mystery has ever since shrouded the death of the Red King. Tyrrell livedto tell his tale. It was probably a true one, though many doubted it. The Frenchman had quarrelled with the king, men said, and had murderedhim from revenge. Just why he should have murdered so powerful a friendand patron, for a taunt passed in jest, was far from evident. 

Tyrrell's story is as follows: He and the king had taken their stations, opposite one another, waiting the work of the woodsmen who were beatingup the game. Each had an arrow in his cross-bow, his finger on thetrigger, eagerly listening for the distant sounds which would indicatethe coming of game. As they stood thus intent, a large stag suddenlybroke from the bushes and sprang into the space between them. 

William drew, but the bow-string broke in his hand. The stag, startledat the sound, stood confused, looking suspiciously around. The kingsigned to Tyrrell to shoot, but the latter, for some reason, did notobey. William grew impatient, and called out, --

"Shoot, Walter, shoot, in the devil's name!"

Shoot he did. An instant afterwards the king fell without word or moan. Tyrrell's arrow had struck a tree, and, glancing, pierced the king'sbreast; or it may be that an arrow from a more distant bow had struckhim. When Tyrrell reached his side he was dead. 

The French knight knew what would follow if he fell into the hands ofthe king's companions. He could not hope to make people credit his tale. Mounting his horse, he rode with all speed through the forest, notdrawing rein till the coast was reached. He had far outridden the newsof the tragedy. Taking ship here, he crossed over in haste to Normandy, and thence made his way to France, not drawing a breath free from caretill he felt the soil of his native land beneath his feet. Here he livedto a good age and died in peace, his life diversified by a crusadingvisit to the Holy Land. 

The end of the Red King resembled that of his father. The Conqueror hadbeen deserted before he had fairly ceased breathing, his body left halfclad on the bare boards of his chamber, while some of his attendantsrifled the palace, others hastened to offer their services to his son. The same scenes followed the Red King's death. His body was left in thecharcoal-burner's cart, clotted with blood, to be conveyed toWinchester, while his brother Henry rode post-haste thither to seize theroyal treasure, and the train of courtiers rode as rapid a course, tolook after their several interests. 

Reaching the royal palace, Henry imperiously demanded the keys of theking's treasure-chamber. Before he received them William de Breteuilentered, breathless with haste, and bade the keepers not to deliverthem. 

"Thou and I, " he said to Henry, "ought loyally to keep the faith whichwe promised to thy brother, Duke Robert; he has received our oath ofhomage, and, absent or present, he has the right. "

But what was faith, what an oath, when a crown was the prize? A quarrelfollowed; Henry drew his sword; the people around supported him; soon hehad the treasure and the royal regalia; Robert might have the right, hehad the kingdom. 

There is tradition connected with the Red King's death. A stirrup hangsin Lyndhurst Hall, said to be that which he used on that fatal day. Thecharcoal-burner was named Purkess. There are Purkesses still in thevillage of Minstead, near where William Rufus died. And the story runsthat the earthly possessions of the Purkess family have ever since beena single horse and cart. A stone marks the spot where the king fell, onit is the inscription, --

"Here stood the oak-tree on which the arrow, shot by Walter Tyrrell at astag, glanced and struck King William II. , surnamed Rufus, on thebreast; of which stroke he instantly died on the second of August, 1100. 

"That the spot where an event so memorable had happened might nothereafter be unknown, this stone was set up by John, Lord Delaware, whohad seen the tree growing in this place, anno 1745. "

We may end by saying that England was revenged; the retribution forwhich her children had prayed had overtaken the race of the pirateking. That broad domain of Saxon England, which William the Conquerorhad wrested from its owners to make himself a hunting-forest, wasreddened with the blood of two of his sons and a grandson. The hand ofHeaven had fallen on that cruel race. The New Forest was consecrated inthe blood of one of the Norman kings. 

_HOW THE WHITE SHIP SAILED. _

Henry I. , king of England, had made peace with France. Then to Normandywent the king with a great retinue, that he might have Prince William, his only and dearly-loved son, acknowledged as his successor by theNorman nobles and married to the daughter of the Count of Anjou. Boththese things were done; regal was the display, great the rejoicing, andon the 25th of November, 1120, the king and his followers, with theprince and his fair young bride, prepared to embark at Barfleur on theirtriumphant journey home. 

So far all had gone well. Now disaster lowered. Fate had prepared atragedy that was to load the king's soul with life-long grief and yieldto English history one of its most pathetic tales. 

Of the vessels of the fleet, one of the best was a fifty-oared galleycalled "The White Ship, " commanded by a certain Thomas Fitzstephen, whose father had sailed the ship on which William the Conqueror firstcame to England's shores. This service Fitzstephen represented to theking, and begged that he might be equally honored. 

"My liege, " he said, "my father steered the ship with the golden boyupon the prow in which your father sailed to conquer England, I beseechyou to grant me the same honor, that of carrying you in the White Shipto England. "

"I am sorry, friend, " said the king, "that my vessel is already chosen, and that I cannot sail with the son of the man who served my father. Butthe prince and all his company shall go along with you in the WhiteShip, which you may esteem an honor equal to that of carrying me. "

By evening of that day the king with his retinue had set sail, with afair wind, for England's shores, leaving the prince with his attendantsto follow in Fitzstephen's ship. With the prince were his naturalbrother Richard, his sister the countess of Perch, Richard, earl ofChester, with his wife, the king's niece, together with one hundred andforty of the flower of the young nobility of England and Normandy, accompanying whom were many ladies of high descent. The whole number ofpersons taking passage on the White Ship, including the crew, were threehundred. 

Prince William was but a boy, and one who did little honor to hisfather's love. He was a dissolute youth of eighteen, who had so littlefeeling for the English as to have declared that when he came to thethrone he would yoke them to the plough like oxen. Destiny had decidedthat the boastful boy should not have the opportunity to carry out thisthreat. 

"Give three casks of wine, Fitzstephen, " he said, "to your crew. Myfather, the king, has sailed. What time have we to make merry here andstill reach England with the rest?"

"If we sail at midnight, " answered Fitzstephen, "my fifty rowers and theWhite Ship shall overtake the swiftest vessel in the king's fleet beforedaybreak. "

"Then let us be merry, " said the prince; "the night is fine, the timeyoung, let us enjoy it while we may. "

Merry enough they were; the prince and his companions danced in themoonlight on the ship's deck, the sailors emptied their wine-casks, andwhen at last they left the harbor there was not a sober sailor on board, and the captain himself was the worse for wine. 

As the ship swept from the port, the young nobles, heated with wine, hung over the sides and drove away with taunts the priests who had cometo give the usual benediction. Wild youths were they, --the most ofthem, --gay, ardent, in the hey-day of life, caring mainly for pleasure, and with little heed of aught beyond the moment's whim. There seemednaught to give them care, in sooth. The sea lay smooth beneath them, theair was mild, the moon poured its soft lustre upon the deck, andpropitious fortune appeared to smile upon the ship as it rushed onward, under the impulse of its long banks of oars, in haste to overtake thedistant fleet of the king. 

All went merrily. Fitzstephen grasped the helm, his soul proud with thethought that, as his father had borne the Conqueror to England'sstrand, he was bearing the pride of younger England, the heir to thethrone. On the deck before him his passengers were gathered in merrygroups, singing, laughing, chatting, the ladies in their rich-linedmantles, the gentlemen in their bravest attire; while to the sound ofsong and merry talk the well-timed fall of the oars and swash of drivenwaters made refrain. 

They had reached the harbor's mouth. The open ocean lay before them. Ina few minutes more they would be sweeping over the Atlantic's broadexpanse. Suddenly there came a frightful crash; a shock that threwnumbers of the passengers headlong to the deck, and tore the oars fromthe rowers' hands; a cry of terror that went up from three hundredthroats. It is said that some of the people in the far-off ships heardthat cry, faint, far, despairing, borne to them over miles of sea, andasked themselves in wonder what it could portend. 

It portended too much wine and too little heed. The vessel, carelesslysteered, had struck upon a rock, the _Catee-raze_, at the harbor'smouth, with such, violence that a gaping wound was torn in her prow, andthe waters instantly began to rush in. 

The White Ship was injured, was filling, would quickly sink. Wildconsternation prevailed. There was but one boat, and that small. Fitzstephen, sobered by the concussion, hastily lowered it, crowded intoit the prince and a few nobles, and bade them hastily to push off androw to the land. 

"It is not far, " he said, "and the sea is smooth. The rest of us mustdie. "

They obeyed. The boat was pushed off, the oars dropped into the water, it began to move from the ship. At that moment, amid the cries of horrorand despair on the sinking vessel, came one that met the prince's ear inpiteous appeal. It was the voice of his sister, Marie, the countess ofPerch, crying to him for help. 

In that moment of frightful peril Prince William's heart beat true. 

"Row back at any risk!" he cried. "My sister must be saved. I cannotbear to leave her. "

They rowed back. But the hope that from that panic-stricken multitudeone woman could be selected was wild. No sooner had the boat reached theship's side than dozens madly sprung into it, in such numbers that itwas overturned. At almost the same moment the White Ship went down, dragging all within reach into her eddying vortex. Death spread itssombre wings over the spot where, a few brief minutes before, life andjoy had ruled. 

When the tossing eddies subsided, the pale moonlight looked down on buttwo souls of all that gay and youthful company. These clung to a sparwhich had broken loose from the mast and floated on the waves, or to thetop of the mast itself, which stood above the surface. 

"Only two of us, out of all that gallant company!" said one of these indespairing tones. "Who are you, friend and comrade?"

"I am a nobleman, Godfrey, the son of Gilbert de L'Aigle. And you?" heasked. 

"I am Berold, a poor butcher of Rouen, " was the answer. 

"God be merciful to us both!" they then cried together. 

Immediately afterwards they saw a third, who had risen and was swimmingtowards them. As he drew near he pushed the wet, clinging hair from hisface, and they saw the white, agonized countenance of Fitzstephen. Hegazed at them with eager eyes; then cast a long, despairing look on thewaters around him. 

"Where is the prince?" he asked, in tones that seemed to shudder withterror. 

"Gone! gone!" they cried. "Not one of all on board, except we three, hasrisen above the water. "

"Woe! woe, to me!" moaned Fitzstephen. He ceased swimming, turned tothem a face ghastly with horror, and then sank beneath the waves, tojoin the goodly company whom his negligence had sent to a watery death. He dared not live to meet the father of his charge. 

The two continued to cling to their support. But the water had in it theNovember chill, the night was long, the tenderly-reared nobleman lackedthe endurance of his humbler companion. Before day-dawn he said, infaint accents, --

"I am exhausted and chilled with the cold. I can hold on no longer. Farewell, good friend! God preserve you!"

He loosed his hold and sank. The butcher of Rouen remained alone. 

When day came some fisherman saw this clinging form from the shore, rowed out, and brought him in, the sole one living of all that goodlycompany. A few hours before the pride and hope of Normandy and Englandhad crowded that noble ship. Now only a base-born butcher survived totell the story of disaster, and the stately White Ship, with her noblefreightage, lay buried beneath the waves. 

For three days no one dared tell King Henry the dreadful story. Such washis love for his son that they feared his grief might turn to madness, and their lives pay the forfeit of their venture. At length a little ladwas sent in to him with the tale. Weeping bitterly, and kneeling at theking's feet, the child told in broken accents the story which had beentaught him, how the White Ship had gone to the bottom at the mouth ofBarfleur harbor, and all on board been lost save one poor commoner. Prince William, his son, was dead. 

The king heard him to the end, with slowly whitening face andhorror-stricken eyes. At the conclusion of the child's narrative themonarch fell prostrate to the floor, and lay there long like onestricken with death. The chronicle of this sad tragedy ends in one shortphrase, which is weighty with its burden of grief, --From that day onKing Henry never smiled again!

_A CONTEST FOR A CROWN. _

Terrible was the misery of England. Torn between contending factions, like a deer between snarling wolves, the people suffered martyrdom, while thieves and assassins, miscalled soldiers, and brigands, miscallednobles, ravaged the land and tortured its inhabitants. Outrage was law, and death the only refuge from barbarity, and at no time in the historyof England did its people endure such misery as in those years of theloosening of the reins of justice and mercy which began with 1139A. D. 

It was the autumn of the year named. At every port of England bands ofsoldiers were landing, with arms and baggage; along every road leadingfrom the coast bands of soldiers were marching; in every town bands ofsoldiers were mustering; here joining in friendly union, there cominginto hostile contact, for they represented rival parties, and werespeeding to the gathering points of their respective leaders. 

All England was in a ferment, men everywhere arming and marching. AllNormandy was in turmoil, soldiers of fortune crowding to every port, eager to take part in the harrying of the island realm. The Normannobles of England were everywhere fortifying their castles, which hadbeen sternly prohibited by the recent king. Law and authority were forthe time being abrogated, and every man was preparing to fight for hisown hand and his own land. A single day, almost, had divided the Normansof England into two factions, not yet come to blows, but facing eachother like wild beasts at bay. And England and the English were the preycraved by both these herds of human wolves. 

There were two claimants to the throne: Matilda, --or Maud, as she isusually named, --daughter of Henry I. , and Stephen of Blois, grandson ofWilliam the Conqueror. Henry had named his daughter as his successor;Stephen seized the throne; the issue was sharply drawn between them. Each of them had a legal claim to the throne, Stephen's the better, hebeing the nearest male heir. No woman had as yet ruled in England. Maud's mother had been of ancient English descent, which gave herpopularity among the Saxon inhabitants of the land. Stephen waspersonally popular, a good-humored, generous prodigal, his very faultstending to make him a favorite. Yet he was born to be a swordsman, not aking, and his only idea of royalty was to let the land rule--or misruleit if preferred--itself, while he enjoyed the pleasures and declined thetoils of kingship. 

A few words will suffice to bring the history of those turbulent timesup to the date of the opening of our story. The death of Henry I. Wasfollowed by anarchy in England. His daughter Maud, wife of Geoffry theHandsome, Count of Anjou, was absent from the land. Stephen, Count ofBlois, and son of Adela, the Conqueror's daughter, was the first toreach it. Speeding across the Channel, he hurried through England, thenin the turmoil of lawlessness, no noble joining him, no town opening tohim its gates, until London was reached. There the coldness of his routewas replaced by the utmost warmth of welcome. The city poured from itsgates to meet him, hastened to elect him king, swore to defend him withblood and treasure, and only demanded in return that the new king shoulddo his utmost to pacify the realm. 

Here Stephen failed. He was utterly unfit to govern. While he thoughtonly of profligate enjoyment, the barons fortified their castles andbecame petty kings in their several domains. The great prelates followedtheir example. Then, for the first time, did Stephen awake from hisdream of pleasure and attempt to play the king. He seized Roger, Bishopof Salisbury, and threw him into prison to force him to surrender hisfortresses. This precipitated the trouble that brooded over England. Theking lost the support of the clergy by his violence to their leader, alienated many of the nobles by his hasty action, and gave Maud theopportunity for which she had waited. She lost no time in offeringherself to the English as a claimant to the crown. 

Her landing was made on the 22d of September, 1139, on the coast ofSussex. Here she threw herself into Arundel Castle, and quicklyafterwards made her way to Bristol Castle, then held by herillegitimate brother, Robert, Earl of Gloucester. 

And now the state of affairs we had described began. The nobles of thenorth and west of England renounced their allegiance to Stephen andswore allegiance to Maud. London and the east remained faithful to theking. A stream of men-at-arms, hired by both factions, poured from theneighboring coast of Normandy into the disputed realm. Each side hadpromised them, for their pay, the lands and wealth of the other. Likevultures to the feast they came, with little heed to the rights of therival claimants and the wrongs of the people, with much heed to theirown private needs and ambitions. 

In England such anarchy ruled as that land of much intestine war hasrarely witnessed. The Norman nobles prepared in haste for the civil war, and in doing so made the English their prey. To raise the necessaryfunds, many of them sold their domains, townships, and villages, withthe inhabitants thereof and all their goods. Others of them made forayson the lands of those of the opposite faction, and seized cattle, horses, sheep, and men alike carrying off the English in chains, thatthey might force them by torture to yield what wealth they possessed. 

Terror ruled supreme. The realm was in a panic of dread. So great wasthe alarm, that the inhabitants of city and town alike took to flight ifthey saw a distant group of horsemen approaching. Three or four armedmen were enough to empty a town of its inhabitants. It was in Bristol, where Maud and her foreign troops lay, that the most extreme terrorprevailed. All day long men were being brought into the city bound andgagged. The citizens had no immunity. Soldiers mingled among them indisguise, their arms concealed, their talk in the English tongue, strolling through markets and streets, listening to the popular chat, and then suddenly seizing any one who seemed to be in easycircumstances. These they would drag to their head-quarters and hold toransom. 

The air was filled with tales of the frightful barbarities practised bythe Norman nobles on the unhappy English captives in the depths of theirgloomy castles. "They carried off, " says the Saxon chronicle, "all whothey thought possessed any property, men and women, by day and by night;and whilst they kept them imprisoned, they inflicted on them tortures, such as no martyr ever underwent, in order to obtain gold and silverfrom them. " We must be excused from quoting the details of thesetortures. 

"They killed many thousands of people by hunger, " continues thechronicle. "They imposed tribute after tribute upon the towns andvillages, calling this in their tongue _tenserie_. When the citizens hadnothing more to give them, they plundered and burnt the town. You mighthave travelled a whole day without finding a single soul in the towns, or a cultivated field. The poor died of hunger, and those who had beenformerly well-off begged their bread from door to door. Whoever had itin his power to leave England did so. Never was a country delivered upto so many miseries and misfortunes; even in the invasions of the pagansit suffered less than now. Neither the cemeteries nor the churches werespared; they seized all they could, and then set fire to the church. Totill the ground was useless. It was openly reported that Christ and hissaints were sleeping. "

One cannot but think that this frightful picture is somewhat overdrawn;yet nothing could indicate better the condition of a Middle-Age countryunder a weak king, and torn by the adherents of rival claimants to thethrone. 

Let us leave this tale of torture and horror and turn to that of war. Inthe conflict between Stephen and Maud the king took the first step. Heled his army against Bristol. It proved too strong for him, and hissoldiers, in revenge, burnt the environs, after robbing them of all theycould yield. Then, leaving Bristol, he turned against the castles on theWelsh borders, nearly all of whose lords had declared for Maud. 

From the laborious task of reducing these castles he was suddenlyrecalled by an insurrection in the territory so far faithful to him. Thefens of Ely, in whose recesses Hereward the Wake had defied theConqueror, now became the stronghold of a Norman revolt. A baron and abishop, Baldwin de Revier and Lenior, Bishop of Ely, built stoneintrenchments on the island, and defied the king from behind the wateryshelter of the fens. 

Hither flocked the partisans of Maud; hither came Stephen, filled withwarlike fury. He lacked the qualities that make a king, but he had thosethat go to make a soldier. The methods of the Conqueror in attackingHereward were followed by Stephen in assailing his foes. Bridges ofboats were built across the fens; over these the king's cavalry madetheir way to the firm soil of the island; a fierce conflict ensued, ending in the rout of the soldiers of Baldwin and Lenior. The bishopfled to Gloucester, whither Maud had now proceeded. 

Thus far the king had kept the field, while his rival lay intrenched inher strongholds. But her party was earnestly at work. The barons of theWelsh marches, whose castles had been damaged by the king, repairedthem. Even the towers of the great churches were filled with war-enginesand converted into fortresses, ditches being dug in the church-yardsaround, with little regard to the fact that the bones of the dead wereunearthed and scattered over the soil. The Norman bishops, completelyarmed, and mounted on war-horses, took part in these operations, andwere no more scrupulous than the barons in torturing the English toforce from them their hoarded gold and silver. 

Those were certainly not the days of merry England. Nor were they daysof pious England, when the heads of the church, armed with sword andspear, led armies against their foes. In this they were justified bythe misrule of Stephen, who had shown his utter unfitness to rule. Intruth, a bishop ended that first phase of the war. The Bishop of Chesterrallied the troops which had fled from Ely. These grew by rapidaccretions until a new army was in the field. Stephen attacked it, butthe enemy held their own, and his troops were routed. They fled on allsides, leaving the king alone in the midst of his foes. He lacked notcourage. Single-handed he defended himself against a throng ofassailants. But his men were in flight; he stood alone; it was death orsurrender; he yielded himself prisoner. He was taken to Gloucester, andthence to Bristol Castle, in whose dungeons he was imprisoned. For thetime being the war was at an end. Maud was queen. 

The daughter of Henry might have reigned during the remainder of herlife but for pride and folly, two faults fitted to wreck the best-builtcause. All was on her side except herself. Her own arrogance drove herfrom the throne before it had grown warm from her sitting. 

For the time, indeed, Stephen's cause seemed lost. He was in a dungeonstrongly guarded by his adversaries. His partisans went over in crowdsto the opposite side, --his own brother, Henry, Bishop of Winchester, with them. The English peasants, embittered by oppression, rose againstthe beaten army, and took partial revenge for their wrongs by plunderingand maltreating the defeated and dispersed soldiers in their flight. 

Maud made her way to Winchester, her progress being one of royalostentation. Her entry to the town was like a Roman triumph. She wasreceived with all honor, was voted queen in a great convocation ofnobles, prelates, and knights, and seized the royal regalia and thetreasures of her vanquished foe. All would have gone well with her hadnot good fortune turned her brain. Pride and a haughty spirit led to herhasty downfall. 

She grew arrogant and disdainful. Those who had made her queen foundtheir requests met with refusal, their advice rejected with scorn. Thoseof the opposite party who had joined her were harshly treated. Her mostdevoted friends and adherents soon grew weak in their loyalty, and manywithdrew from the court, with the feeling that they had been fools tosupport this haughty woman against the generous-hearted soldier who layin Bristol dungeon. 

From Winchester Maud proceeded to London, after having done her cause asmuch harm as she well could in the brief time at her disposal. She waslooked for in the capital city with sentiments of hope and pride. Hermother had been English, and the English citizens felt a glow ofenthusiasm to feel that one whose blood was even half Saxon was comingto rule over them. Their pride quickly changed into anger and desire forrevenge. 

Maud signalized her entrance into London by laying on the citizens anenormous poll-tax. Stephen had done his utmost to beggar them; faminethreatened them; in extreme distress they prayed the queen to give themtime to recover from their present miseries before laying fresh taxes onthem. 

"The king has left us nothing, " said their deputies, humbly. 

"I understand, " answered Maud, with haughty disdain, "that you havegiven all to my adversary and have conspired with him against me; nowyou expect me to spare you. You shall pay the tax. "

"Then, " pleaded the deputies, "give us something in return. Restore tous the good laws of thy great uncle, Edward, in place of those of thyfather, King Henry, which are bad and too harsh for us. "

Whom the gods wish to destroy they first make mad. The queen listened tothe deputies in a rage, treated them as if they had been guilty ofuntold insolence in daring to make this request, and with harsh menacesdrove them from her presence, bidding them to see that the tax was paid, or London should suffer bitterly for its contumacy. 

The deputies withdrew with a show of respect, but with fury in theirhearts, and repaired to their council-chamber, whence the news of whathad taken place sped rapidly through the city. In her palace Queen Maudwaited in proud security, nothing doubting that she had humbled thoseinsolent citizens, and that the deputies would soon return ready tocreep on their knees to the foot of her throne and offer a goldenrecompense for their daring demand for milder laws. 

Suddenly the bells of London began to ring. In the streets adjoiningthe palace loud voices were heard. People seemed gathering rapidly. Whatdid it mean? Were these her humbled citizens of London? Surely therewere threats mingled with those harsh cries! Threats against the queenwho had just entered London in triumph and been received with suchhearty enthusiasm! Were the Londoners mad?

She would have thought so had she been in the streets. From every houseissued a man, armed with the first weapon he could find, his faceinflamed with anger. They flocked out as tumultuously as bees from ahive, says an old writer. The streets of London, lately quiet, were nowfilled with a noisy throng, all hastening towards the palace, alluttering threats against this haughty foreign woman, who must have lostevery drop of her English blood, they declared. 

The palace was filled with alarm. It looked as if the queen's Normanblood would be lost as well as that from her English sires. She hadmen-at-arms around her, but not enough to be of avail against theclustering citizens in those narrow and crooked streets. Flight, andthat a speedy one, was all that remained. White with terror, the queentook to horse, and, surrounded by her knights and soldiers, fled fromLondon with a haste that illy accorded with the stately and deliberatepride with which she had recently entered that turbulent capital. 

She was none too soon. The frightened cortége had not left the palacefar behind it before the maddened citizens burst open its doors, searched every nook and cranny of the building for the queen and herbody-guard, and, finding they had fled, wreaked their wrath on all thatwas left, plundering the apartments of all they contained. 

Meanwhile, the queen, wild with fright, was galloping at full speed fromthe hostile beehive she had disturbed. Her barons and knights, in apanic of fear and deeming themselves hotly pursued, dropped off from theparty one by one, hoping for safety by leaving the highway for theby-ways, and caring little for the queen so that they saved theirfrightened selves. The queen rode on in mad terror until Oxford wasreached, only her brother, the Earl of Gloucester, and a few otherskeeping her company to that town. 

They fled from a shadow. The citizens had not pursued them. Theseturbulent tradesmen were content with ridding London of this power-madwoman, and they went back satisfied to their homes, leaving the cityopen to occupation by the partisans of Stephen, who entered it underpretense of an alliance with the citizens. The Bishop of Winchester, whoseems to have been something of a weathercock in his political faith, turned again to his brothers side, set Stephen's banner afloat onWindsor Castle and converted his bishop's residence into a fortress. Robert of Gloucester came with Maud's troops to besiege it. The garrisonset fire to the surrounding houses to annoy the besiegers. While thetown was burning, an army from London appeared, fiercely attacked theassailants, and forced them to take refuge in the churches. These wereset on fire to drive out the fugitives. The affair ended in Robert ofGloucester being taken prisoner and his followers dispersed. 

Then once more the Saxon peasants swarmed from their huts like hornetsfrom their hives and assailed the fugitives as they had before assailedthose from Stephen's army. The proud Normans, whose language betrayedthem in spite of their attempts at disguise, were robbed, stripped oftheir clothing, and driven along the roads by whips in the hands ofSaxon serfs, who thus repaid themselves for many an act of wrong. TheBishop of Canterbury and other high prelates and numbers of great lordswere thus maltreated, and for once were thoroughly humbled by thosedespised islanders whom their fathers had enslaved. 

Thus ended the second act in this drama of conquest and re-conquest. Maud, deprived of her brother, was helpless. She exchanged him for KingStephen, and the war broke out afresh. Stephen laid siege to Oxford, andpressed it so closely that once more Maud took to flight. It wasmidwinter. The ground was covered with snow. Dressing herself from headto foot in white, and accompanied by three knights similarly attired, she slipped out of a postern in the hope of being unseen against thewhiteness of the snow-clad surface. 

Stephen's camp was asleep, its sentinels alone being astir. The scaredfugitives glided on foot through the snow, passing close to the enemy'sposts, the voices of the sentinels sounding in their ears. On foot theycrossed the frozen Thames, gained horses on the opposite side, andgalloped away in hasty flight. 

There is little more to say. Maud's cause was at an end. Not longafterwards her brother died, and she withdrew to Normandy, glad, doubtless, to be well out of that pestiferous island, but, mayhap, mourning that her arrogant folly had robbed her of a throne. 

A few years afterwards her son Henry took up her cause, and landed inEngland with an army. But the threatened hostilities ended in a truce, which provided that Henry should reign after Stephen's death. Stephendied a year afterwards, England gained an able monarch, and prosperityreturned to the realm after fifteen years of the most frightful miseryand misrule. 

_THE CAPTIVITY OF RICHARD COEUR DE LION. _

In the month of October, in the year of our Lord 1192, a pirate vesseltouched land on the coast of Sclavonia, at the port of Yara. Those weredays in which it was not easy to distinguish between pirates and truemariners, either in aspect or avocation, neither being afflicted withmuch inconvenient honesty, both being hungry for spoil. From this vesselwere landed a number of passengers, --knights, chaplains, andservants, --Crusaders on their way home from the Holy Land, and in need, for their overland journey, of a safe-conduct from the lord of theprovince. 

He who seemed chief among the travellers sent a messenger to the rulerof Yara, to ask for this safe-conduct, and bearing a valuable ruby ringwhich he was commissioned to offer him as a present. The lord of Yarareceived this ring, which he gazed upon with eyes of doubt andcuriosity. It was too valuable an offer for a small service, and he hadsurely heard of this particular ruby before. 

"Who are they that have sent thee to ask a free passage of me?" he askedthe messenger. 

"Some pilgrims returning from Jerusalem, " was the answer. 

"And by what names call you these pilgrims?"

"One is called Baldwin de Bethune, " rejoined the messenger. "The other, he who sends you this ring, is named Hugh the merchant. "

The ruler fixed his eyes again upon the ring, which he examined withclose attention. He at length replied, --

"You had better have told me the truth, for your ring reveals it. Thisman's name is not Hugh, but Richard, king of England. His gift is aroyal one, and, since he wished to honor me with it without knowing me, I return it to him, and leave him free to depart. Should I do as dutybids, I would hold him prisoner. "

It was indeed Richard Coeur de Lion, on his way home from the Crusadewhich he had headed, and in which his arbitrary and imperious temper hadmade enemies of the rulers of France and Austria, who accompanied him. He had concluded with Saladin a truce of three years, three months, three days, and three hours, and then, disregarding his oath that hewould not leave the Holy Land while he had a horse left to feed on, heset sail in haste for home. He had need to, for his brother John wasintriguing to seize the throne. 

On his way home, finding that he must land and proceed part of the wayoverland, he dismissed all his suite but a few attendants, fearing to berecognized and detained. The single vessel which he now possessed wasattacked by pirates, but the fight, singularly enough, ended in a truce, and was followed by so close a friendship between Richard and thepirate captain that he left his vessel for theirs, and was borne by themto Yara. 

The ruler of Yara was a relative of the marquis of Montferrat, whosedeath in Palestine had without warrant been imputed to Richard'sinfluence. The king had, therefore, unwittingly revealed himself to anenemy and was in imminent danger of arrest. On receiving the messagesent him he set out at once, not caring to linger in so doubtful aneighborhood. No attempt was made to stop him. The lord of Yara was inso far faithful to his word. But he had not promised to keep the king'ssecret, and at once sent a message to his brother, lord of a neighboringtown, that King Richard of England was in the country, and wouldprobably pass through his town. 

There was a chance that he might pass undiscovered; pilgrims fromPalestine were numerous; Richard reached the town, where no one knewhim, and obtained lodging with one of its householders as Hugh, amerchant from the East. 

As it happened, the lord of the town had in his service a Norman namedRoger, formerly from Argenton. To him he sent, and asked him if he knewthe king of England. 

"No; I never saw him, " said Roger. 

"But you know his language--the Norman French, there may be some tokenby which you can recognize him; go seek him in the inns where pilgrimslodge, or elsewhere. He is a prize well worth taking. If you put him inmy hands I will give you the government of half my domain. "

Roger set out upon his quest, and continued it for several days, firstvisiting the inns, and then going from house to house of the town, keenly inspecting every stranger. The king was really there, and at lastwas discovered by the eager searcher. Though in disguise, Rogersuspected him. That mighty bulk, those muscular limbs, that imperiousface, could belong to none but him who had swept through the Saracenhosts with a battle-axe which no other of the Crusaders could wield. Roger questioned him so closely that the king, after seeking to concealhis identity, was at length forced to reveal who he really was. 

"I am not your foe, but your friend, " cried Roger, bursting into tears. "You are in imminent danger here, my liege, and must fly at once. Mybest horse is at your service. Make your escape, without delay, out ofGerman territory. "

Waiting until he saw the king safely horsed, Roger returned to hismaster, and told him that the report was a false one. The only Crusaderhe had found in the town was Baldwin de Bethune, a Norman knight, on hisway home from Palestine. The lord, furious at his disappointment, atonce had Baldwin arrested and imprisoned. But Richard had escaped. 

The flying king hurried onward through the German lands, his onlycompanions now being William de l'Etang, his intimate friend, and avalet who could speak the language of the country, and who served astheir interpreter. For three days and three nights the travellerspursued their course, without food or shelter, not daring to stop oraccost any of the inhabitants. At length they arrived at Vienna, completely worn out with hunger and fatigue. 

The fugitive king could have sought no more dangerous place of shelter. Vienna was the capital of Duke Leopold of Austria, whom Richard hadmortally offended in Palestine, by tearing down his banner and plantingthe standard of England in its place. Yet all might have gone well butfor the servant, who, while not a traitor, was as dangerous a thing, afool. He was sent out from the inn to exchange the gold byzantines ofthe travellers for Austrian coin, and took occasion to make such adisplay of his money, and assume so dignified and courtier-like an air, that the citizens grew suspicious of him and took him before amagistrate to learn who he was. He declared that he was the servant of arich merchant who was on his way to Vienna, and would be there in threedays. This reply quieted the suspicions of the people, and, the foolishfellow was released. 

In great affright he hastened to the king, told him what had happened, and begged him to leave the town at once. The advice was good, but athree-days' journey without food or shelter called for some repose, andRichard decided to remain some days longer in the town, confident that, if they kept quiet, no further suspicion would arise. 

Meanwhile, the news of the incident at Yara had spread through thecountry and reached Vienna. Duke Leopold heard it with a doublesentiment of enmity and avarice. Richard had insulted him; here was achance for revenge; and the ransom of such a prisoner would enrich histreasury, then, presumably, none too full. Spies and men-at-arms weresent out in search of travellers who might answer to the description ofthe burly English monarch. For days they traversed the country, but notrace of him could be found. Leopold did not dream that his mortal foewas in his own city, comfortably lodged within a mile of his palace. 

Richard's servant, who had imperilled him before, now succeeded infinishing his work of folly. One day he appeared in the market topurchase provisions, foolishly bearing in his girdle a pair of richlyembroidered gloves, such as only great lords wore when in court attire. The fellow was arrested again, and this time, suspicion being increased, was put to the torture. Very little of this sharp discipline sufficedhim. He confessed whom he served, and told the magistrate at what innKing Richard might be found. 

Within an hour afterwards the inn was surrounded by soldiers of theduke, and Richard, taken by surprise, was forced to surrender. He wasbrought before the duke, who recognized him at a glance, accosted himwith great show of courtesy, and with every display of respect orderedhim to be taken to prison, where picked soldiers with drawn swordsguarded him day and night. 

The news that King Richard was a prisoner in an Austrian fortress spreadthrough Europe, and everywhere gave joy to the rulers of the variousrealms. Brave soldier as he was, he of the lion heart had succeeded inoffending all his kingly comrades in the Crusade, and they rejoiced overhis captivity as one might over the caging of a captured lion. Theemperor called upon his vassal, Duke Leopold, to deliver the prisoner tohim, saying that none but an emperor had the right to imprison a king. The duke assented, and the emperor, filled with glee, sent word of hisgood fortune to the king of France, who returned answer that the newswas more agreeable to him than a present of gold or topaz. As for John, the brother of the imprisoned king, he made overtures for an alliancewith Philip of France, redoubled his intrigues in England and Normandy, and secretly instigated the emperor to hold on firmly to his royalprize. All Europe seemed to be leagued against the unlucky king, who layin bondage within the stern walls of a German prison. 

And now we feel tempted to leave awhile the domain of sober history, andenter that of romance, which tells one of its prettiest stories aboutKing Richard's captivity. The story goes that the people of England knewnot what had become of their king. That he was held in durance vilesomewhere in Germany they had been told, but Germany was a broad landand had many prisons, and none knew which held the lion-hearted king. Before he could be rescued he must be found, and how should this bedone?

Those were the days of the troubadours, who sang their lively lays notonly in Provence but in other lands. Richard himself composed lays andsang them to the harp, and Blondel, a troubadour of renown, was hisfavorite minstrel, accompanying him wherever he went. This faithfulsinger mourned bitterly the captivity of his king, and at length, benton finding him, went wandering through foreign lands, singing under thewalls of fortresses and prisons a lay which Richard well knew. Manyweary days he wandered without response, almost without hope; yet stillfaithful Blondel roamed on, heedless of the palaces of the land, seekingonly its prisons and strongholds. 

At length arrived a day in which, from a fortress window above his head, came an echo of the strain he had just sung. He listened in ecstasy. Those were Norman words; that was a well-known voice; it could be butthe captive king. 

"O Richard! O my king!" sang the minstrel again, in a song of his owndevising. 

From above came again the sound of familiar song. Filled with joy, thefaithful minstrel sought England's shores, told the nobles where theking could be found, and made strenuous exertions to obtain his ransom, efforts which were at length crowned with success. 

Through the alluring avenues of romance the voice of Blondel still comesto us, singing his signal lay of "O Richard! O my king!" but history hasmade no record of the pretty tale, and back to history we must turn. 

The imprisoned king was placed on trial before the German Diet at Worms, charged with--no one knows what. Whatever the charge, the sentence wasthat he should pay a ransom of one hundred thousand pounds of silver, and acknowledge himself a vassal of the emperor. The latter, a mereformality, was gone through with as much pomp and ceremony as though itwas likely to have any binding force upon English kings. The former, theraising of the money, was more difficult. Two years passed, and still itwas not all paid. The royal prisoner, weary of his long captivity, complained bitterly of the neglect of his people and friends, singinghis woes in a song composed in the polished dialect of Provence, theland of the troubadours. 

"There is no man, however base, whom for want of money I would let liein a prison cell, " he sang. "I do not say it as a reproach, but I amstill a prisoner. "

A part of the ransom at length reached Germany, whose emperor sent athird of it to the duke of Austria as his share of the prize, andconsented to the liberation of his captive in the third week afterChristmas if he would leave hostages to guarantee the remainingpayment. 

Richard agreed to everything, glad to escape from prison on any terms. But the news of this agreement spread until it reached the ears ofPhilip of France and his ally, John. Dread filled their hearts at thetidings. Their plans for seizing on England and Normandy were not yetcomplete. In great haste Philip sent messengers to the emperor, offeringhim seventy thousand marks of silver if he would hold his prisoner forone year longer, or, if he preferred, a thousand pounds of silver foreach month of captivity. If he would give the prisoner into the custodyof Philip and his ally, they would pay a hundred and fifty thousandmarks for the prize. 

The offer was a tempting one. It dazzled the mind of the emperor, whoseideas of honor were not very deeply planted. But the members of the Dietwould not suffer him to break his faith. Their power was great, evenover the emperor's will, and the royal prisoner, after his many wearymonths of captivity, was set free. 

Word of the failure of his plans came quickly to Philip's knavish ears, and he wrote in haste to his confederate, "the devil is loose; take careof yourself, " an admonition which John was quite likely to obey. Hishope of seizing the crown vanished. There remained to meet his placablebrother with a show of fraternal loyalty. 

But Richard was delayed in his purpose of reaching England, and dangeragain threatened him. He had been set free near the end of January, 1194. He dared not enter France, and Normandy, then invaded by theFrench, was not safe for him. His best course was to take ship at aGerman port and sail for England. But it was the season of storms; helay a month at Anvers imprecating the weather; meanwhile, avariceovercame both fear and honor in the emperor's heart, the large sumoffered him outweighed the opposition of the lords of the Diet, and heresolved to seize the prisoner again and profit by the French king'sgolden bribe. 

Fortunately for Richard, the perfidious emperor allowed the secret ofhis design to get adrift; one of the hostages left in his hands heard ofit and found means to warn the king. Richard, at this tidings, stayednot for storm, but at once took passage in the galliot of a Normantrader named Alain Franchemer, narrowly escaping the men-at-arms sent totake him prisoner. Not many days afterwards he landed at the Englishport of Sandwich, once more a free man and a king. 

What followed in Richard's life we design not to tell, other than thestory of his life's ending with its romantic incidents. The liberatedking had not been long on his native soil before he succeeded insecuring Normandy against the invading French, building on its borders apowerful fortress, which he called his "Saucy Castle, " and the ruins ofwhose sturdy walls still remain. Philip was wrathful when he saw itsramparts growing. 

"I will take it were its walls of iron, " he declared. 

"I would hold it were the walls of butter, " Richard defiantly replied. 

It was church land, and the archbishop placed Normandy under aninterdict. Richard laughed at his wrath, and persuaded the pope towithdraw the curse. A "rain of blood" fell, which scared his courtiers, but Richard laughed at it as he had at the bishop's wrath. 

"Had an angel from heaven bid him abandon his work, he would haveanswered with a curse, " says one writer. 

"How pretty a child is mine, this child of but a year old!" saidRichard, gladly, as he saw the walls proudly rise. 

[Illustration: STATUE OF RICHARD COEUR DE LION. ]

He needed money to finish it. His kingdom had been drained to pay hisransom. But a rumor reached him that a treasure had been found atLimousin, --twelve knights of gold seated round a golden table, said thestory. Richard claimed it. The lord of Limoges refused to surrender it. Richard assailed his castle. It was stubbornly defended. In savage wrathhe swore he would hang every soul within its walls. 

There was an old song which said that an arrow would be made in Limogesby which King Richard would die. The song proved a true prediction. Onenight, as the king surveyed the walls, a young soldier, Bertrand deGourdon by name, drew an arrow to its head, and saying, "Now I pray Godspeed thee well!" let fly. 

The shaft struck the king in the left shoulder. The wound might havebeen healed, but unskilful treatment made it mortal. The castle wastaken while Richard lay dying, and every soul in it hanged, as the kinghad sworn, except Bertrand de Gourdon. He was brought into the king'stent, heavily chained. 

"Knave!" cried Richard, "what have I done to you that you should take mylife?"

"You have killed my father and my two brothers, " answered the youth. "You would have hanged me. Let me die now, by any torture you will. Mycomfort is that no torture to me can save _you_. You, too, must die; andthrough me the world is quit of you. "

The king looked at him steadily, and with a gleam of clemency in hiseyes. 

"Youth, " he said, "I forgive you. Go unhurt. "

Then turning to his chief captain, he said, --

"Take off his chains, give him a hundred shillings, and let him depart. "

He fell back on his couch, and in a few minutes was dead, havingsignalized his last moments with an act of clemency which had had fewcounterparts in his life. His clemency was not matched by his piety. Thepriests who were present at his dying bed exhorted him to repentance andrestitution, but he drove them away with bitter mockery, and died ashardened a sinner as he had lived. It should, however, be said that thisstatement of the character of Richard's death, given by the historianGreen, does not accord with that of Lingard, who says that Richard sentfor his confessor and received the sacraments with sentiments ofcompunction. 

As for Bertrand, the chronicles say that he failed to profit by thekindness of the king. A dead monarch's voice has no weight in the land. The pardoned youth was put to death. 

_ROBIN HOOD AND THE KNIGHT OF THE RUEFUL COUNTENANCE. _

"Where will the old duke live?" asks Oliver, in Shakespeare's "As youlike it. "

"They say he is already in the forest of Arden, " answers Charles, "and amany merry men with him; and there they live like the old Robin Hood ofEngland, and fleet the time carelessly as they did in the golden world. "

Many a merry man, indeed, was there with Robin Hood in Sherwood forest, and, if we may believe the stories that live in the heart of Englishsong, there they fleeted the time as carelessly as men did in the goldenage; for Robin was king of the merry greenwood, as the Norman kings werelords of the realm beside, and though his state was not so great nor hiscoffers so full, his heart was merrier and his conscience more void ofoffence against man and God. If Robin lived by plunder, so did the king;the one took toll from a few travellers, the other from a kingdom; theone dealt hard blows in self-defence, the other killed thousands in warfor self-aggrandizement; the one was a patriot, the other an invader. Verily Robin was far the honester man of the two, and most worthy theadmiration of mankind. 

Nor was the kingdom of Robin Hood so much less extensive than that ofEngland's king as men may deem, though its tenants were fewer and itsrevenues less. For in those days forest land spread widely over theEnglish isle. The Norman kings had driven out the old inhabitants farand wide, and planted forests in place of towns, peopling them with deerin place of men. In its way this was merciful, perhaps. Those rude oldkings were not content unless they were hunting and killing, and it wasbetter they should kill deer than men. But their cruel game-laws couldnot keep men from the forests, and the woods they planted served asplaces of shelter for the outlaws they made. 

William the Conqueror, so we are told, had no less than sixty-eightforests peopled with deer, and guarded against intrusion of common manby a cruel interdict. His successors added new forests, until it lookedas if England might be made all woodland, and the red deer its chiefinhabitants. Sherwood forest, the favorite lurking-place of the boldRobin, stretched for thirty miles in an unbroken line. But this was onlypart of Robin's "realm of plesaunce. " From Sherwood it was but a step toother forests, stretching league after league, and peopled by bands ofmerry rovers, who laughed at the king's laws, killed and ate hischerished deer at their own sweet wills, and defied sheriff andman-at-arms, the dense forest depths affording them innumerablelurking-places, their skill with the bow enabling them to defend theirdomain from assault, and to exact tribute from their foes. 

Such was the realm of Robin Hood, a realm of giant oaks and silverybirches, a realm prodigal of trees, o'ercanopied with green leaves untilthe sun had ado to send his rays downward, carpeted with brown moss andemerald grasses, thicketed with a rich undergrowth of bryony andclematis, prickly holly and golden furze, and a host of minor shrubs, while some parts of the forest were so dense that, as Camden says, theentangled branches of the thickly-set trees "were so twisted together, that they hardly left room for a person to pass. "

Here were innumerable hiding-places for the forest outlaws when huntedtoo closely by their foes. They lacked not food; the forest was filledwith grazing deer and antlered stags. There was also abundance ofsmaller game, --the hare, the coney, the roe; and of birds, --thepartridge, pheasant, woodcock, mallard, and heron. Fuel could be had inprofusion when fire was needed. For winter shelter there were manycaverns, for Sherwood forest is remarkable for its number of such placesof refuge, some made by nature, others excavated by man. 

Happy must have been the life in this greenwood realm, jolly the outlawswho danced and sang beneath its shades, merry as the day was long theirhearts while summer ruled the year, while even in drear winter they hadtheir caverns of refuge, their roaring wood-fires, and the spoils of theyear's forays to carry them through the season of cold and storm. Afollower of bold Robin might truly sing, with Shakespeare, --

 "Under the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me, And tune his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither: Here shall he see No enemy, But winter and rough weather. "

But the life of the forest-dwellers was not spent solely in enjoyment ofthe pleasures of the merry greenwood. They were hunted by men, andbecame hunters of men. True English hearts theirs, all Englishmen theirfriends, all Normans their foes, they were in no sense brigands, butdefenders of their soil against the foreign foe who had overrun it, thesuccessors of Hereward the Wake, the last of the English to bear armsagainst the invader, and to keep a shelter in which the English heartmight still beat in freedom. 

No wonder the oppressed peasants and serfs of the fields sang in gleefulstrains the deeds of the forest-dwellers; no wonder that Robin Hoodbecame the hero of the people, and that the homely song of the land wasfull of stories of his deeds. We can scarcely call these historicaltales: they are legendary; yet it may well be that a stratum of factunderlies the aftergrowth of romance; certainly they were history tothe people, and as such, with a mental reservation, they shall behistory to us. We propose, therefore, here to convert into prose "alytell geste of Robyn Hode. "

It was a day in merry spring-tide. Under the sun-sprinkled shadows ofthe "woody and famous forest of Barnsdale" (adjoining Sherwood) stoodgathered a group of men attired in Lincoln green, bearing long bows intheir hands and quivers of sharp-pointed arrows upon their shoulders, hardy men all, strong of limb and bold of face. 

[Illustration: ROBIN HOOD'S WOODS. ]

Leaning against an oak of centuried growth stood Robin Hood, the famousoutlaw chief, a strong man and sturdy, with handsome face and merry blueeyes, one fitted to dance cheerily in days of festival, and to strikevaliantly in hours of conflict. Beside him stood the tall and stalwartform of Little John, whose name was given him in jest, for he was thestoutest of the band. There also were valiant Much, the miller's son, gallant Scathelock, George a Green, the pindar of Wakefield, the fat andjolly Friar Tuck, and many another woodsman of renown, a band of lustyarchers such as all England could not elsewhere match. 

"Faith o' my body, the hours pass apace, " quoth Little John, lookingupward through the trees. "Is it not time we should dine?"

"I am not in the mood to dine without company, " said Robin. "Our tableis a dull one without guests. If we had now some bold baron or fatabbot, or even a knight or squire, to help us carve our haunch ofvenison, and to pay his scot for the feast, I wot me all our appetiteswould be better. "

He laughed meaningly as he looked round the circle of faces. 

"Marry, if such be your whim, " answered Little John, "tell us whither weshall go to find a guest fit to grace our greenwood table, and of whatrank he shall be. "

"At least let him not be farmer or yeoman, " said Robin. "We war onhawks, not on doves. If you can bring me a bishop now, or i' faith, thehigh-sheriff of Nottingham, we shall dine merrily. Take Much andScathelock with you, and away. Bring me earl or baron, abbot or simpleknight, or squire, if no better can be had; the fatter their purses thebetter shall be their welcome. "

Taking their bows, the three yeomen strode at a brisk pace through theforest, bent upon other game than deer or antlered stag. On reaching theforest edge near Barnsdale, they lurked in the bushy shadows and keptclose watch and ward upon the highway that there skirted the wood, inhope of finding a rich relish to Robin's meal. 

Propitious fortune seemed to aid their quest. Not long had they bided inambush when, afar on the road, they spied a knight riding towards them. He came alone, without squire or follower, and promised to be an easyprey to the trio of stout woodsmen. But as he came near they saw thatsomething was amiss with him. He rode with one foot in the stirrup, theother hanging loose; a simple hood covered his head, and hungnegligently down over his eyes; grief or despair filled his visage, "asoryer man than he rode never in somer's day. "

Little John stepped into the road, courteously bent his knee to thestranger, and bade him welcome to the greenwood. 

"Welcome be you, gentle knight, " he said; "my master has awaited youfasting, these three hours. "

"Your master--who is he?" asked the knight, lifting his sad eyes. 

"Robin Hood, the forest chief, " answered Little John. 

"And a lusty yeoman he, " said the knight. "Men say much good of him. Ithought to dine to-day at Blythe or Dankaster, but if jolly Robin wantsme I am his man. It matters little, save that I have no heart to dojustice to any man's good cheer. Lead on, my courteous friend. Thegreenwood, then, shall be my dining-hall. "

Our scene now changes to the lodge of the woodland chief. An hour hadpassed. A merry scene met the eye. The long table was well covered withgame of the choicest, swan, pheasants, and river fowl, and with roastsand steaks of venison, which had been on hoof not many hours before. Around it sat a jolly company of foresters, green-clad like the treesabout them. At its head sat Robin Hood, his handsome face lendingencouragement to the laughter and gleeful chat of his men. Beside himsat the knight, sober of attire, gloomy of face, yet brightening underthe courteous treatment of his host and the gay sallies of the outlawband. 

"Gramercy, Sir Woodman, " said the knight, when the feast was at an end, "such a dinner as you have set me I have not tasted for weeks. When Icome again to this country I hope to repay you with as good a one. "

"A truce to your dinner, " said Robin, curtly. "All that dine in ourwoodland inn pay on the spot, Sir Knight. It is a good rule, I wot. "

"To full hands, mayhap, " said the knight; "but I dare not, for veryshame, proffer you what is in my coffers. "

"Is it so little, then?"

"Ten shillings is not wealth, " said the knight. "I can offer you nomore. "

"Faith, if that be all, keep it, in God's name; and I'll lend you more, if you be in need. Go look, Little John; we take no stranger's word inthe greenwood. "

John examined the knight's effects, and reported that he had told thetruth. Robin gazed curiously at his guest. 

"I held you for a knight of high estate, " he said. "A heedlesshusbandman you must have been, a gambler or wassailer, to have broughtyourself to this sorry pass. An empty pocket and threadbare attire illbefit a knight of your parts. "

"You wrong me, Robin, " said the knight, sadly. "Misfortune, not sin, hasbeggared me. I have nothing left but my children and my wife; but it isthrough no deed of my own. My son--my heir he should have been--slew aknight of Lancashire and his squire. To save him from the law I havemade myself a beggar. Even my lands and house must go, for I havepledged them to the abbot of St. Mary as surety for four hundred poundsloaned me. I cannot pay him, and the time is near its end. I have losthope, good sir, and am on my way to the sea, to take ship for the HolyLand. Pardon my tears, I leave a wife and children. "

"Where are your friends?" asked Robin. 

"Where are the last year's leaves of your trees?" asked the knight. "They were fair enough while the summer sun shone; they dropped from mewhen the winter of trouble came. "

"Can you not borrow the sum?" asked Robin. "Not a groat, " answered theknight. "I have no more credit than a beggar. "

"Mayhap not with the usurers, " said Robin. "But the greenwood is notquite bare, and your face, Sir Knight, is your pledge of faith. Go to mytreasury, Little John, and see if it will not yield four hundredpounds. "

"I can promise you that, and more if need be, " answered the woodman. "But our worthy knight is poorly clad, and we have rich cloths to spare, I wot. Shall we not add a livery to his purse?"

"As you will, good fellow, and forget not a horse, for our guest's mountis of the sorriest. "

The knight's sorrow gave way to hope as he saw the eagerness, of thegenerous woodmen. Little John's count of the money added ampleinterest; the cloths were measured with a bow-stick for a yard, and apalfrey was added to the courser, to bear their welcome gifts. In theend Robin lent him Little John for a squire, and gave him twelve monthsin which to repay his loan. Away he went, no longer a knight of ruefulcountenance. 

 "Nowe as the knight went on his way, This game he thought full good, When he looked on Bernysdale He blyssed Robin Hode;

 "And when he thought on Bernysdale, On Scathelock, Much, and John, He blyssed them for the best company That ever he in come. "

The next day was that fixed for the payment of the loan to the abbot ofSt. Mary's. Abbot and prior waited in hope and excitement. If the cashwas not paid by night a rich estate would fall into their hands. Theknight must pay to the last farthing, or be beggared. As they satawaiting the cellarer burst in upon them, full of exultation. 

"He is dead or hanged!" he cried. "We shall have our four hundred poundsmany times over. "

With them were the high-justice of England and the sheriff of the shire, brought there to give the proceeding the warrant of legality. Time waspassing, an hour or two more would end the knight's grace, only a narrowspace of time lay between him and beggary. The justice had just turnedwith congratulations to the abbot, when, to the discomfiture of thechurchmen, the debtor, Sir Richard of the Lee, appeared at the gate ofthe abbey, and made his way into the hall. 

Yet he was shabbily clad; his face was sombre; there seemed littleoccasion for alarm. There seemed none when he began to speak. 

"Sir Abbot, " he said, "I come to hold my day. "

"Hast thou brought my pay?" asked the abbot. 

"Not one penny, " answered the knight. 

"Thou art a shrewd debtor, " declared the abbot, with a look ofsatisfaction. "Sir Justice, drink to me. What brings you here then, sirrah, if you fetch no money?"

"To pray your grace for a longer day, " said Sir Richard, humbly. 

"Your day is ended; not an hour more do you get, " cried the abbot. 

Sir Richard now appealed to the justice for relief, and after him to thesheriff, but to both in vain. Then, turning to the abbot again, heoffered to be his servant, and work for him till the four hundred poundswere earned, if he would take pity on him. 

This appeal was lost on the merciless churchman. In the end hot wordspassed, and the abbot angrily exclaimed, --

"Out of my hall, thou false knight! Speed thee out, sirrah!"

"Abbot, thou liest, I was never false to my word, " said Sir Richard, proudly. "You lack courtesy, to suffer a knight to kneel and beg solong. I am a true knight and a true man, as all who have seen me intournament or battle will say. "

"What more will you give the knight for a full release?" asked thejustice. "If you give nothing, you will never hold his lands in peace. "

"A hundred pounds, " said the abbot. 

"Give him two, " said the justice. 

"Not so, " cried the knight. "If you make it a thousand more, not a footof my land shall you ever hold. You have outwitted yourself, masterabbot, by your greed. "

Sir Richard's humility was gone; his voice was clear and proud; thechurchmen trembled, here was a new tone. Turning to a table, the knighttook a bag from under his cloak, and shook out of it on to the board aringing heap of gold. 

"Here is the gold you lent me, Sir Abbot, " he cried. "Count it. You willfind it four hundred pounds to the penny. Had you been courteous, Iwould have been generous. As it is, I pay not a penny over my due. "

 "The abbot sat styll, and ete no more For all his ryall chere; He cast his head on his sholder, And fast began to stare. "

So ended this affair, the abbot in despair, the knight in triumph, thejustice laughing at his late friends and curtly refusing to return thecash they had paid to bring him there. His money counted, his releasesigned, the knight was a glad man again. 

 "The knight stert out of the dore, Awaye was all his care, And on he put his good clothynge, The other he lefte there. 

 "He wente hym forthe full mery syngynge, As men have tolde in tale, His lady met hym at the gate, At home in Wierysdale. 

 "'Welcome, my lorde, ' sayd his lady; 'Syr, lost is all your good?' 'Be mery dame, ' said the knight, 'And pray for Robyn Hode, "That ever his soule be in blysse, He holpe me out of my tene; Ne had not be his kyndenesse, Beggers had we ben. '"

The story wanders on, through pages of verse like the above, but we mayfitly end it with a page of prose. The old singers are somewhat prolix;it behooves us to be brief. 

A twelvemonth passed. The day fixed by the knight to repay his friend ofthe merry greenwood came. On that day the highway skirting the forestwas made brilliant by a grand array of ecclesiastics and theirretainers, at their head no less a personage than the fat cellarer ofSt. Mary's. 

Unluckily for them, the outlaws were out that day, on the lookout forgame of this description, and the whole pious procession was swept upand taken to Robin Hood's greenwood court. The merry fellow looked athis new guests with a smile. The knight had given the Virgin as hissecurity, --surely the Virgin had taken him at his word, and sent theseholy men to repay her debt. 

In vain the high cellarer denied that he represented any such exaltedpersonage. He even lied as to the state of his coffers. It was a liewasted, for Little John served him as he had the knight, and found agood eight hundred pounds in the monk's baggage. 

"Fill him with wine of the best!" cried Robin. "Our Lady is a generousdebtor. She pays double. Fill him with wine and let him go. He has paidwell for his dinner. "

Hardly had the monk and his train gone, in dole and grief, beforeanother and merrier train was seen winding under the great oaks of theforest. It was the knight on his way to pay his debt. After him rode ahundred men clad in white and red, and bearing as a present to thedelighted foresters a hundred bows of the finest quality, each with itssheaf of arrows, with burnished points, peacock feathers, and notchedwith silver. Each shaft was an ell long. 

The knight begged pardon. He had been delayed. On his way he had met apoor yeoman who was being ill-treated. He had stayed to rescue him. Thesun was down; the hour passed; but he bore his full due to the generouslords of the greenwood. 

"You come too late, " said Robin. "The Virgin, your surety, has beenbefore you and paid your debt. The holy monks of St. Mary, heralmoners, have brought it. They paid well, indeed; they paid double. Four hundred is my due, the other four hundred is yours. Take it, mygood friend, our Lady sends it, and dwell henceforth in a statebefitting your knightly station. "

Once more the good knight, Sir Richard of the Lee, dined with RobinHood, and merry went the feast that day under the greenwood tree. Theleaves of Sherwood still laugh with the mirth that then shook theirbowery arches. Robin Hood dwells there no more, but the memory of themighty archer and his merry men still haunts the woodland glades, andwill while a lover of romance dwells in England's island realm. 

_WALLACE, THE HERO OF SCOTLAND. _

On a summer's day, many centuries ago, a young gentleman of Scotland wasfishing in the river Irvine, near Ayr, attended by a boy who carried hisfishing-basket. The young man was handsome of face, tall of figure, andstrongly built, while his skill as an angler was attested by the numberof trout which lay in the boy's basket. While he was thus engagedseveral English soldiers, from the garrison of Ayr, came up to theangler, and with the insolence with which these invaders were then inthe habit of treating the Scotch, insisted on taking the basket and itscontents from the boy. 

"You ask too much, " said Wallace, quietly. "You are welcome to a part ofthe fish, but you cannot have them all. "

"That we will, " answered the soldiers. 

"That you will not, " retorted the youth. "I have other business than toplay fisherman for your benefit. "

The soldiers insisted, and attempted to take the basket. The angler cameto the aid of his attendant. Words were followed by blows. The soldierslaid hands on their weapons. The youth had no weapon but hisfishing-rod. But with the butt end of this he struck the foremostEnglishman so hard a blow under his ear that he stretched him dead uponthe ground. Seizing the man's sword, which had fallen from his hand, heattacked the others with such skill and fury that they were put toflight, and the bold angler was enabled to take his fish safely home. 

The name of the courageous youth was William Wallace. He was the son ofa private gentleman, called Wallace of Ellerslie, who had brought up hisboy to the handling of warlike weapons, until he had grown an adept intheir use; and also to a hatred of the English, which was redoubled bythe insolence of the soldiers with whom Edward I. Of England hadgarrisoned the country. Like all high-spirited Scotchmen, the young manviewed with indignation the conduct of the conquerors of his country, and expressed the intensity of his feeling in the tragical manner abovedescribed. 

Wallace's life was in imminent danger from his exploit. The affair wasreported to the English governor of Ayr, who sought him diligently, andwould have put him to death had he been captured. But he took to thehills and woods, and lay concealed in their recesses until the deed wasforgotten, being supplied by his friends with the necessaries of life. As it was not safe to return to Ayr after his period of seclusion, hemade his way to another part of the country, where his bitter hostilityto the English soon led him into other encounters with them, in whichhis strength, skill, and courage usually brought him off victorious. Somany were the affairs in which he was engaged, and so great his daringand success, that the people began to talk of him as the champion ofScotland, while the English grew to fear this indomitable youngswordsman. 

At length came an adventure which brought matters to a crisis. YoungWallace had married a lady of Lanark, and had taken up his residence inthat town with his wife. The place had an English garrison, and one day, as Wallace walked in the market-place in a rich green dress, with ahandsome dagger by his side, an Englishman accosted him insultingly, saying that no Scotchman had the right to wear such finery or to carryso showy a weapon. 

He had tried his insolence on the wrong man. A quarrel quickly followed, and, as on similar occasions before, Wallace killed the Englishman. Itwas an unwise act, inspired by his hasty temper and fiery indignation. His peril was great. He hastened to his house, which was quicklyattacked by soldiers of the garrison. While they were seeking to breakin at the front, Wallace escaped at the rear, and made his way to arocky glen, called the Cortland-crags, near the town, where he found asecure hiding-place among its thick-growing trees and bushes. 

Meanwhile, the governor of Lanark, Hazelrigg by name, finding that theculprit had escaped, set fire to his house, and with uncalled-forcruelty put his wife and servants to death. He also proclaimed Wallacean outlaw, and offered a reward for any one who should bring him in, dead or alive. He and many of his countrymen were destined to pay thepenalty of this cruel deed before Wallace should fall into Englishhands. 

The murder of his wife set fire to the intense patriotism in Wallace'ssoul. He determined to devote his life to acts of reprisal against theenemy, and if possible to rescue his country from English hands. He soonhad under his command a body of daring partisans, some of them outlawslike himself, others quite willing to become such for the good ofScotland. The hills and forests of the country afforded them numeroussecure hiding-places, whence they could issue in raids upon the insolentfoe. 

From that time forward Wallace gave the English no end of trouble. Oneof his first expeditions was against Hazelrigg, to whom he owed sobitter a debt of vengeance. The cruel governor was killed, and themurdered woman avenged. Other expeditions were attempted, and collisionswith the soldiers sent against him became so frequent and the partisanband so successful, that Wallace quickly grew famous, and the number ofhis followers rapidly increased. In time, from being a band of outlaws, his party grew to the dimensions of a small army, and in place ofcontenting himself with local reprisals on the English, he cherished thedesign of striking for the independence of his country. 

The most notable adventure which followed this increase of Wallace'sband is one the story of which may be in part legendary, but which issignificant of the cruelty of warfare in those thirteenth-century days. It is remembered among the Scottish people under the name of the "Barnsof Ayr. "

The English governor of Ayr is said to have sent a general invitation tothe nobility and gentry of that section of Scotland to meet him infriendly conference on national affairs. The place fixed for the meetingwas in certain large buildings called the barns of Ayr. The true purposeof the governor was a murderous one. He proposed to rid himself of manyof those who were giving him trouble by the effective method of therope. Halters with running nooses had been prepared, and hung upon thebeams which supported the roof. The Scotch visitors were admitted two ata time, and as they entered the nooses were thrown over their heads, andthey drawn up and hanged. Among those thus slain was Sir ReginaldCrawford, sheriff of the county of Ayr, and uncle to William Wallace. 

This story it is not easy to believe, in the exact shape in which it isgiven, since it is unlikely that the Scottish nobles were such fools asit presupposes; but that it is founded on some tragical fact is highlyprobable. The same is the case with the story of Wallace's retributionfor this crime. When the news of it came to his ears he is said to havebeen greatly incensed, and to have determined on an adequate revenge. Hecollected his men in a wood near. Ayr, and sent out spies to learn thestate of affairs. The English had followed their crime with a period ofcarousing, and, having eaten and drunk all they wished, had lain down tosleep in the barns in which the Scotch gentry had been murdered. Notdreaming that a foe was so near, they had set no guards, and thus leftthemselves open to the work of revenge. 

This news being brought to Wallace, he directed a woman, who wasfamiliar with the locality, to mark with chalk the doors of thebuildings where the Englishmen lay. Then, slipping up to the borders ofAyr, he sent a party with ropes, bidding them to fasten securely all themarked doors. This done, others heaped straw on the outside of thebuildings and set it on fire. The buildings, being constructed of wood, were quickly in a flame, the English waking from their drunken slumbersto find themselves environed with fire. 

Their fate was decided. Every entrance to the buildings had beensecured. Such as did succeed in getting out were driven back into theflames, or killed on the spot. The whole party perished miserably, notone escaping. In addition to the English thus disposed of, there were anumber lodged in a convent. These were attacked by the prior and themonks, who had armed themselves with swords, and fiercely assailed theirguests, few of them escaped. The latter event is known as "The Friar ofAyr's Blessing. "

Such is the story of a crime and its retribution. To say that it islegendary is equivalent to saying that it is not true in all itsparticulars; but that it is founded on fact its common acceptance by thepeople of that country seems evidence. 

So far the acts of Wallace and his men had been of minor importance. Butnow his party of followers grew into an army, many of the Scottishnobles joining him. Prominent among these was Sir William Douglas, thehead of the most famous family in Scottish history. Another was Sir JohnGrahame, who became the chief friend and confident of the champion ofthe rights of Scotland. 

This rebellious activity on the part of the Scotch had not been viewedwith indifference by the English. The raids of Wallace and his band ofoutlaws they had left the local garrisons to deal with. But here was anarmy, suddenly sprung into existence, and needing to be handled in adifferent manner. An English army, under the command of John de Warenne, the Earl of Surrey, marched towards Wallace's camp, with the purpose ofputting a summary end to this incipient effort at independence. 

The approach of Warenne weakened Wallace's army, since many of thenobles deserted his ranks, under the fear that he could not withstandthe greatly superior English force. Yet, in spite of these defections, he held his ground. He still had a considerable force under his command, and took position near the town of Stirling, on the south side of theriver Forth, where he awaited the approaching English army. The riverwas at this point crossed by a long wooden bridge. 

The English host reached the southern bank of the river. Its commander, thinking that he might end the matter in a peaceful way, sent twoclergy-men to Wallace, offering a pardon to him and his followers ifthey would lay down their arms. 

"Go back to Warenne, " was the reply of Wallace, "and tell him we valuenot the pardon of the king of England. We are not here for the purposeof treating of peace, but of abiding battle, and restoring freedom toour country. Let the English come on; we defy them to their verybeards!"

[Illustration: THE WALLACE MONUMENT, STIRLING. ]

Despite the disparity in numbers, Wallace had some warrant for his toneof confidence. The English could not reach him except over the long andnarrow bridge, and stood the chance of having their vanguard destroyedbefore the remainder could come to their aid. 

Such proved to be the case. The English, after some hesitation, attempted the passage of the bridge. Wallace held off until about halfthe army had crossed and the bridge was thickly crowded with others. Then he charged upon them with his whole force, and with suchimpetuosity that they were thrown into confusion, and soon put to rout, a large number being slain and the remainder driven into the Forth, where the greater part of them were drowned. The portion of the Englisharmy which had not crossed became infected with the panic of theirfellows, and fled in all haste, first setting fire to the bridge toprevent pursuit. 

This signal victory had the most encouraging influence on the people ofScotland. The defeated army fled in all haste from the country, andthose of the Scotch who had hitherto remained in doubt now took arms, and assailed the castles still held by the English. Many of these weretaken, and numerous gallant deeds done, of which Wallace is creditedwith his full share. How much exaggeration there may be in the storiestold it is not easy to say, but it seems certain that the Englishsuffered several defeats, lost most of the towns and castles they hadheld, and were driven almost entirely from the country. Wallace, indeed, led his army into England, and laid waste Cumberland and Northumberland, where many cruelties were committed, the Scottish soldiers beingirrepressible in their thirst for revenge on those who had so longoppressed their country. 

While these events were going on Edward I. Was in Flanders. He haddeemed Scotland thoroughly subjugated, and learned with surprise andfury that the Scottish had risen against him, defeated his armies, setfree their country, and even invaded England. He hurried back fromFlanders in a rage, determined to bring this rebellion to a short anddecisive termination. 

Collecting a large army, Edward invaded Scotland. His opponent, meanwhile, had been made protector, or governor, of Scotland, with thetitle of Sir William Wallace. Yet he had risen so rapidly from aprivate station to this great position that there was much jealousy ofhim on the part of the great nobles, and their lack of support of thebest soldier and bravest man of their nation was the main cause of hisdownfall and the subsequent disasters to their country. 

Wallace, despite their defection, had assembled a considerable army. Butit was not so strong as that of Edward, who had, besides, a large bodyof the celebrated archers of England, each of whom carried, so it wasclaimed, twelve Scotchmen's lives in his girdle, --in his twelvecloth-yard arrows. 

The two armies met at Falkirk. Wallace, before the fighting began, addressed his men in a pithy sentence: "I have brought you to the ring, let me see how you can dance. " The battle opened with a charge of theEnglish cavalry on the dense ranks of the Scottish infantry, who werearmed with long spears which they held so closely together that theirline seemed impregnable. The English horsemen found it so. Theyattempted again and again to break through that "wood of spears, " as ithas been called, but were every time beaten off with loss. But theScotch horse failed to support their brave footmen. On the contrary, they fled from the field, through ill-will or treachery of the nobles, as is supposed. 

Edward now ordered his archers to advance. They did so, and poured theirarrows upon the Scottish ranks in such close and deadly volleys thatflesh and blood could not endure it. Wallace had also a body of archers, from Ettrick forest, but they were attacked in their advance and many ofthem slain. The English cavalry now again charged. They met with adifferent reception from their previous one. The storm of arrows hadthrown Wallace's infantry into confusion, the line was broken at severalpoints, and the horsemen charged into their midst, cutting them down ingreat numbers. Sir John Grahame and others of their leaders were slain, and the Scotch, their firm ranks broken and many of them slain, atlength took to flight. 

It was on the 22d of July, 1298, that this decisive battle took place. Its event put an end, for the time, to the hopes of Scottishindependence. Opposition to Edward's army continued, and some successeswere gained, but the army of invasion was abundantly reinforced, untilin the end Wallace alone, at the head of a small band of followers, remained in arms. 

After all others had yielded, he persistently refused to submit toEdward and his armies. As he had been the first to take arms, he was thelast to keep the field, and for some years he continued to maintainhimself among the woods and hills of the Highlands, holding his own formore than a year after all the other chiefs had surrendered. 

Edward was determined not to leave him at liberty. He feared theinfluence of this one man more than of all the nobles of Scotland, andpursued him unremittingly, a great price being offered for his head. Atlength the gallant champion was captured, a Scotchman, Sir JohnMenteith, earning obloquy by the act. The story goes that the capturewas made at Robroyston, near Glasgow, the fugitive champion being takenby treachery, the signal for rushing upon him and taking him unawaresbeing for one of the company to turn a loaf, which lay upon the table, with its bottom side uppermost. In after-days it was considered veryill-breeding for any one to turn a loaf in this manner, if a personnamed Menteith were at table. 

However this be, it is certain that Wallace was taken and delivered tohis great enemy, and no less certain that he was treated with barbarousharshness. He was placed on trial at Westminster Hall, on the charge ofbeing a traitor to the English crown, and Edward, to insult him, had himcrowned with a green garland, as one who had been king of outlaws androbbers in the Scottish woods. 

"I could not be a traitor to Edward, for I was never his subject, " wasthe chieftain's answer to the charge against him. 

He was then accused of taking many towns and castles, killing many men, and doing much violence. 

"It is true I have killed many Englishmen, " replied Wallace, "but it wasbecause they came to oppress my native country. Far from repenting ofthis, I am only sorry not to have put to death many more of them. "

Wallace's defence was a sound one, but Edward had prejudged him. He wascondemned and executed, his body being quartered, in the cruel fashionof that time, and the parts exposed on spikes on London bridge, as thelimbs of a traitor. Thus died a hero, at the command of a tyrant. 

_BRUCE AT BANNOCKBURN. _

To Edward the Second, lying in luxurious idleness in his palace ofpleasure at London, came the startling word that he must strike a blowor lose a kingdom. Scotland was slipping from his weak grasp. Of thatgreat realm, won by the iron hand of his father, only one stronghold wasleft to England--Stirling Castle, and that was fiercely besieged byEdward Bruce, brother of Robert Bruce, who some years before had beencrowned King of Scotland and was now seeking to drive the English out ofhis realm. 

The tidings that came to Edward were these. Sir Philip Mowbray, governorof Stirling, hotly pressed by Bruce, and seeing no hope of succor, hadagreed to deliver the town and castle to the Scotch, unless reliefreached him before midsummer. Bruce stopped not the messengers. He letthem speed to London with the tidings, willing, doubtless, in his boldheart, to try it once for all with the English king, and win all or loseall at a blow. 

The news stirred feebly the weak heart of Edward, --lapped in delights, and heedless of kingdoms. It stirred strongly the vigorous hearts of theEnglish nobility, men who had marched to victory under the banners ofthe iron Edward, and who burned with impatience at the inglorious easeof his silken son. The great deeds of Edward I. Should not go fornaught, they declared. He had won Scotland; his son should not lose it. Robert Bruce, the rebel chief, had been left alone until he had gatheredan army and nearly made Scotland his own. Only Stirling remained; itwould be to the endless disgrace of England should it be abandoned, andthe gallant Mowbray left without support. An army must be gathered, Bruce must be beaten, Scotland must be won. 

Like the cry of a pack of sleuth-hounds in the ear of the timid deercame these stern demands to Edward the king. He dared not disregardthem. It might be as much as his crown were worth. England meantbusiness, and its king must take the lead or he might be asked to yieldthe throne. Stirred alike by pride and fear, he roused from hislethargy, gave orders that an army should be gathered, and vowed todrive the beleaguering Scots from before Stirling's walls. 

From every side they came, the marching troops. England, hot withrevengeful blood, mustered its quota in haste. Wales and Ireland, newappendages of the English throne, supplied their share. From the Frenchprovinces of the kingdom hosts of eager men-at-arms flocked across theChannel. All the great nobles and the barons of the realm led theirfollowers, equipped for war, to the mustering-place, until a force ofone hundred thousand men was ready for the field, perhaps the largestarmy which had ever marched under an English king. In this great arraywere thirty thousand horsemen. It looked as if Scotland were doomed. Surely that sterile land could raise no force to face this great array!

King Robert the Bruce did his utmost to prepare for the storm of warwhich threatened to break upon his realm. In all haste he summoned hisbarons and nobles from far and near. From the Highlands and the Lowlandsthey came, from island and mainland flocked the kilted and tartanedScotch, but, when all were gathered, they numbered not a third the hostof their foes, and were much more poorly armed. But at their head wasthe most expert military chief of that day, since the death of Edward I. The greatest warrior that Europe knew. Once again was it to be provedthat the general is the soul of his army, and that skill and courage area full offset for lack of numbers. 

Towards Stirling marched the great English array, confident in theirnumbers, proud of their gallant show. Northward they streamed, fillingall the roads, the king, at their head, deeming doubtless that he was ona holiday excursion, and that behind him came a wind of war that wouldblow the Scotch forces into the sea. Around Stirling gathered the armyof the Bruce, marching in haste from hill and dale, coming in to thestirring peal of the pipes and the old martial airs of the land, untilthe plain around the beleaguered town seemed a living sea of men, andthe sunlight burned on endless points of steel. 

But Bruce had no thought of awaiting the onset here. He well knew thathe must supply by skill what he lacked in numbers. The English army wasfar superior to his, not only in men, but in its great host of cavalry, which alone equalled his entire force, and in its multitude of archers, the best bowmen in the world. What he lacked in men and arms he mustmake up in brains. With this in view, he led his army from before thetown into a neighboring plain, called the Park, where nature hadprovided means of defence of which he might avail himself. 

The ground which his army here occupied was hard and dry. That in frontof it, through which Edward's host must pass, was wet and boggy, cut upwith frequent watercourses, and ill-fitted for cavalry. Should theheavy-armed horsemen succeed in crossing this marshy and broken groundand reach the firm soil in the Scottish front, they would findthemselves in a worse strait still. For Bruce had his men dig a greatnumber of holes as deep as a man's knee. These were covered with lightbrush, and the turf spread evenly over them, so that the honeycombedsoil looked to the eye like an unbroken field. Elsewhere on the plain hescattered calthrops--steel spikes--to lame the English horses. Smoothand promising looked the field, but the English cavalry were likely tofind it a plain of pitfalls and steel points. 

While thus defending his front, Bruce had given as skilful heed to thedefence of his flanks. On the left his line reached to the walls ofStirling. On the right it touched the banks of Bannockburn, a brook thatran between borders so rocky as to prevent attack from that quarter. Here, on the 23d of June, 1314, was posted the Scottish army, awaitingthe coming of the foe, the camp-followers, cart-drivers, and otheruseless material of the army being sent back behind a hill, --afterwardsknown as the gillies' or servants' hill, --that they might be out of theway. They were to play a part in the coming fray of which Bruce did notdream. 

Thus prepared, Bruce reviewed his force, and addressed them in stirringwords. The battle would be victory or death to him, he said. He hoped itwould be to all. If any among them did not propose to fight to thebitter end and take victory or death, as God should decree, for his lot, now was the time to withdraw; all such might leave the field before thebattle began. Not a man left. 

Fearing that the English might try to throw a force into StirlingCastle, the king posted his nephew Randolph with a body of men near St. Ninian's church. Lord Douglas and Sir Robert Keith were sent to surveyand report upon the English force, which was marching from Falkirk. Theyreturned with tidings to make any but stout hearts quiver. Such an armyas was coming they had never seen before; it was a beautiful but aterrible sight, the approach of that mighty host. The whole country, asfar as the eye could see, was crowded with men on horse or on foot. Never had they beheld such a grand display of standards, banners, andpennons. So gallant and fearful a show was it all, that the bravest hostin Christendom might well tremble to see King Edward's army marchingupon them. Such was the story told by Douglas, though his was not theheart to tremble in the telling. 

Bruce was soon to see this great array of horse and foot for himself. Onthey came, filling the country far and near with their numbers. Butbefore they had come in view, another sight met the vigilant eyes of theScottish king. To the eastward there became visible a body of Englishhorse, riding at speed, and seeking to reach Stirling from that quarter. Bruce turned to his nephew, who stood beside him. 

"See, Randolph, " he said, "there is a rose fallen from your chaplet. "

The English had passed the post which Randolph had been set to guard. Heheard the rebuke in silence, rode hastily to the head of his men, andrushed against the eight hundred English horse with half that number offootmen. The English turned to charge this daring force. Randolph drewup his men in close order to receive them. It looked as if the Scotchwould be overwhelmed, and trampled under foot by the powerful foe. 

"Randolph is lost!" cried Douglas. "He must have help. Let me go to hisaid. "

"Let Randolph redeem his own fault, " answered the king, firmly. "Icannot break the order of battle for his sake. "

Douglas looked on, fuming with impatience. The danger seemed moreimminent. The small body of Scotch foot almost vanished from sight inthe cloud of English horsemen. The glittering lances appeared about toannihilate them. 

"So please you, " said Douglas, "my heart will not suffer me to standidle and see Randolph perish, I must go to his assistance. "

The king made no answer. Douglas spurred to the head of his troop, androde off at speed. He neared the scene of conflict. Suddenly a changecame. The horsemen appeared confused. Panic seemed to have strickentheir ranks. In a moment away they went, in full flight, many of thehorses with empty saddles, while the gallant troop of Scotch stoodunmoved. 

"Halt!" cried Douglas. "Randolph has gained the day. Since we are notsoon enough to help him in the battle, do not let us lessen his glory byapproaching the field. " And the noble knight pulled rein and gallopedback, unwilling to rob Randolph of any of the honor of his deed. 

The English vanguard was now in sight. From it rode out a number ofknights, eager to see the Scotch array more nearly. King Robert did thesame. He was in armor, but was poorly mounted, riding only a littlepony, with which he moved up and down the front of his army, putting hismen in order. A golden crown worn over his helmet was his sole mark ofdistinction. The only weapon he carried was a steel battle-axe. As theEnglish knights came nearer, he advanced a little to have a closer lookat them. 

[Illustration: STIRLING CASTLE. ]

Here seemed an opportunity for a quick and decisive blow. The Scottishking was at some distance in front of his men, his rank indicated by hiscrown, his horse a poor one, his hand empty of a spear. He might beridden down by a sudden onset, victory to the English host be gained bya single blow, and great glory come to the bold knight that dealt it. 

So thought one of the English knights, Sir Henry de Bohun by name. Putting spurs to his powerful horse, he galloped furiously upon theking, thinking to bear him easily to the ground. Bruce saw him coming, but made no movement of flight. He sat his pony warily, waiting theonset, until Bohun was nearly upon him with his spear. Then a quicktouch to the rein, a sudden movement of the horse, and the lance-pointsped past, missing its mark. 

The Scotch army stood in breathless alarm; the English host in equallybreathless expectation; it seemed for the moment as if Robert the Brucewere lost. But as De Bohun passed him, borne onward by the career of hissteed, King Robert rose in his stirrups, swung his battle-axe in theair, and brought it down on his adversary's head with so terrible a blowthat the iron helmet cracked as though it were a nutshell, and theknight fell from his horse, dead before he reached the ground. 

King Robert turned and rode back, where he was met by a storm ofreproaches from his nobles, who declared that he had done grave wrongin exposing himself to such danger, when the safety of the army dependedon him. The king heard their reproaches in silence, his eyes fixed onthe fractured edge of his weapon. 

"I have broken my good battle-axe, " was his only reply. 

This incident ended the day. Night was at hand. Both armies rested onthe field. But at an early hour of the next day, the 24th of June, thebattle began, one of the critical battles of history. 

Through the Scottish ranks walked barefooted the abbot of Inchaffray, exhorting the men to fight their best for freedom. The soldiers kneeledas he passed. 

"They kneel down!" cried King Edward, who saw this. "They are askingforgiveness!"

"Yes, " said a baron beside him, "but they ask it from God, not from us. These men will conquer, or die upon the field. "

The battle began with a flight of English arrows. The archers, drawn upin close ranks, bent their bows, and poured their steel shafts asthickly as snow-flakes on the Scotch, many of whom were slain. Somethingmust be done, and that speedily, or those notable bowmen would end thebattle of themselves. Flesh and blood could not long bear that rain ofcloth-yard shafts, with their points of piercing steel. 

But Bruce had prepared for this danger. A body of well-mountedmen-at-arms stood ready, and at the word of command rushed at fullgallop upon the archers, cutting them down to right and left. Having noweapons but their bows and arrows, the archers broke and fled in utterconfusion, hundreds of them being slain. 

This charge of the Scotch cavalry was followed by an advance in force ofthe English horsemen, who came forward in such close and serried ranksand with so vast an array that it looked as if they would overwhelm thenarrow lines before them. But suddenly trouble came upon this mightymass of knights and men-at-arms. The seemingly solid earth gave wayunder their horses' feet, and down they went into the hidden pits, thehorses hurled headlong, the riders flung helplessly upon the ground, from which the weight of their armor prevented their rising. 

In an instant the Scotch footmen were among them, killing thedefenceless knights, cutting and slashing among the confused mass ofhorsemen, breaking their fine display into irretrievable disorder. Brucebrought up his men in crowding multitudes. Through the English ranksthey glided, stabbing horses, slaying their iron-clad riders, doublyincreasing the confusion of that wild whirl of horsemen, whose trim andgallant ranks had been thrown into utter disarray. 

The English fought as they could, though at serious disadvantage. Buttheir numbers were so great that they might have crushed the Scotchunder their mere weight but for one of these strange chances on whichthe fate of so many battles have depended. As has been said, the Scotchcamp-followers had been sent back behind a hill. But on seeing thattheir side seemed likely to win the day, this rabble came suddenlycrowding over the hill, eager for a share in the spoil. 

It was a disorderly mob, but to the sorely-pressed English cavalry itseemed a new army which the Bruce had held in reserve. Suddenly strickenwith panic, the horsemen turned and fled, each man for himself, as fastas their horses could carry them, the whole army breaking rank andrushing back in terror over the ground which they had lately traversedin such splendor of appearance and confidence of soul. 

After them came the Scotch, cutting, slashing, killing, paving the earthwith English slain. King Edward put spurs to his horse and fled in allhaste from the fatal field. A gallant knight, Sir Giles de Argentine, who had won glory in Palestine, kept by him till he was out of thepress. Then he drew rein. 

"It is not my custom to fly, " he said. 

Turning his horse and shouting his war-cry of "Argentine! Argentine!" herushed into the densest ranks of the Scotch, and was quickly killed. 

Many others of high rank fell, valiantly fighting, men who knew not themeaning of flight. But the bulk of the army was in hopeless panic, flying for life, red lines constantly falling before the crimsonedclaymores of the Scotch, until the very streams ran red with blood. 

King Edward found war less than ever to his royal taste. He fled toStirling Castle and begged admittance. 

"I cannot grant it, my liege, " answered Mowbray. "My compact with theBruce obliges me to surrender the castle to-morrow. If you enter here itwill be to become prisoner to the Scotch. "

Edward turned and continued his flight, his route lying through theTorwood. After him came Lord Douglas, with a body of cavalry, pressingforward in hot haste. On his way he met a Scotch knight, Sir LawrenceAbernethy, with twenty horsemen, riding to join Edward's army. 

"Edward's army? He has no army, " cried Douglas. "The army is a rout. Edward himself is in flight. I am hot on his track. "

"I am with you, then, " cried Abernethy, changing sides on the instant, and joining in pursuit of the king whom he had just before been eager toserve. 

Away went the frightened king. On came the furious pursuers. Not amoment was given Edward to draw rein or alight. The chase was continuedas far as Dunbar, whose governor, the earl of March, opened his gates tothe flying king, and shut them against his foes. Giving the forlornmonarch a small fishing-vessel, he set him on the seas for England, afew distressed attendants alone remaining to him of the splendid armywith which he had marched to the conquest of Scotland. 

Thus ended the battle which wrested Scotland from English hands, andmade Robert Bruce king of the whole country. From the state of an exile, hunted with hounds, he had made himself a monarch, and one who soon gavethe English no little trouble to protect their own borders. 

_THE SIEGE OF CALAIS. _

Terrible and long-enduring had been the siege of Calais. For a wholeyear it had continued, and still the sturdy citizens held the town. Outside was Edward III. , with his English host, raging at the obstinacyof the French and at his own losses during the siege. Inside was John deVienne, the unyielding governor, and his brave garrison. Outside wasplenty; inside was famine; between were impregnable walls, which all theengines of Edward failed to reduce or surmount. No resource was left theEnglish king but time and famine; none was left the garrison but thehope of wearying their foes or of relief by their king. The chief foethey fought against was starvation, an enemy against whom warlike armswere of no avail, whom only stout hearts and inflexible endurance couldmeet; and bravely they faced this frightful foe, those stout citizens ofCalais. 

An excellent harbor had Calais. It had long been the sheltering-placefor the pirates that preyed on English commerce. But now no ship couldleave or enter. The English fleet closed the passage by sea; the Englisharmy blocked all approach by land; the French king, whose great army hadjust been mercilessly slaughtered at Crecy, held aloof, nothing seemedto remain for Calais but death or surrender, and yet the valiantgovernor held out against his foes. 

As the days went on and no relief came he made a census of the town, selected seventeen hundred poor and unsoldierly folks, "useless mouths, "as he called them, and drove them outside the walls. Happily for them, King Edward was just then in a good humor. He gave the starving outcastsa good dinner and twopence in money each, and passed them through hisranks to make their way whither they would. 

More days passed; food grew scarcer; there were more "useless mouths" inthe town; John de Vienne decided to try this experiment again. Fivehundred more were thrust from the gates. This time King Edward was notin a good humor. He bade his soldiers drive them back at sword's-point. The governor refused to admit them into the town. The whole miserablemultitude died of starvation in sight of both camps. Such were theamenities of war in the Middle Ages, and in fact, of war in almost allages, for mercy counts for little when opposed by military exigencies. 

A letter was now sent to the French king, Philip de Valois, imploringsuccor. They had eaten, said the governor, their horses, their dogs, even the rats and mice; nothing remained but to eat one another. Unluckily, the English, not the French, king received this letter, andthe English host grew more watchful than ever. But Philip de Valoisneeded not letters to tell him of the extremity of the garrison; heknew it well, and knew as well that haste alone could save him one ofhis fairest towns. 

[Illustration: THE PORT OF CALAIS. ]

But he had suffered a frightful defeat at Crecy only five days beforethe siege of Calais began. Twelve hundred of his knights and thirtythousand of his foot-soldiers--a number equal to the whole Englishforce--had been slain on the field; thousands of others had been takenprisoner; a new army was not easily to be raised. Months passed beforePhilip was able to come to the relief of the beleaguered stronghold. TheOriflamme, the sacred banner of the realm, never displayed but in timesof dire extremity, was at length unfurled to the winds, and from everyside the great vassels of the kingdom hastened to its support. France, ever prolific of men, poured forth her sons until she had another largearmy in the field. In July of 1347, eleven months after the siege began, the garrison, weary with long waiting, saw afar from their lookouttowers the floating banners of France, and beneath them the faintly-seenforms of a mighty host. 

The glad news spread through the town. The king was coming with a greatarmy at his back! Their sufferings had not been in vain; they would soonbe relieved, and those obstinate English be driven into the sea! Had afleet of bread-ships broken through the blockade, and sailed with wavingpennons into the harbor, the souls of the garrison could not have beenmore uplifted with joy. 

Alas! it was a short-lived joy. Not many days elapsed before that greathost faded before their eyes like a mist under the sun-rays, its bannerslifting and falling as they slowly vanished into the distance, the gleamof its many steel-headed weapons dying out until not a point of lightremained. Their gladness turned into redoubled misery as they sawthemselves thus left to their fate; their king, who had marched up withsuch a gallant show of banners and arms, marching away without strikinga blow. It was hard to believe it; but there they went, and there theEnglish lay. 

The soil of France had never seen anything quite so ludicrous--but forits tragic side--as this march of Philip the king. Two roads led to thetown, but these King Edward, who was well advised of what was coming, had taken care to intrench and guard so strongly that it would prove nolight nor safe matter to force a way through. Philip sent out his spies, learned what was before him, and, full of the memory of Crecy, decidedthat it would be too costly an experiment to attack those works. Butwere not those the days of chivalry? was not Edward famed for hischivalrous spirit? Surely he, as a noble and puissant knight, would nottake an unfair advantage of his adversary. As a knight of renown hecould not refuse to march into the open field, and trust to God and St. George of England for his defence, as against God and St. Denys ofFrance. 

Philip, thereupon, sent four of his principal lords to the Englishking, saying that he was there to do battle, as knight against knight, but _could find no way to come to him_. He requested, therefore, that acouncil should meet to fix upon a place of battle, where the differencebetween him and his cousin of England might be fairly decided. 

Surely such a request had never before been made to an opposing general. Doubtless King Edward laughed in his beard at the naïve proposal, evenif courtesy kept him from laughing in the envoys' faces. As regards hisanswer, we cannot quote its words, but its nature may be gathered fromthe fact that Philip soon after broke camp, and marched back over theroad by which he had come, saying to himself, no doubt, that the Englishking lacked knightly honor, or he would not take so unfair an advantageof a foe. And thus ended this strange episode in war, Philip marchingaway with all the bravery of his host, Edward grimly turning again tothe town which he held in his iron grasp. 

The story of the siege of Calais concludes in a highly dramatic fashion. It was a play presented upon a great stage, but with true dramaticaccessories of scenery and incident. These have been picturesquelypreserved by the old chroniclers, and are well worthy of being againpresented. Froissart has told the tale in his own inimitable fashion. Wefollow others in telling it in more modern phrase. 

When the people of Calais saw that they were deserted by their king, hope suddenly fled from their hearts. Longer defence meant but deepermisery. Nothing remained but surrender. Stout-hearted John de Vienne, their commander, seeing that all was at an end, mounted the walls with aflag of truce, and made signs that he wished to speak with some personof the besieging host. Word of this was brought to the English king, andhe at once sent Sir Walter de Manny and Sir Basset as his envoys toconfer with the bearer of the flag. The governor looked down upon themfrom the walls with sadness in his eyes and the lines of starvation onhis face. 

"Sirs, " he said, "valiant knights you are, as I well know. As for me, Ihave obeyed the command of the king, my master, by doing all that lay inmy power to hold for him this town. Now succor has failed us, and foodwe have none. We must all die of famine unless your noble and gentleking will have mercy on us, and let us go free, in exchange for the townand all the goods it contains, of which there is great abundance. "

"We know something of the intention of our master, " answered Sir Walter. "He will certainly not let you go free, but will require you tosurrender without conditions, some of you to be held to ransom, othersto be put to death. Your people have put him to such despite by theirbitter obstinacy, and caused him such loss of treasure and men, that heis sorely grieved against them. "

"You make it too hard for us, " answered the governor. "We are here asmall company of knights and squires, who have served our king to ourown pain and misery, as you would serve yours in like case; but ratherthan let the least lad in the town suffer more than the greatest of us, we will endure the last extremity of pain. We beg of you to plead for uswith your king for pity, and trust that, by God's grace, his purposewill change, and his gentleness yield us pardon. "

The envoys, much moved by the wasted face and earnest appeal of thegovernor, returned with his message to the king, whom they found in anunrelenting mood. He answered them that he would make no other terms. The garrison must yield themselves to his pleasure. Sir Walter answeredwith words as wise as they were bold, --

"I beg you to consider this more fully, " he said, "for you may be in thewrong, and make a dangerous example from which some of us may yetsuffer. We shall certainly not very gladly go into any fortress of yoursfor defence, if you should put any of the people of this town to deathafter they yield; for in like case the French will certainly deal withus in the same fashion. "

Others of the lords present sustained Sir Walter in this opinion, andpresented the case so strongly that the king yielded. 

"I will not be alone against you all, " he said, after an interval ofreflection. "This much will I yield. Go, Sir Walter, and say to thegovernor that all the grace I can give him is this. Let him send me sixof the chief burgesses of the town, who shall come out bareheaded, barefooted, and barelegged, clad only in their shirts, and with haltersaround their necks, with the keys of the tower and castle in theirhands. These must yield themselves fully to my will. The others I willtake to mercy. "

Sir Walter returned with this message, saying that no hope of betterterms could be had of the king. 

"Then I beg you to wait here, " said Sir John, "till I can take yourmessage to the townsmen, who sent me here, and bring you their reply. "

Into the town went the governor, where he sought the market-place, andsoon the town-bell was ringing its mustering peal. Quickly the peoplegathered, eager, says Jehan le Bel, "to hear their good news, for theywere all mad with hunger. " Sir John told them his message, saying, --

"No other terms are to be had, and you must decide quickly, for our foesask a speedy answer. "

His words were followed by weeping and much lamentation among thepeople. Some of them must die. Who should it be? Sir John himself shedtears for their extremity. It was not in his heart to name the victimsto the wrath of the English king. 

At length the richest burgess of the town, Eustace de St. Pierre, stepped forward and said, in tones of devoted resolution, --

"My friends and fellows, it would be great grief to let you all die byfamine or otherwise, when there is a means given to save you. Greatgrace would he win from our Lord who could keep this people from dying. For myself, I have trust in God that if I save this people by my death Ishall have pardon for my faults. Therefore, I offer myself as the firstof the six, and am willing to put myself at the mercy of King Edward. "

He was followed by another rich burgess, Jehan D'Aire by name, who said, "I will keep company with my gossip Eustace. "

Jacques de Wisant and his brother, Peter de Wisant, both rich citizens, next offered themselves, and two others quickly made up the tale. Wordwas taken to Sir Walter of what had been done, and the victimsapparelled themselves as the king had commanded. 

It was a sad procession that made its way to the gate of the town. SirJohn led the way, the devoted six followed, while the remainder of thetowns-people made their progress woful with tears and cries of grief. Months of suffering had not caused them deeper sorrow than to see thesetheir brave hostages marching to death. 

The gate opened. Sir John and the six burgesses passed through. Itclosed behind them. Sir Walter stood waiting. 

"I deliver to you, as captain of Calais, " said Sir John, "and by theconsent of all the people of the town, these six burgesses, who I swearto you are the richest and most honorable burgesses of Calais. Therefore, gentle knight, I beg you pray the king to have mercy on them, and grant them their lives. "

"What the king will do I cannot say, " answered Sir Walter, "but I shalldo for them the best I can. "

The coming of the hostages roused great feeling in the English host. Their pale and wasted faces, their miserable state, the fate whichthreatened them, roused pity and sympathy in the minds of many, and notthe least in that of the queen, who was with Edward in the camp, andcame with him and his train of nobles as they approached the place towhich the hostages had been led. 

When they were brought before the king the burgesses kneeled andpiteously begged his grace, Eustace saying, --

"Gentle king, here be we six, who were burgesses of Calais, and greatmerchants. We bring you the keys of the town and the castle, and submitourselves fully to your will, to save the remainder of our people, whohave already suffered great pain. We beseech you to have mercy and pityon us through your high nobleness. "

His words brought tears from many persons there present, for naught sopiteous had ever come before them. But the king looked on them withvindictive eyes, and for some moments stood in lowering silence. Then hegave the harsh command to take these men and strike off their heads. 

At this cruel sentence the lords of his council crowded round the king, begging for compassion, but he turned a deaf ear to their pleadings. Sir Walter de Manny then said, his eyes fixed in sorrow on the pale andtrembling victims, --

"Noble sire, for God's sake restrain your wrath. You have the renown ofall gentleness and nobility; I pray you do not a thing that can lay ablemish on your fair fame, or give men cause to speak of youdespitefully. Every man will say it is a great cruelty to put to deathsuch honest persons, who of their own will have put themselves into yourhands to save the remainder of their people. "

These words seemed rather to heighten than to soften the king's wrath. He turned away fiercely, saying, --

"Hold your peace, Master Walter; it shall be as I have said. --Call theheadsman. They of Calais have made so many of my men to die, that theymust die themselves. "

The queen had listened sadly to these words, while tears flowed freelyfrom her gentle eyes. On hearing the harsh decision of her lord andking, she could restrain herself no longer. With streaming eyes she castherself on her knees at his feet, and turned up to him her sweet, imploring face. 

"Gentle sir, " she said, "since that day in which I passed over sea ingreat peril, as you know, I have asked no favor from you. Now I pray andbeseech you with folded hands, in honor of the Son of the Virgin Mary, and for the love which you bear me, that you will have mercy on thesepoor men. "

The king looked down upon her face, wet with tears, and stood silent fora few minutes. At length he spoke. 

"Ah, dame, I would you had been in some other place this day. You prayso tenderly that I cannot refuse you. Though it is much against my will, nevertheless take them, I give them to you to use as you will. "

The queen, filled with joy at these words of grace and mercy, returnedglad thanks to the king, and bade those near her to take the haltersfrom the necks of the burgesses and clothe them. Then she saw that agood dinner was set before them, and gave each of them six nobles, afterwards directing that they should be taken in safety through theEnglish army and set at liberty. 

Thus ended that memorable siege of Calais, with one of the most dramaticincidents which history has to tell. For more than two centuries thecaptured city remained in English hands, being theirs long after theyhad lost all other possessions on the soil of France. At length, in1558, in the reign of Queen Mary, it was taken by the French, greatly tothe chagrin of the queen, who is reported to have said, "When I die, youwill find the word _Calais_ written on my heart. "

_THE BLACK PRINCE AT POITIERS. _

Through the centre of France marched the Black Prince, with a small butvaliant army. Into the heart of that fair kingdom had he come, ravagingthe land as he went, leaving misery and destitution at every step, whensuddenly across his line of march there appeared an unlooked-forobstacle. The plundering marches of the English had roused the French. In hosts they had gathered round their king, marched in haste toconfront the advancing foe, and on the night of Saturday, September 17, 1356, the English found their line of retreat cut off by what seemed aninnumerable array of knights and men-at-arms, filling the whole countryin their front as far as eye could see, closing with a wall of hostilesteel their only road to safety. 

The danger was great. For two years the Black Prince and his army offoragers had held France at their mercy, plundering to their hearts'content. The year before, the young prince had led his army up theGaronne into--as an ancient chronicler tells us--"what was before one ofthe fat countries of the world, the people good and simple, who did notknow what war was; indeed, no war had been waged against them till theprince came. The English and Gascons found the country full and gay, the rooms adorned with carpets and draperies, the caskets and chestsfull of fair jewels. But nothing was safe from these robbers. They, andespecially the Gascons, who are very greedy, carried off everything. "When they reached Bordeaux their horses were "so laden with spoils thatthey could hardly move. "

Again the prince had led his army of freebooters through France, but hewas not to march out again with the same impunity as before. King John, who had just come to the throne, hastily gathered an army and marched tohis country's relief. On the night named, the Black Prince, marchingbriskly forward with his small force of about eight thousand men, foundhimself suddenly in face of an overwhelming array of not less than sixtythousand of the best fighting blood of France. 

The case seemed hopeless. Surrender appeared the only resource of theEnglish. Just ten years before, at Crecy, Edward III. , in like mannerdriven to bay, had with a small force of English put to rout anoverwhelming body of French. In that affair the Black Prince, thenlittle more than a boy, had won the chief honor of the day. But it wasbeyond hope that so great a success could again be attained. It seemedmadness to join battle with such a disproportion of numbers. Yet theprince remembered Crecy, and simply said, on being told how mighty wasthe host of the French, --

"Well, in the name of God, let us now study how we shall fight with themat our advantage. "

Small as was the English force, it had all the advantages of position. In its front were thick and strong hedges. It could be approached onlyby a deep and narrow lane that ran between vineyards. In the rear washigher ground, on which the small body of men-at-arms were stationed. The bowmen lay behind the hedges and in the vineyards, guarding the laneof approach. Here they lay that night, awaiting the fateful morrow. 

With the morning's light the French army was drawn up in lines ofassault. "Then trumpets blew up through the host, " says gossipy oldFroissart, "and every man mounted on horseback and went into the field, where they saw the king's banner wave with the wind. There might havebeen seen great nobles of fair harness and rich armory of banners andpennons; for there was all the flower of France; there was none durstabide at home, without he would be shamed forever. "

It was Sunday morning, a suitable day for the church to take part in theaffair. Those were times in which the part of the church was apt to beplayed with sword and spear, but on this occasion it bore theolive-branch. At an early hour the cardinal of Perigord appeared on thescene, eager to make peace between the opposing forces. The pope hadcommissioned him to this duty. 

"Sir, " he said, kneeling before King John, "ye have here all the flowerof your realm against a handful of Englishmen, as regards your company. And, sir, if ye may have them accorded to you without battle, it shallbe more profitable and honorable than to adventure this noble chivalry. I beg you let me, in the name of God and humility, ride to the princeand show him in what danger ye have him in. "

"That pleases me well, " answered the king. "Go; but return againshortly. "

The cardinal thereupon rode to the English side and accosted the prince, whom he found on foot among his men. A courteous greeting passed. 

"Fair son, " said the envoy of peace, "if you and your council knowjustly the power of the French king, you will suffer me to treat forpeace between you. "

"I would gladly fall to any reasonable way, " answered the prince, "ifbut my honor and that of my people be saved. "

Some further words passed, and the cardinal rode again to the king. 

"Sir, " he said, "there seems hope of making peace with your foes, norneed you make haste to fight them, for they cannot flee if they would. Ibeg you, therefore, to forbear for this day, and put off the battle tillto-morrow sunrise. That may give time to conclude a truce. "

This advice was not pleasing to the king, who saw no wisdom in delay, but the cardinal in the end persuaded him to consent to a day's respite. The conference ended, the king's pavilion of red silk was raised, andword sent through the army that the men might take their ease, exceptthe advanced forces of the constable and marshal. 

All that day the cardinal kept himself busy in earnest efforts to effectan agreement. Back and forth he rode between the tents of the king andthe prince, seeking to make terms of peace or surrender. Offer afteroffer was made and refused. The king's main demand was that four of theprincipal Englishmen should be placed in his hands, to deal with as hewould, and all the others yield themselves prisoners. This the princerefused. He would agree to return all the castles and towns he hadtaken, surrender all prisoners, and swear not to bear arms against theFrench for seven years; this and no more he would offer. 

King John would listen to no such terms. He had the English at hismercy, as he fully believed, and it was for him, not for them, to maketerms. He would be generous. The prince and a hundred of his knightsalone should yield themselves prisoners. The rest might go free. Surelythis was a most favorable offer, pleaded the cardinal. But so thoughtnot the Black Prince, who refused it absolutely, and the cardinalreturned in despair to Poitiers. 

That day of respite was not wasted by the prince. What he lacked in menhe must make up in work. He kept his men busily employed, deepening thedikes, strengthening the hedges, making all the preparations that skillsuggested and time permitted. 

The sun rose on Monday morning, and with its first beams the tirelesspeace-maker was again on horse, with the forlorn hope that the bloodyfray might still be avoided. He found the leaders of the hosts in adifferent temper from that of the day before. The time for words hadgone; that for blows had come. 

"Return whither ye will, " was King John's abrupt answer; "bring hitherno more words of treaty or peace; and if you love yourself departshortly. "

To the prince rode the good cardinal, overcome with emotion. 

"Sir, " he pleaded, "do what you can for peace. Otherwise there is nohelp from battle, for I can find no spirit of accord in the Frenchking. "

"Nor here, " answered the prince, cheerfully. "I and all my people are ofthe same intent, --and God help the right!"

[Illustration: CHURCH OF NOTRE DAME POITIERS. ]

The cardinal turned and rode away, sore-hearted with pity. As he wentthe prince turned to his men. 

"Though, " he said, "we be but a small company as compared with the powerof our foes, let not that abash us; for victory lies not in themultitude of people, but goes where God sends it. If fortune makes theday ours, we shall be honored by all the world; but if we die, the king, my father, and your good friends and kinsmen shall revenge us. Therefore, sirs and comrades, I require you to do your duty this day;for if God be pleased, and Saint George aid, this day you shall see mea good knight. "

The battle began with a charge of three hundred French knights up thenarrow lane. No sooner had they appeared than the vineyards and hedgesrained arrows upon them, killing and wounding knights and horses; theanimals, wild with pain, flinging and trampling their masters; theknights, heavy with armor and disabled by wounds, strewing that fatallane with their bodies; while still the storm of steel-pointed shaftsdealt death in their midst. 

The horsemen fell back in dismay, breaking the thick ranks of footmenbehind them, and spreading confusion wherever they appeared. At thiscritical moment a body of English horse, who were posted on a littlehill to the right, rushed furiously upon the French flank. At the sametime the archers poured their arrows upon the crowded and disorderedmass, and the prince, seeing the state of the enemy, led his men-at-armsvigorously upon their broken ranks. 

"St. George for Guienne!" was the cry, as the horsemen spurred upon thepanic-stricken masses of the French. 

"Let us push to the French king's station; there lies the heart of thebattle, " said Lord Chandos to the prince. "He is too valiant to fly, Ifancy. If we fight well, I trust, by the grace of God and St. George, weshall have him. You said we should see you this day a good knight. "

"You shall not see me turn back, " said the prince. "Advance, banner, inthe name of God and St. George!"

On went the banner; on came the array of fighting knights; into theFrench host they pressed deeper and deeper, King John their goal. Thefield was strewn with dead and dying; panic was spreading in wideningcircles through the French army; the repulsed horsemen were in fullflight and thousands of those behind them broke and followed. King Johnfought with knightly courage, his son Philip, a boy of sixteen, by hisside, aiding him by his cries of warning. But nothing could withstandthe English onset. Some of his defenders fell, others fled; he wouldhave fallen himself but for the help of a French knight, in the Englishservice. 

"Sir, yield you, " he called to the king, pressing between him and hisassailants. 

"To whom shall I yield?" asked the king. "Where is my cousin, the princeof Wales?"

"He is not here, sir. Yield, and I will bring you to him. "

"And who are you?"

"I am Denis of Morbecque, a knight of Artois. I serve the English king, for I am banished from France, and all I had has been forfeited. "

"Then I yield me to you, " said the king, handing him his right gauntlet. 

Meanwhile the rout of the French had become complete. On all sides theywere in flight; on all sides the English were in pursuit. The prince hadfought until he was overcome with fatigue. 

"I see no more banners or pennons of the French, " said Sir John Chandos, who had kept beside him the day through. "You are sore chafed. Set yourbanner high in this bush, and let us rest. "

The prince's pavilion was set up, and drink brought him. As he quaffedit, he asked if any one had tidings of the French king. 

"He is dead or taken, " was the answer. "He has not left the field. "

Two knights were thereupon sent to look for him, and had not got farbefore they saw a troop of men-at-arms wearily approaching. In theirmidst was King John, afoot and in peril, for they had taken him from SirDenis, and were quarrelling as to who owned him. 

"Strive not about my taking, " said the king. "Lead me to the prince. Iam rich enough to make you all rich. "

The brawling went on, however, until the lords who had been sent to seekhim came near. 

"What means all this, good sirs?" they asked. "Why do you quarrel?"

"We have the French king prisoner, " was the answer; "and there are morethan ten knights and squires who claim to have taken him and his son. "

The envoys at this bade them halt and cease their clamor, on pain oftheir heads, and taking the king and his son from their midst theybrought him to the tent of the prince of Wales, where the exaltedcaptives were received with all courtesy. 

The battle, begun at dawn, was ended by noon. In that time was slain"all the flower of France; and there was taken, with the king and theLord Philip his son, seventeen earls, besides barons, knights, andsquires. "

The men returning from the pursuit brought in twice as many prisoners astheir own army numbered in all. So great was the host of captives thatmany of them were ransomed on the spot, and set free on their word ofhonor to return to Bordeaux with their ransom before Christmas. 

The prince and his comrades had breakfasted that morning in dread; theysupped that night in triumph. The supper party, as described byFroissart, is a true picture of the days of chivalry, --in war allcruelty, in peace all courtesy; ruthless in the field, gentle andceremonious at the feast. Thus the picturesque old chronicler limnsit, --

"The prince made the king and his son, the Lord James of Bourbon, theLord John d'Artois, the earl of Tancarville, the Lord d'Estampes, theEarl Dammartyn, the earl of Greville, and the earl of Pertney, to sitall at one board, and other lords, knights, and squires at other tables;and always the prince served before the king as humbly as he could, andwould not sit at the king's board, for any desire that the king couldmake; but he said he was not sufficient to sit at the table with sogreat a prince as the king was; but then he said to the king, 'Sir, forGod's sake, make none evil nor heavy cheer, though God did not this dayconsent to follow your will; for, sir, surely the king my father shallbear you as much honor and amity as he may do, and shall accord with youso reasonably, and ye shall ever be friends together after; and, sir, methinks you ought to rejoice, though the journey be not as you wouldhave had it; for this day ye have won the high renown of prowess, andhave passed this day in valiantness all other of your party. Sir, I saynot this to mock you; for all that be on our party, that saw every man'sdeeds, are plainly accorded by true sentence to give you the prize andchaplet. "

So ended that great day at Poitiers. It ended miserably enough forFrance, the routed soldiery themselves becoming bandits to ravage her, and the people being robbed for ransom till the whole realm was givenover to misery and woe. 

It ended famously for England, another proud chaplet of victory beingadded to the crown of glory of Edward III. And his valiant son, thegreat day at Crecy being matched with as great a day at Poitiers. Agincourt was still to come, the three being the most notable instancesin history of the triumph of a handful of men well led over a great butfeebly-handled host. The age of knighthood and chivalry reached itsculmination on these three memorable days. It ended at Agincourt, "villanous gunpowder" sounding its requiem on that great field. Cannon, indeed, had been used by Edward III. In his wars; but not until afterthis date did firearms banish the spear and bow from the "tentedfield. "

_WAT TYLER AND THE MEN OF KENT. _

In that year of woe and dread, 1348, the Black Death fell upon England. Never before had so frightful a calamity been known; never since has itbeen equalled. Men died by millions. All Europe had been swept by theplague, as by a besom of destruction, and now England became its prey. The population of the island at that period was not great, --some threeor four millions in all. When the plague had passed more than half ofthese were in their graves, and in many places there were hardly enoughliving to bury the dead. 

We call it a calamity. It is not so sure that it was. Life in England atthat day, for the masses of the people, was not so precious a boon thatdeath had need to be sorely deplored. A handful of lords and a host oflaborers, the latter just above the state of slavery, constituted thepopulation. Many of the serfs had been set free, but the new liberty ofthe people was not a state of unadulterated happiness. War had drainedthe land. The luxury of the nobles added to the drain. The patricianscaroused. The plebeians suffered. The Black Death came. After it hadpassed, labor, for the first time in English history, was master of thesituation. 

Laborers had grown scarce. Many men refused to work. The first generalstrike for higher wages began. In the country, fields were left untilledand harvests rotted on the ground. "The sheep and cattle strayed throughthe fields and corn, and there were none left who could drive them. " Inthe towns, craftsmen refused to work at the old rate of wages. Higherwages were paid, but the scarcity of food made higher prices, and menwere little better off. Many laborers, indeed, declined to work at all, becoming tramps, --what were known as "sturdy beggars, "--or haunting theforests as bandits. 

The king and parliament sought to put an end to this state of affairs bylaw. An ordinance was passed whose effect would have made slaves of thepeople. Every man under sixty, not a land-owner or already at work (saysthis famous act), must work for the employer who demands his labor, andfor the rate of wages that prevailed two years before the plague. Theman who refused should be thrown into prison. This law failed to work, and sterner measures were passed. The laborer was once more made a serf, bound to the soil, his wage-rate fixed by parliament. Law after lawfollowed, branding with a hot iron on the forehead being finally orderedas a restraint to runaway laborers. It was the first great effort madeby the class in power to put down an industrial revolt. 

The peasantry and the mechanics of the towns resisted. The poor foundtheir mouth-piece in John Ball, "a mad priest of Kent, " as Froissartcalls him. Mad his words must have seemed to the nobles of the land. "Good people, " he declared, "things will never go well in England solong as goods be not in common, and so long as there be villains andgentlemen. By what right are they whom we call lords greater folk thanwe? On what grounds have they deserved it? Why do they hold us inserfage? If we all came of the same father and mother, of Adam and Eve, how can they say or prove that they are better than we, if it be notthat they make us gain for them by our toil what they spend in theirpride? They are clothed in velvet, and warm in their furs and theirermines, while we are covered with rags. They have wine and spices andfair bread; and we have oat-cake and straw, and water to drink. Theyhave leisure and fine houses; we have pain and labor, the rain and thewind in the fields. And yet it is of us and of our toil that these menhold their state. "

So spoke this early socialist. So spoke his hearers in the popular rhymeof the day:

 "When Adam delved and Eve span, Who was then the gentleman?"

So things went on for years, growing worse year by year, the fire ofdiscontent smouldering, ready at a moment to burst into flame. 

At length the occasion came. Edward the Third died, but he left an uglyheritage of debt behind him. His useless wars in France had beggaredthe crown. New money must be raised. Parliament laid a poll-tax on everyperson in the realm, the poorest to pay as much as the wealthiest. 

Here was an application of the doctrine of equality of which the peopledid not approve. The land was quickly on fire from sea to sea. Crowds ofpeasants gathered and drove the tax-gatherers with clubs from theirhomes. Rude rhymes passed from lip to lip, full of the spirit of revolt. All over southern England spread the sentiment of rebellion. 

The incident which set flame to the fuel was this. At Dartford, in Kent, lived one Wat Tyler, a hardy soldier who had served in the French wars. To his house, in his absence, came a tax-collector, and demanded the taxon his daughter. The mother declared that she was not taxable, beingunder fourteen years of age. The collector thereupon seized the child inan insulting manner, so frightening her that her screams reached theears of her father, who was at work not far off. Wat flew to the spot, struck one blow, and the villanous collector lay dead at his feet. 

Within an hour the people of the town were in arms. As the story spreadthrough the country, the people elsewhere rose and put themselves underthe leadership of Wat Tyler. In Essex was another party in arms, under apriest called Jack Straw. Canterbury rose in rebellion, plundered thepalace of the archbishop, and released John Ball from the prison towhich this "mad" socialist had been consigned. The revolt spread likewildfire. County after county rose in insurrection. But the heart of therebellion lay in Kent, and from that county marched a hundred thousandmen, with Wat Tyler at their head, London their goal. 

To Blackheath they came, the multitude swelling as it marched. Everylawyer they met was killed. The houses of the stewards were burned, andthe records of the manor courts flung into the flames. A wild desire forliberty and equality animated the mob, yet they did no further harm. Alltravellers were stopped and made to swear that they would be true toKing Richard and the people. The king's mother fell into their hands, but all the harm done her was the being made to kiss a few rough-beardedmen who vowed loyalty to her son. 

The young king--then a boy of sixteen--addressed them from a boat in theriver. But his council would not let him land, and the peasants, furiousat his distrust, rushed upon London, uttering cries of "Treason!" Thedrawbridge of London Bridge had been raised, but the insurgents hadfriends in the city who lowered it, and quickly the capital was swarmingwith Wat Tyler's infuriated men. 

Soon the prisons were broken open, and their inmates had joined theinsurgent ranks. The palace of the Duke of Lancaster, the Savoy, themost beautiful in England, was quickly in flames. That nobleman, detested by the people, had fled in all haste to Scotland. The Temple, the head-quarters of the lawyers, was set on fire, and its books anddocuments reduced to ashes. The houses of the foreign merchants wereburned. There was "method in the madness" of the insurgents. They soughtno indiscriminate ruin. The lawyers and the foreigners were theirspecial detestation. Robbery was not permitted. One thief was seen witha silver vessel which he had stolen from the Savoy. He and his plunderwere flung together into the flames. They were, as they boasted, "seekers of truth and justice, not thieves or robbers. "

Thus passed the first day of the peasant occupation of London, thepeople of the town in terror, the insurgents in subjection to theirleaders, and still more so to their own ideas. Many of them were drunk, but no outrages were committed. The influence of one terrible examplerepressed all theft. Never had so orderly a mob held possession of sogreat a city. 

On the second day, Wat Tyler and a band of his followers forced theirway into the Tower. The knights of the garrison were panic-stricken, butno harm was done them. The peasants, in rough good humor, took them bythe beards, and declared that they were now equals, and that in the timeto come they would be good friends and comrades. 

[Illustration: WAT TYLER'S COTTAGE. Copyright, 1904, by Henry Froth. ]

But this rude jollity ceased when Archbishop Sudbury, who had beenactive in preventing the king from landing from the Thames, and theministers who were concerned in the levy of the poll-tax, fell intotheir hands. Short shrift was given these detested officials. They weredragged to Tower Hill, and their heads struck off. 

"King Richard and the people!" was the rallying cry of the insurgents. It went ill with those who hesitated to subscribe to this sentiment. Soevidently were the peasants friendly to the king that the youthfulmonarch fearlessly sought them at Mile End, and held a conference withsixty thousand of them who lay there encamped. 

"I am your king and lord, good people, " he boldly addressed them; "whatwill ye?"

"We will that you set us free forever, " was the answer of theinsurgents, "us and our lands; and that we be never named nor held forserfs. "

"I grant it, " said the king. 

His words were received with shouts of joy. The conference thencontinued, the leaders of the peasants proposing four conditions, to allof which the king assented. These were, first, that neither they northeir descendants should ever be enslaved; second, that the rent of landshould be paid in money at a fixed price, not in service; third, thatthey should be at liberty to buy and sell in market and elsewhere, likeother free men; fourth, that they should be pardoned for past offences. 

"I grant them all, " said Richard. "Charters of freedom and pardon shallbe at once issued. Go home and dwell in peace, and no harm shall come toyou. "

More than thirty clerks spent the rest of that day writing at all speedthe pledges of amnesty promised by the king. These satisfied the bulk ofthe insurgents, who quietly left for their homes, placing allconfidence in the smooth promises of the youthful monarch. 

Some interesting scenes followed their return. The gates of the Abbey ofSt. Albans were forced open, and a throng of townsmen crowded in, led byone William Grindcobbe, who compelled the abbot to deliver up thecharters which held the town in serfage to the abbey. Then they burstinto the cloister, sought the millstones which the courts had declaredshould alone grind corn at St. Albans, and broke them into small pieces. These were distributed among the peasants as visible emblems of theirnew-gained freedom. 

Meanwhile, Wat Tyler had remained in London, with thirty thousand men athis back, to see that the kingly pledge was fulfilled. He had not beenat Mile End during the conference with the king, and was not satisfiedwith the demands of the peasants. He asked, in addition, that the forestlaws should be abolished, and the woods made free. 

The next day came. Chance brought about a meeting between Wat and theking, and hot blood made it a tragedy. King Richard was riding with atrain of some sixty gentlemen, among them William Walworth, the mayor ofLondon, when, by ill hap, they came into contact with Wat and hisfollowers. 

"There is the king, " said Wat. "I will go speak with him, and tell himwhat we want. "

The bold leader of the peasants rode forward and confronted the monarch, who drew rein and waited to hear what he had to say. 

"King Richard, " said Wat, "dost thou see all my men there?"

"Ay, " said the king. "Why?"

"Because, " said Wat, "they are all at my command, and have sworn to dowhatever I bid them. "

What followed is not very clear. Some say that Wat laid his hand on theking's bridle, others that he fingered his dagger threateningly. Whatever the provocation, Walworth, the mayor, at that instant pressedforward, sword in hand, and stabbed the unprotected man in the throatbefore he could make a movement of defence. As he turned to rejoin hismen he was struck a death-blow by one of the king's followers. 

This rash action was one full of danger. Only the ready wit and courageof the king saved the lives of his followers, --perhaps of himself. 

"Kill! kill!" cried the furious peasants, "they have killed ourcaptain. "

Bows were bent, swords drawn, an ominous movement begun. The moment wasa critical one. The young king proved himself equal to the occasion. Spurring his horse, he rode boldly to the front of the mob. 

"What need ye, my masters?" he cried. "That man is a traitor. I am yourcaptain and your king. Follow me!"

His words touched their hearts. With loud shouts of loyalty theyfollowed him to the Tower, where he was met by his mother with tears ofjoy. 

"Rejoice and praise God, " the young king said to her; "for I haverecovered to-day my heritage which was lost, and the realm of England. "

It was true; the revolt was at an end. The frightened nobles hadregained their courage, and six thousand knights were soon at theservice of the king, pressing him to let them end the rebellion withsword and spear. 

He refused. His word had been passed, and he would live to it--at least, until the danger was passed. The peasants still in London received theircharters of freedom and dispersed to their homes. The city was freed ofthe low-born multitude who had held it in mortal terror. 

Yet all was not over. Many of the peasants were still in arms. Those ofSt. Albans were emulated by those of St. Edmondsbury, where fiftythousand men broke their way into the abbey precincts, and forced themonks to grant a charter of freedom to the town. In Norwich a dyer, Littester by name, calling himself the King of the Commons, forced thenobles captured by his followers to act as his meat-tasters, and servehim on their knees during his repasts. His reign did not last long. TheBishop of Norwich, with a following of knights and men-at-arms, fell onhis camp and made short work of his majesty. 

The king, soon forgetting his pledges, led an army of forty thousand menthrough Kent and Essex, and ruthlessly executed the peasant leaders. Some fifteen hundred of them were put to death. The peasants resistedstubbornly, but they were put down. The jurors refused to bring theprisoners in guilty, until they were threatened with executionthemselves. The king and council, in the end, seemed willing tocompromise with the peasantry, but the land-owners refused compliance. Their serfs were their property, they said, and could not be taken fromthem by king or parliament without their consent. "And this consent, "they declared, "we have never given and never will give, were we all todie in one day. "

Yet the revolt of the peasantry was not without its useful effect. Fromthat time serfdom died rapidly. Wages continued to rise. A century afterthe Black Death, a laborer's work in England "commanded twice the amountof the necessaries of life which could have been obtained for the wagespaid under Edward the Third. " In a century and a half serfdom had almostvanished. 

Thus ended the greatest peasant outbreak that England ever knew. Theoutbreak of Jack Cade, which took place seventy years afterwards, wasfor political rather than industrial reform. During those seventy yearsthe condition of the working-classes had greatly improved, and theoccasion for industrial revolt correspondingly decreased. 

_THE WHITE ROSE OF ENGLAND. _

The wars of the White and the Red Roses were at an end, Lancaster hadtriumphed over York, Richard III. , the last of the Plantagenets, haddied on Bosworth field, and the Red Rose candidate, Henry VII. , was onthe throne. It seemed fitting, indeed, that the party of the red shouldbear the banners of triumph, for the frightful war of white and red haddeluged England with blood, and turned to crimson the green of many afair field. Two of the White Rose claimants of the throne, the sons ofEdward IV. , had been imprisoned by Richard III. In the Tower of London, and, so said common report, had been strangled in their beds. But theirfate was hidden in mystery, and there were those who believed that theprinces of the Tower still lived. 

One claimant to the throne, a scion of the White Rose kings, Edward, Earl of Warwick, was still locked up in the Tower, so closely kept fromhuman sight and knowledge as to leave the field open to the claims ofimposture. For suddenly a handsome youth appeared in Ireland declaringthat he was the Earl of Warwick, escaped from the Tower, and asking aidto help him regain the throne, which he claimed as rightfully his. Thestory of this boy is a short one; the end of his career fortunately acomedy instead of a tragedy. In Ireland were many adherents of the houseof York. The story of the handsome lad was believed; he was crowned atDublin, --the crown being taken from the head of a statue of the VirginMary, --and was then carried home on the shoulders of a gigantic Irishchieftain, as was the custom in green Erin in those days. 

The youthful claimant had entered Ireland with a following of twothousand German soldiers, provided by Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy, sister of Edward IV. , who hated Henry VII. And all the party ofLancaster with an undying hatred. From Ireland he invaded England, withan Irish following added to his German. His small army was met by theking with an overpowering force, half of it killed, the rest scattered, and the young imposter taken captive. 

Henry was almost the first king of Norman England who was not cruel byinstinct. He could be cruel enough by calculation, but he was notdisposed to take life for the mere pleasure of killing. He knew this boyto be an impostor, since Edward, Earl of Warwick, was still in theTower. The astute king deemed it wiser to make him a laughing-stock thana martyr. He made inquiry as to his origin. The boy proved to be the sonof a baker of Oxford, his true name Lambert Simnel. He had been tutoredto play the prince by an ambitious priest named Simons. This priest wasshut up in prison, and died there. As for his pupil, the kingcontemptuously sent him into his kitchen, and condemned him to theservile office of turnspit. Afterwards, as young Simnel showed someintelligence and loyalty, he was made one of the king's falconers. Andso ended the story of this sham Plantagenet. 

[Illustration: BATTLE IN THE WAR OF THE ROSES. ]

Hardly had this ambitious boy been set to the humble work of turning aspit in the king's kitchen, when a new claimant of the crownappeared, --a far more dangerous one. It is his story to which that ofLambert Simnel serves as an amusing prelude. 

On one fine day in the year 1492--Columbus being then on his way to thediscovery of America--there landed at Cork, in a vessel hailing fromPortugal, a young man very handsome in face, and very winning inmanners, who lost no time in presenting himself to some of the leadingIrish and telling them that he was Richard, Duke of York, the second sonof Edward IV. This story some of his hearers were not ready to believe. They had just passed through an experience of the same kind. 

"That cannot be, " they said: "the sons of King Edward were murdered bytheir uncle in the Tower. "

"People think so, I admit, " said the young stranger. "My brother _was_murdered there, foully killed in that dark prison. But I escaped, andfor seven years have been wandering. "

The boy had an easy and engaging manner, a fluent tongue, and told sowell-devised and probable a story of the manner of his escape, that hehad little difficulty in persuading his credulous hearers that he wasindeed Prince Richard. Soon he had a party at his back, Cork shouteditself hoarse in his favor, there was banqueting and drinking, and inthis humble fashion the cause of the White Rose was resuscitated, thebanners of York were again flung to the winds. 

We have begun our story in the middle. We must go back to its beginning. Margaret of Burgundy, whose hatred for the Lancastrian king was intense, had spread far and wide the rumor that Richard, Duke of York, was stillalive. The story was that the villains employed by Richard III. Tomurder the princes in the Tower, had killed the elder only. Remorse hadstricken their hardened souls, and compassion induced them to spare theyounger, and privately to set him at liberty, he being bidden on perilof life not to divulge who he really was. This seed well sown, theastute duchess laid her plans to bring it to fruitage. A handsome youthwas brought into her presence, a quick-witted, intelligent, crafty lad, with nimble tongue and unusually taking manners. Such, at least, was thestory set afloat by Henry VII. , which goes on to say that the duchesskept her protégé concealed until she had taught him thoroughly the wholestory of the murdered prince, instructed him in behavior suitable to hisassumed birth, and filled his memory with details of the boy's life andcertain secrets he would be likely to know, while advising him how toavoid certain awkward questions that might be asked. The boy was quickto learn his lesson, the hope of becoming king of England inciting hisnaturally keen wit. This done, the duchess sent him privately toPortugal, knowing well that if his advent could be traced to her housesuspicion would be aroused. 

This is the narrative that has been transmitted to us, but it is onewhich, it must be acknowledged, has come through suspicious channels, aswill appear in the sequel. But whatever be the facts, it is certain thatabout this time Henry VII. Declared war against France, and that the warhad not made much progress before the youth described sailed fromPortugal and landed in Cork, where he claimed to be Richard, Duke ofYork, and the true heir of the English throne. 

And now began a most romantic and adventurous career. The story of theadvent of a prince of the house of York in Ireland made its way throughEngland and France. Henry VII. Was just then too busy with his Frenchwar to attend to his new rival; but Charles VIII. Of France saw here anopportunity of annoying his enemy. He accordingly sent envoys to Cork, with an invitation to the youth to seek his court, where he would beacknowledged as the true heir to the royal crown of England. 

The astute young man lost no time in accepting the invitation. Charlesreceived him with as much honor as though he were indeed a king, appointed him a body-guard, and spread far and wide the statement thatthe Duke of York, the rightful heir of the English crown, was at hiscourt, and that he would sustain his claim. What might have come ofthis, had the war continued, we cannot say. A number of nobleEnglishmen, friends of York, made their way to Paris, and becamebelievers in the story of the young adventurer. But the hopes of theaspirant in this quarter came to an end with the ending of the war. Charles's secret purpose had been to force Henry to conclude a peace, and in this he succeeded. He had now no further use for his youngprotégé. He had sufficient honor not to deliver him into Henry's hands, as he was asked to do; but he set him adrift from his own court, biddinghim to seek his fortune elsewhere. 

From France the young aspirant made his way into Flanders, and presentedhimself at the court of the Duchess of Burgundy, with every appearanceof never having been there before. He sought her, he said, as his aunt. The duchess received him with an air of doubt and suspicion. He was, sheacknowledged, the image of her dear departed brother, but more evidencewas needed. She questioned him, therefore, closely, before the membersof her court, making searching inquiries into his earlier life andrecollections. These he answered so satisfactorily that the duchessdeclared herself transported with astonishment and joy, and vowed thathe was indeed her nephew, miraculously delivered from prison, broughtfrom death to life, wonderfully preserved by destiny for some greatfortune. She was not alone in this belief. All who heard his answersagreed with her, many of them borne away by his grace of person andmanner and the fascination of his address. The duchess declared hisidentity beyond doubt, did him honor as a born prince, gave him abody-guard of thirty halberdiers, who were clad in a livery of murreyand blue, and called him by the taking title of the "White Rose ofEngland. " He seemed, indeed, like one risen from the grave to set afloatonce more the banners of the White Rose of York. 

The tidings of what was doing in Flanders quickly reached England, wherea party in favor of the aspirant's pretensions slowly grew up. Severalnoblemen joined it, discontent having been caused by certain unpopularacts of the king. Sir Robert Clifford sailed to Flanders, visitedMargaret's court, and wrote back to England that there was no doubt thatthe young man was the Duke of York, whose person he knew as he knew hisown. 

While these events were fomenting, secretly and openly, King Henry wasat work, secretly and openly, to disconcert his foes. He set a guardupon the English ports, that no suspicious person should enter or leavethe kingdom, and then put his wits to task to prove the falsity of thewhole neatly-wrought tale. Two of those concerned in the murder of theprinces were still alive, --Sir James Tirrel and John Dighton. Sir Jamesclaimed to have stood at the stair-foot, while Dighton and another didthe murder, smothering the princes in their bed. To this they bothtestified, though the king, for reasons unexplained, did not publishtheir testimony. 

Henry also sent spies abroad, to search into the truth concerning theassumed adventurer. These, being well supplied with money, and bidden totrace every movement of the youth, at length declared that they haddiscovered that he was the son of a Flemish merchant, of the city ofTournay, his name Perkin Warbeck, his knowledge of the language andmanners of England having been derived from the English traders inFlanders. This information, with much to support it, was set afloat inEngland, and the king then demanded of the Archduke Philip, sovereign ofBurgundy, that he should give up this pretender, or banish him from hiscourt. Philip replied that Burgundy was the domain of the duchess, whowas mistress in her own land. In revenge, Henry closed all commercialcommunication between the two countries, taking from Antwerp itsprofitable market in English cloth. 

Now tragedy followed comedy. Sir Robert Clifford, who had declared theboy to be undoubtedly the Duke of York, suffered the king to convincehim that he was mistaken, and denounced several noblemen as beingsecretly friends to Perkin Warbeck. These were arrested, and three ofthem beheaded, one of them, Sir William Stanley, having saved Henry'slife on Bosworth Field. But he was rich, and a seizure of his estatewould swell the royal coffers. With Henry VII. Gold weighed heavier thangratitude. 

For three years all was quiet. Perkin Warbeck kept his princely state atthe court of the Duchess of Burgundy, and the merchants of Flanderssuffered heavily from the closure of the trade of Antwerp. This grewintolerable. The people were indignant. Something must be done. Thepretended prince must leave Flanders, or he ran risk of being killed byits inhabitants. 

The adventurous youth was thus obliged to leave his refuge at Margaret'scourt, and now entered upon a more active career. Accompanied by a fewhundred men, he sailed from Flanders and landed on the English coast atDeal. He hoped for a rising in his behalf. On the contrary, thecountry-people rose against him, killed many of his followers, and tooka hundred and fifty prisoners. These were all hanged, by order of theking, along the sea-shore, as a warning to any others who might wish toinvade England. 

Flanders was closed against the pretender. Ireland was similarly closed, for Henry had gained the Irish to his side. Scotland remained, therebeing hostility between the English and Scottish kings. Hither thefugitive made his way. James IV. Of Scotland gave him a most encouragingreception, called him cousin, and in a short time married him to one ofthe most beautiful and charming ladies of his court, Lady CatharineGordon, a relative of the royal house of the Stuarts. 

For a time now the fortunes of the young aspirant improved. Henry, alarmed at his progress, sought by bribery of the Scottish lords to havehim delivered into his hands. In this he failed; James was faithful tohis word. Soon Perkin had a small army at his back. The Duchess ofBurgundy provided him with men, money, and arms, till in a short time hehad fifteen hundred good soldiers under his command. 

With these, and with the aid of King James of Scotland, who reinforcedhis army and accompanied him in person, he crossed the border intoEngland, and issued a proclamation, calling himself King Richard theFourth, and offering large rewards to any one who should take ordistress Henry Tudor, as he called the king. 

Unluckily for the young invader, the people of England had had enough ofcivil war. White Rose or Red Rose had become of less importance to themthan peace and prosperity. They refused to rise in his support, andquickly grew to hate his soldiers, who, being of different nations, mostof them brigandish soldiers of fortune, began by quarrelling with oneanother, and ended by plundering the country. 

"This is shameful, " said Perkin. "I am not here to distress the Englishpeople. Rather than fill the country with misery, I will lose myrights. "

King James laughed at his scruples, giving him to understand that notrue king would stop for such a trifle. But Perkin was resolute, andthe army marched back again into Scotland without fighting a battle. The White Rose had shown himself unfit for kingship in those days. Hewas so weak as to have compassion for the people, if that was the truecause of his retreat. 

This invasion had one unlooked-for result. The people had been heavilytaxed by Henry, in preparation for the expected war. In consequence themen of Cornwall rose in rebellion. With Flammock, a lawyer, and Joseph, a blacksmith, at their head, they marched eastward through England untilwithin sight of London, being joined by Lord Audley and some othercountry gentlemen on their route. The king met and defeated them, thoughthey fought fiercely. Lord Audley was beheaded, Flammock and Joseph werehanged, the rest were pardoned. And so ended this threateninginsurrection. 

It was of no advantage to the wandering White Rose. He soon had to leaveScotland, peace having been made between the two kings. James, likeCharles VIII. Before him, was honorable and would not give him up, butrequired him to leave his kingdom. Perkin and his beautiful wife, whoclung to him with true love, set sail for Ireland. For a third time hehad been driven from shelter. 

In Ireland he found no support. The people had become friendly to theking, and would have nothing to do with the wandering White Rose. As aforlorn hope, he sailed for Cornwall, trusting that the stout Cornishmen, who had just struck so fierce a blow for their rights, mightgather to his support. With him went his wife, clinging with unyieldingfaith and love to his waning fortunes. 

He landed at Whitsand Bay, on the coast of Cornwall, issued aproclamation under the title of Richard the Fourth of England, andquickly found himself in command of a small army of Cornishmen. His wifehe left in the castle of St. Michael's Mount, as a place of safety, andat the head of three thousand men marched into Devonshire. By the timehe reached Exeter he had six thousand men under his command. Theybesieged Exeter, but learning that the king was on the march, theyraised the siege, and advanced until Taunton was reached, when theyfound themselves in front of the king's army. 

The Cornishmen were brave and ready. They were poorly armed andoutnumbered, but battle was their only thought. Such was not the thoughtof their leader. For the first time in his career he found himself faceto face with a hostile army. He could plot, could win friends by hisengaging manners, could do anything but fight. But now that the criticalmoment had come he found that he lacked courage. Perhaps this had asmuch as compassion to do with his former retreat to Scotland. It iscertain that the sight of grim faces and brandished arms before himrobbed his heart of its bravery. Mounting a swift horse, he fled in thenight, followed by about threescore others. In the morning his men foundthemselves without a leader. Having nothing to fight for, theysurrendered. Some few of the more desperate of them were hanged. Theothers were pardoned and permitted to return. 

No sooner was the discovery made that the White Rose had taken to thewinds than horsemen were sent in speedy pursuit, one troop being sent toSt. Michael's Mount to seize the Lady Catharine, and a second troop offive hundred horse to pursue the fugitive pretender, and take him, ifpossible, before he could reach the sanctuary of Beaulieu, in the NewForest, whither he had fled. The lady was quickly brought before theking. Whether or not he meant to deal harshly with her, the sight of herengaging face moved him to compassion and admiration. She was sobeautiful, bore so high a reputation for goodness, and was so lovinglydevoted to her husband, that the king was disarmed of any ill purposeshe may have entertained, and treated her with the highest respect andconsideration. In the end he gave her an allowance suitable to her rank, placed her at court near the queen's person, and continued her friendduring life. Years after, when the story of Perkin Warbeck had almostbecome a nursery-tale, the Lady Catharine was still called by the peoplethe "White Rose, " as a tribute to her beauty and her romantic history. 

As regards the fugitive and his followers, they succeeded in reachingBeaulieu and taking sanctuary. The pursuers, who had failed to overtakethem, could only surround the sanctuary and wait orders from the king. The astute Henry pursued his usual course, employing policy instead offorce. Perkin was coaxed out of his retreat, on promise of goodtreatment if he should surrender, and was brought up to London, guarded, but not bound. Henry, who was curious to see him, contrived to do sofrom a window, screening himself while closely observing his rival. 

London reached, the cavalcade became a procession, the captive being ledthrough the principal streets for the edification of the populace, before being taken to the Tower. The king had little reason to fear him. The pretended prince, who had run away from his army, was not likely toobtain new adherents. Scorn and contempt were the only manifestations ofpopular opinion. 

So little, indeed, did Henry dread this aspirant to the throne, that hewas quickly released from the Tower and brought to Westminster, where hewas treated as a gentleman, being examined from time to time regardinghis imposture. Such parts of his confession as the king saw fit todivulge were printed and spread through the country, but were of anature not likely to settle the difficulty. "Men missing of that theylooked for, looked about for they knew not what, and were more in doubtthan before, but the king chose rather not to satisfy, than to kindlecoals. "

Perkin soon brought the king's complaisance to an end. His mercurialdisposition counselled flight, and, deceiving his guards, he slippedfrom the palace and fled to the sea-shore. Here he found all avenues ofescape closed, and so diligent was the pursuit that he quickly turnedback, and again took sanctuary in Bethlehem priory, near Richmond. Theprior came to the king and offered to deliver him up, asking for hislife only. His escapade had roused anger in the court. 

"Take the rogue and hang him forthwith, " was the hot advice of theking's council. 

"The silly boy is not worth a rope, " answered the king. "Take the knaveand set him in the stocks. Let the people see what sort of a prince thisis. "

Life being promised, the prior brought forth his charge, and a few daysafter Perkin was set in the stocks for a whole day, in the palace-courtat Westminster. The next day he was served in the same manner atCheapside, in both places being forced to read a paper which purportedto be a true and full confession of his imposture. From Cheapside he wastaken to the Tower, having exhausted the mercy of the king. 

In the Tower he was placed in the company of the Earl of Warwick, thelast of the acknowledged Plantagenets, who had been in this gloomyprison for fourteen years. It is suspected that the king had a darkpurpose in this. To the one he had promised life; the other he had nosatisfactory reason to remove; possibly he fancied that the uneasytemper of Perkin would give him an excuse for the execution of both. 

If such was his scheme, it worked well. Perkin had not been long in theTower before the quick-silver of his nature began to declare itself. Hisinsinuating address gained him the favor of his keepers, whom he soonbegan to offer lofty bribes to aid his escape. Into this plot he managedto draw the young earl. The plan devised was that the four keepersshould murder the lieutenant of the Tower in the night, seize the keysand such money as they could find, and let out Perkin and the earl. 

It may be that the king himself had arranged this plot, and instructedthe keepers in their parts. Certainly it was quickly divulged. And bystrange chance, just at this period a third pretender appeared, thistime a shoemaker's son, who, like the baker's son, pretended to be theEarl of Warwick. His name was Ralph Wilford. He had been taught his partby a priest named Patrick. They came from Suffolk and advanced intoKent, where the priest took to the pulpit to advocate the claims of hischarge. Both were quickly taken, the youth executed, the priestimprisoned for life. 

And now Henry doubtless deemed that matters of this kind had gone farenough. The earl and his fellow-prisoner were indicted for conspiracy, tried and found guilty, the earl beheaded on Tower Hill, and PerkinWarbeck hanged at Tyburn. This was in the year 1499. It formed adramatic end to the history of the fifteenth century, being the closingevent in the wars of the White and the Red Roses, the death of the lastPlantagenet and of the last White Rose aspirant to the throne. 

In conclusion, the question may be asked, Who was Perkin Warbeck? All weknow of him is the story set afloat by Henry VII. , made up of accountstold by his spies and a confession wrested from a boy threatened withdeath. That he was taught his part by Margaret of Burgundy we have onlythis evidence for warrant. He was publicly acknowledged by this lady, the sister of Edward IV. , was married by James of Scotland to a lady ofroyal blood, was favorably received by many English lords, and waswidely believed, in view of the mystery surrounding the fate of theprinces, to be truly the princely person he declared himself. Howeverthat be, his story is a highly romantic one, and forms a picturesqueclosing scene to the long drama of the Wars of the Roses. 

_THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. _

It was the day fixed for the opening of the most brilliant pageant knownto modern history. On the green space in front of the dilapidated castleof Guisnes, on the soil of France, but within what was known as theEnglish pale, stood a summer palace of the amplest proportions and themost gorgeous decorations, which was furnished within with all thatcomfort demanded and art and luxury could provide. Let us brieflydescribe this magnificent palace, which had been prepared for thetemporary residence of the English king. 

The building was of wood, square in shape, each side being three hundredand twenty-eight feet long. On every side were oriel-windows andcuriously glazed clerestories, whose mullions and posts were overlaidwith gold. In front of the grand entrance stood an embattled gate-way, having on each side statues of warriors in martial attitudes. From thegate to the palace sloped upward a long passage, flanked with images inbright armor and presenting "sore and terrible countenances. " This ledto an embowered landing-place, where, facing the great doors, stoodantique figures girt with olive-branches. 

Interiorly the palace halls and chambers were superbly decorated, whitesilk forming the ceilings of the passages and galleries, from whichdepended silken hangings of various colors and braided cloths, "whichshowed like bullions of fine braided gold. " Roses set in lozenges, on agolden ground-work, formed the chamber ceilings. The wall spaces weredecorated with richly carved and gilt panels, while embroidered silktapestry hung from the windows and formed the walls of the corridors. Inthe state apartments the furniture was of princely richness, the wholedomains of art and industry having been ransacked to provide their mostsplendid belongings. Exteriorly the building presented an equally ornateappearance, glass, gold-work, and ornamental hangings quite concealingthe carpentry, so that "every quarter of it, even the least, was ahabitation fit for a prince. "

To what end, in the now far-away year of 1520, and in that rurallocality, under the shadows of a castle which had fallen intoirredeemable ruin, had such an edifice been built, --one which only therevenues of a kingdom, in that day, could have erected? Its purpose wasa worthy one. France and England, whose intercourse for centuries hadbeen one of war, were now to meet in peace. Crecy and Agincourt had beenthe last meeting-places of the monarchs of these kingdoms, and death andruin had followed their encounters. Now Henry the Eighth of England andFrancis the First of France were to meet in peace and amity, spendingthe revenues of their kingdoms not for armor of linked mail anddeath-dealing weapons, but for splendid attire and richest pageantry, intoken of friendship and fraternity between the two realms. 

A century had greatly changed the relations of England and France. In1420 Henry V. Had recently won the great victory of Agincourt, andFrance lay almost prostrate at his feet. In 1520 the English possessionsin France were confined to the seaport of Calais and a small districtaround it known as the "English pale. " The castle of Guisnes stood justwithin the English border, the meeting between the two monarchs beingfixed at the line of separation of the two kingdoms. 

The palace we have described, erected for the habitation of King Henryand his suite, had been designed and ordered by Cardinal Wolsey, towhose skill in pageantry the management of this great festival had beenconsigned. Extensive were the preparations alike in England and inFrance. All that the island kingdom could furnish of splendor and richeswas provided, not alone for the adornment of the king and his guard, butfor the host of nobles and the multitude of persons of minor estate, whocame in his train, the whole following of the king being nearly fourthousand persons, while more than a thousand formed the escort of thequeen. For the use of this great company had been brought nearly fourthousand richly-caparisoned horses, with vast quantities of the otheressentials of human comfort and regal display. 

While England had been thus busy in preparing for the pageant, Francehad been no less active. Arde, a town near the English pale, had beenselected as the dwelling-place of Francis and his train. As for thesplendor of adornment of those who followed him, there seems to havebeen almost nothing worn but silks, velvets, cloth of gold and silver, jewels and precious stones, such being the costliness of the displaythat a writer who saw it humorously says, "Many of the nobles carriedtheir castles, woods, and farms upon their backs. "

Magnificent as was the palace built for Henry and his train, thearrangements for the French king and his train were still more imposing. The artistic taste of the French was contrasted with the English lovefor solid grandeur. Francis had proposed that both parties should lodgein tents erected on the field, and in pursuance of this idea there hadbeen prepared "numerous pavilions, fitted up with halls, galleries, andchambers ornamented within and without with gold and silver tissue. Amidst golden balls and quaint devices glittering in the sun, rose agilt figure of St. Michael, conspicuous for his blue mantle powderedwith golden _fleurs-de-lis_, and crowning a royal pavilion of vastdimensions supported by a single mast. In his right hand he held a dart, in his left a shield emblazoned with the arms of France. Inside, theroof of the pavilion represented the canopy of heaven ornamented withstars and figures of the zodiac. The lodgings of the queen, of theDuchess d'Alençon, the king's favorite sister, and of other ladies andprinces of the blood, were covered with cloth of gold. The rest of thetents, to the number of three or four hundred, emblazoned with the armsof their owners, were pitched on the banks of a small river outside thecity walls. "

No less abundant provision had been made for the residence of theEnglish visitors. When King Henry looked from the oriel windows of hisfairy palace, he saw before him a scene of the greatest splendor and themost incessant activity. The green space stretching southward from thecastle was covered with tents of all shapes and sizes, many of thembrilliant with emblazonry, while from their tops floated rich-coloredbanners and pennons in profusion. Before each tent stood a sentry, hislance-point glittering like a jewel in the rays of the June sun. Hererichly-caparisoned horses were prancing, there sumpter mules laden withsupplies, and decorated with ribbons and flowers, made their slow wayonward. Everywhere was movement, everywhere seemed gladness; merrimentruled supreme, the hilarity being doubtless heightened by frequentvisits to gilded fountains, which spouted forth claret and hypocras intosilver cups from which all might drink. Never had been seen such apicture in such a place. The splendor of color and decoration of thetents, the shining armor and gorgeous dresses of knights and nobles, thebrilliancy of the military display, the glittering and gleaming effectof the pageant as a whole, rendering fitly applicable the name by whichthis royal festival has since been known, "The Field of the Cloth ofGold. "

Two leagues separated Arde and Guisnes, two leagues throughout which thespectacle extended, rich tents and glittering emblazonry occupying thewhole space, the canvas habitations of the two nations meeting at thedividing-line between England and France. It was a splendid avenuearranged for the movements of the monarchs of these two great kingdoms. 

Such was the scene: what were the ceremonies? They began with a grandprocession, headed by Cardinal Wolsey, who, as representative of theking of England, made the first move in the game of ostentation. Beforehim rode fifty gentlemen, each wearing a great gold chain, while theirhorses were richly caparisoned with crimson velvet. His ushers, fiftyother gentlemen, followed, bearing maces of gold which at one end wereas large as a man's head. Next came a dignitary in crimson velvet, proudly carrying the cardinal's cross of gold, adorned with preciousstones. Four lackeys, attired in cloth of gold and with magnificentplumed bonnets in their hands, followed. Then came the cardinal himself, man and horse splendidly equipped, his strong and resolute face full ofthe pride and arrogance which marked his character, his bearing that ofalmost regal ostentation. After him followed an array of bishops andother churchmen, while a hundred archers of the king's guard completedthe procession. 

Reaching Arde, the cardinal dismounted in front of the royal tent, and, in the stateliest manner, did homage in his masters name to Francis, whoreceived him with a courteous display of deference and affection. Thenext day the representatives of France returned this visit, with equalpomp and parade, and with as kindly a reception from Henry, while theEnglish nobles feasted those of France in their lordliest fashion, soboisterous being their hospitality that they fairly forced theirvisitors into their tents. 

These ceremonial preliminaries passed, the meeting of the two sovereignscame next in order. Henry had crossed the channel to greet Francis;Francis agreed to be the first to cross the frontier to greet him. June7 was the day fixed. On this day the king of France left his tent amidthe roar of cannon, and, followed by a noble retinue in cloth of goldand silver, made his way to the frontier, where was set up a gorgeouspavilion, in whose decorations the heraldries of England and France werecommingled. In this handsome tent the two monarchs were to confer. 

About the same time Henry set out, riding a powerful stallion, noblycaparisoned. At the border-line between English and French territory thetwo monarchs halted, facing each other, each still on his own soil. Deepsilence prevailed in the trains, and every eye was fixed on the twocentral figures. 

They were strongly contrasted. Francis was tall but rather slight infigure, and of delicate features. Henry was stout of form, and massivebut handsome of face. He had not yet attained those swollen proportionsof face and figure in which history usually depicts him. Their attirewas as splendid as art and fashion could produce. Francis was dressed ina mantle of cloth of gold, which fell over a jewelled cassock of goldfrieze. He wore a bonnet of ruby velvet enriched with gems, while thefront and sleeves of his mantle were splendid with diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and "ropes of pearls. " He rode a "beautiful horse covered withgoldsmith's work. "

Henry was dressed in cloth of silver damask, studded with gems, andribbed with gold cloth, while his horse was gay with trappings of gold, embroidery and mosaic work. Altogether the two men were as splendid inappearance as gold, silver, jewelry, and the costliest tissues couldmake them, --and as different in personal appearance as two men of thesame race could well be. 

[Illustration: HENRY THE EIGHTH. ]

The occasion was not alone a notable one, it was to some extent acritical one. For centuries the meetings of French and English kings hadbeen hostile; could they now be trusted to be peaceful? Might not thesword of the past be hidden in the olive-branch of the present? Supposethe lords of France should seize and hold captive the English king, orthe English lords act with like treachery towards the French king, whatyears of the out-pouring of blood and treasure might follow!Apprehensions of such treachery were not wanting. The followers ofFrancis looked with doubt on the armed men in Henry's escort. TheEnglish courtiers in like manner viewed with eyes of question thearchers and cavaliers in the train of Francis. Lord Abergavenny ran toKing Henry as he was about to mount for the ride to the French frontier. 

"Sire, " he said, anxiously, "ye be my lord and sovereign; wherefore, above all, I am bound to show you the truth and not be let for none. Ihave been in the French party, and they be more in number, --double somany as ye be. "

"Sire, " answered Lord Shrewsbury, "whatever my lord of Abergavennysayeth, I myself have been there, and the Frenchmen be more in fear ofyou and your subjects than your subjects be of them. Wherefore, if Iwere worthy to give counsel, your grace should march forward. "

Bluff King Harry had no thought of doing anything else. The doubt whichshook the souls of some of his followers, did not enter his. 

"So we intend, my lord, " he briefly answered, and rode forward. 

For a moment the two kings remained face to face, gazing upon each otherin silence. Then came a burst of music, and, spurring their horses, theygalloped forward, and in an instant were hand in hand. Three times theyembraced; then, dismounting, they again embraced, and walked arm in armtowards the pavilion. Brief was the conference within, the constables ofFrance and England keeping strict ward outside, with swords held atsalute. Not till the monarchs emerged was the restraint broken. ThenHenry and Francis were presented to the dignitaries of the oppositenation, their escorts fraternized, barrels of wine were broached, and asthe wine-cups were drained the toast, "Good friends, French andEnglish, " was cheerily repeated from both sides. The nobles wereemulated in this by their followers, and the good fellowship of themeeting was signalized by abundant revelry, night only ending themerrymaking. 

Friday, Saturday, and Sunday passed in exchange of courtesies, and inpreparations for the tournament which was to be the great event of theoccasion. On Sunday afternoon Henry crossed the frontier to do homage tothe queen of France, and Francis offered the same tribute to the Englishqueen. Henry rode to Arde in a dress that was heavy with gold andjewels, and was met by the queen and her ladies, whose beauty wasadorned with the richest gems and tissues and the rarest laces that thewealth and taste of the time could command. The principal event of thereception was a magnificent dinner, whose service was so rich and itsviands so rare and costly that the chronicler confesses himself unequalto the task of describing it. Music, song, and dancing filled up theintervals between the courses, and all went merrily until five o'clock, when Henry took his leave, entertaining the ladies as he did so with anexhibition of his horsemanship, he making his steed to "bound andcurvet as valiantly as man could do. " On his road home he met Francis, returning from a like reception by the queen of England. "What cheer?"asked the two kings as they cordially embraced, with such a show ofamity that one might have supposed them brothers born. 

The next day was that set for the opening of the tournament. This was tobe held in a park on the high ground between Arde and Guisnes. On eachside of the enclosed space long galleries, hung with tapestry, wereerected for the spectators, a specially-adorned box being prepared forthe two queens. Triumphal arches marked each entrance to the lists, atwhich stood French and English archers on guard. At the foot of thelists was erected the "tree of noblesse, " on which were to be hung theshields of those about to engage in combat. It bore "the noble thorn[the sign of Henry] entwined with raspberry" [the sign of Francis];around its trunk was wound cloth of gold and green damask; its leaveswere formed of green silk, and the fruit that hung from its limb wasmade of silver and Venetian gold. 

Henry and Francis, each supported by some eighteen of their noblestsubjects, designed to hold the lists against all comers, it being, however, strictly enjoined that sharp-pointed weapons should not beused, lest serious accidents, as in times past, might take place. Various other rules were made, of which we shall only name that whichrequired the challenger who was worsted in any combat to give "a goldtoken to the lady in whose cause the comer fights. "

Shall we tell the tale of this show of mimic war? Splendid it was, and, unlike the tournaments of an older date, harmless. The lists were ninehundred feet long and three hundred and twenty broad, the galleriesbordering them being magnificent with their hosts of richly-attiredlords and ladies and the vari-colored dresses of the archers and othersof lesser blood. For two days, Monday and Thursday, Henry and Francisheld the lists. In this sport Henry displayed the skill and prowess of atrue warrior. Francis could scarcely wield the swords which his brotherking swept in circles around his head. When he spurred, with couchedlance, upon an antagonist, his ease and grace aroused the plaudits ofthe spectators, which became enthusiastic as saddle after saddle wasemptied by the vigor of his thrust. 

Next to Henry in strength and prowess was Charles Brandon, Duke ofSuffolk, who vied with the king for the honors of the field. "The kingof England and Suffolk did marvels, " says the chronicler. On the dayswhen the monarchs did not appear in the field lesser knights strove forthe honors of the joust, wrestling-matches helped to amuse the multitudeof spectators, and the antics of mummers wound up the sports of the day. Only once did Henry and Francis come into friendly contest. This was ina wrestling-match, from which the French king, to the surprise of thespectators, carried off the honors. By a clever twist of the wrestler'sart, he managed to throw his burly brother king. Henry's face was redwith the hot Tudor blood when he rose, his temper had been lost in hisfall, and there was anger in the tone in which he demanded a renewal ofthe contest. But Francis was too wise to fan a triumph into a quarrel, and by mild words succeeded in smoothing the frown from Henry's brow. 

For some two weeks these entertainments lasted, the genial June sunshining auspiciously upon the lists. From the galleries shone two minorluminaries, the queens of England and France, who were always present, "with their ladies richly dressed in jewels, and with many chariots, litters, and hackneys covered with cloth of gold and silver, andemblazoned with their arms. " They occupied a glazed gallery hung withtapestry, where they were often seen in conversation, a pleasure not soreadily enjoyed by their ladies in waiting, most of whom had to do theirtalking through the vexatious aid of an interpreter. 

During most of the time through which the tournament extended thedistrust of treachery on one side or the other continued. Francis neverentered the English pale unless Henry was on French soil. Henry wassimilarly distrustful. Or, rather, the distrust lay in the advisers ofthe monarchs, and as the days went on grew somewhat offensive. Franciswas the first to break it, and to show his confidence in the good faithof his brother monarch. One morning early he crossed the frontier andentered the palace at Guisnes while Henry was still in bed, or, as somesay, was at breakfast. To the guards at the gate he playfully said, "Surrender your arms, you are all my prisoners; and now conduct me to mybrother of England. " He accosted Henry with the utmost cordiality, embracing him and saying, in a merry tone, --

"Here you see I am your prisoner. "

"My brother, " cried Henry, with the wannest pleasure, "you have playedme the most agreeable trick in the world, and have showed me the fullconfidence I may place in you. I surrender myself your prisoner fromthis moment. "

Costly presents passed between the two monarchs, and from that momentall restraint was at an end. Each rode to see the other when he chose, their attendants mingled with the same freedom and confidence, andduring the whole time not a quarrel, or even a dispute, arose betweenthe sons of England and France. In the lists they used spear and swordwith freedom, but out of them they were the warmest of friends. 

On Sunday, June 24, the tournament closed with a solemn mass sung byWolsey, who was assisted by the ecclesiastics of the two lands. When thegospels were presented to the two kings to kiss, there was a friendlycontest as to who should precede. And at the _Agnus Dei_, when the _Pax_was presented to the two queens, a like contest arose, which ended intheir kissing each other in lieu of the sacred emblem. 

At the close of the services a showy piece of fireworks attracted theattention of the spectators. "There appeared in the air from Arde agreat artificial salamander or dragon, four fathoms long and full offire; many were frightened, thinking it a comet or some monster, as theycould see nothing to which it was attached; it passed right over thechapel to Guisnes as fast as a footman can go, and as high as a boltfrom a cross-bow. " A splendid banquet followed, which concluded thefestivities of the "Field of the Cloth of Gold. " The two kings enteredthe lists again, but now only to exchange farewells. Henry made his wayto Calais; Francis returned to Abbeyville: the great occasion was at anend. 

What was its result? Amity between the two nations; a century of peaceand friendship? Not so. In a month Henry had secretly allied himself toCharles the Fifth against Francis of France. In five years was foughtthe battle of Pavia, between France and the Emperor Charles, in whichFrancis, after showing great valor on the field, was taken prisoner. "All is lost, except honor, " he wrote. Such was the sequel of the "Fieldof the Cloth of Gold. "

_THE STORY OF ARABELLA STUART. _

Of royal blood was the lady here named, near to the English throne. Toonear, as it proved, for her own comfort and happiness, for her life wasdistracted by the fears of those that filled it. Her story, inconsequence, became one of the romances of English history. 

"The Lady Arabella, " as she was called, was nearly related to QueenElizabeth, and became an object of jealous persecution by that royallady. The great Elizabeth had in her disposition something of the dog inthe manger. She would not marry herself, and thus provide for thesuccession to the throne, and she was determined that the fair Arabellashould not perform this neglected duty. Hence Arabella's misery. 

The first thing we hear of this unfortunate scion of royal bloodconcerns a marriage. The whole story of her life, in fact, is concernedwith marriage, and its fatal ending was the result of marriage. Neverhad a woman been more sought in marriage; never more hindered; her lifewas a tragedy of marriage. 

Her earlier story may be briefly given. James VI. Of Scotland, cousin ofthe Lady Arabella, chose as a husband for her another cousin, Lord EsmeStuart, Duke of Lennox, his proposed heir. The match was a desirableone, but Queen Elizabeth forbade the banns. She threw the lady into aprison, and defied King James when he demanded her delivery, nothesitating to speak with contempt of her brother monarch. 

The next to choose a husband for Arabella was the pope, who would havebeen delighted to provide a Catholic for the succession to the Englishthrone. A prince of the house of Savoy was the choice of his holiness. The Duke of Parma was married, and his brother was a cardinal, andtherefore unmarriageable, but the pope had the power to overcome thedifficulty which this created. He secularized the churchman, and madehim an eligible aspirant for the lady's hand. But, as may well besupposed, Elizabeth decisively vetoed this chimerical plan. 

To escape from the plots of scheming politicians, the Lady Arabella nowtook the task in her own hand, proposing to marry a son of the Earl ofNorthumberland. Unhappily, Elizabeth would none of it. To her jealousfancy an English earl was more dangerous than a Scotch duke. Thus wenton this extraordinary business till Elizabeth died, and King James ofScotland, whom she had despised, became her successor on the throne, shehaving paved the way to his succession by her neglect to provide an heirfor it herself, and her insensate determination to prevent ArabellaStuart from doing so. 

James was now king. He had chosen a husband for his cousin Arabellabefore. It was a natural presumption that he would not object to hermarriage now. But if Elizabeth was jealous, he was suspicious. A foolishplot was made by some unimportant individuals to get rid of the Scottishking and place Arabella on the English throne. A letter to this effectwas sent to the lady. She laughed at it, and sent it to the king, who, probably, did not consider it a laughing-matter. 

This was in 1603. In 1604 the king of Poland is said to have asked forthe lady's hand in marriage. Count Maurice, Duke of Guildres, was alsospoken of as a suitable match. But James had grown as obdurate asElizabeth, --and with as little sense and reason. The lady might enjoylife in single blessedness as she pleased, but marry she should not. "Thus far to the Lady Arabella crowns and husbands were like a fairybanquet seen at moonlight opening on her sight, impalpable, andvanishing at the moment of approach. "

Several years now passed, in which the lady lived as a dependant on theking's bounty, and in which, so far as we know, no thoughts of marriagewere entertained. At least, no projects of marriage were made public, whatever may have been the lady's secret thoughts and wishes. Then camethe romantic event of her life, --a marriage, and its strikingconsequences. It is this event which has made her name remembered in theromance of history. 

Christmas of 1608 had passed, and the Lady Arabella was still unmarried;the English crown had not tottered to its fall through the entrance ofthis fair maiden into the bonds of matrimony. The year 1609 began, andterror seized the English court; this insatiable woman was reaching outfor another husband! This time the favored swain was Mr. WilliamSeymour, the second son of Lord Beauchamp, and grandson of the earl ofHertford. He was a man of admired character, a studious scholar in timesof peace, an ardent soldier in times of war. He and Arabella had knowneach other from childhood. 

In February the daring rebellion of the Lady Arabella became known, andsent its shaft of terror to the heart of King James. The woman was at itagain, wanting to marry; she must be dealt with. She and Seymour weresummoned before the privy council and sharply questioned. Seymour washarshly censured. How dared he presume to seek an alliance with one ofroyal blood, he was asked, in blind disregard of the fact that royalblood ran in his own veins. 

He showed fitting humility before the council, pleading that he meant nooffence. Thus he told the dignified councillors the story of hiswooing, --

"I boldly intruded myself into her ladyship's chamber in this court onCandlemas-day last, at which time I imparted my desire unto her, whichwas entertained, but with this caution on either part, that both of usresolved not to proceed to any final conclusion without his Majesty'smost gracious favor first obtained. And this was our first meeting. After this we had a second meeting at Brigg's house in Fleet Street, andthen a third at Mr. Baynton's; at both of which we had the likeconference and resolution as before. "

Neither of them would think of marrying without "his Majesty's mostgracious favor, " they declared. This favor could not be granted. Thesafety of the English crown had to be considered. The lovers wereadmonished by the privy council and dismissed. 

But love laughs at privy councils, as well as at locksmiths. This timethe Lady Arabella was not to be hindered. She and Seymour were secretlymarried, without regard to "his Majesty's most gracious favor, " andenjoyed a short period of connubial bliss in defiance of king andcouncil. 

Their offence was not discovered till July of the following year. Itroused a small convulsion in court circles. The king had been defied. The culprits must be punished. The lovers--for they were stilllovers--were separated, Seymour being sent to the Tower, for "hiscontempt in marrying a lady of the royal family without the king'sleave;" the lady being confined at the house of Sir Thomas Parry, atLambeth. 

Their confinement was not rigorous. The lady was allowed to walk in thegarden. The gentleman was given the freedom of the Tower. Letters seemto have passed between them. From one of these ancient love-letters wemay quote the affectionate conclusion. Seymour had taken cold. Arabellawrites:

"I do assure you that nothing the State can do with me can trouble me somuch as this news of your being ill doth; and, you see, when I amtroubled I trouble you with too tedious kindness, for so I think youwill account so long a letter, yourself not having written to me thisgood while so much as how you do. But, sweet sir, I speak not of this totrouble you with writing but when you please. Be well, and I shallaccount myself happy in being

"Your faithful, loving wife. 

 ARB. S. "

They wrote too much, it seems. Their correspondence was discovered. Trouble ensued. The king determined to place the lady in closerconfinement under the bishop of Durham. 

Arabella was in despair when this news was brought her. She grew so illfrom her depression of spirits that she could only travel to her newplace of detention in a litter and under the care of a physician. Onreaching Highgate she had become unfit to proceed, her pulse weak, hercountenance pale and wan. The doctor left her there and returned totown, where he reported to the king that the lady was too sick totravel. 

"She shall proceed to Durham if I am king, " answered James, with hisusual weak-headed obstinacy. 

"I make no doubt of her obedience, " answered the doctor. 

"Obedience is what I require, " replied the king. "That given, I will domore for her than she expects. "

He consented, in the end, that she should remain a month at Highgate, under confinement, at the end of which time she should proceed toDurham. The month passed. She wrote a letter to the king which procuredher a second month's respite. But that time, too, passed on, and the dayfixed for her further journey approached. 

The lady now showed none of the wild grief which she had at firstdisplayed. She was resigned to her fate, she said, and manifested atender sorrow which won the hearts of her keepers, who could not butsympathize with a high-born lady thus persecuted for what was assuredlyno crime, if even a fault. 

At heart, however, she was by no means so tranquil as she seemed. Hercommunications with Seymour had secretly continued, and the two hadplanned a wildly-romantic project of escape, of which this seemingresignation was but part. The day preceding that fixed for her departurearrived. The lady had persuaded an attendant to aid her in paying a lastvisit to her husband, whom she declared she must see before going to herdistant prison. She would return at a fixed hour. The attendant couldwait for her at an appointed place. 

This credulous servant, led astray, doubtless, by sympathy with theloving couple, not only consented to the request, but assisted the ladyin assuming an elaborate disguise. 

"She drew, " we are told, "a pair of large French-fashioned hose ortrousers over her petticoats, put on a man's doublet or coat, a perukesuch as men wore, whose long locks covered her own ringlets, a blackhat, a black coat, russet boots with red tops, and a rapier by her side. Thus accoutred, the Lady Arabella stole out with a gentleman about threeo'clock in the afternoon. She had only proceeded a mile and a half whenthey stopped at a post-inn, where one of her confederates was waitingwith horses; yet she was so sick and faint that the hostler who held herstirrup observed that the gentleman could hardly hold out to London. "

But the "gentleman" grew stronger as she proceeded. The exercise ofriding gave her new spirit. Her pale face grew rosy; her strengthincreased; by six o'clock she reached Blackwall, where a boat andservants were waiting. The plot had been well devised and all thenecessary preparations made. 

The boatmen were bidden to row to Woolwich. This point reached, theywere asked to proceed to Gravesend. Then they rowed on to Tilbury. Bythis time they were fatigued, and landed for rest and refreshment. Butthe desired goal had not yet been reached, and an offer of higher payinduced them to push on to Lee. 

Here the fugitive lady rested till daybreak. The light of morndiscovered a French vessel at anchor off the harbor, which was quicklyboarded. It had been provided for the escape of the lovers. But Seymour, who had planned to escape from the Tower and meet her here, had notarrived. Arabella was desirous that the vessel should continue at anchoruntil he appeared. If he should fail to come she did not care toproceed. The land that held her lord was the land in which she wished todwell, even if they should be parted by fate and forced to live asunder. 

This view did not please those who were aiding her escape. They would bepursued, and might be overtaken. Delay was dangerous. In disregard ofher wishes, they ordered the captain to put to sea. As events turnedout, their haste proved unfortunate for the fair fugitive, and the"cause of woes unnumbered" to the loving pair. 

Leaving her to her journey, we must return to the adventures of Seymour. Prisoner at large, as he was, in the Tower, escape proved not difficult. A cart had entered the enclosure to bring wood to his apartment. On itsdeparture he followed it through the gates, unobserved by the warder. His servant was left behind, with orders to keep all visitors from theroom, on pretence that his master was laid up with a raging toothache. 

Reaching the river, the escaped prisoner found a man in his confidencein waiting with a boat. He was rowed down the stream to Lee, where heexpected to find his Arabella in waiting. She was not there, but in thedistance was a vessel which he fancied might have her on board. Hehired a fisherman to take him out. Hailing the vessel, he inquired itsname, and to his grief learned that it was not the French ship which hadbeen hired for the lovers' flight. Fate had separated them. Filled withdespair, he took passage on a vessel from Newcastle, whose captain wasinduced, for a fair consideration, to alter his course. In due time helanded in Flanders, free, but alone. He was never to set eyes onArabella Stuart again. 

Meanwhile, the escape of the lady from Highgate had become known, andhad aroused almost as much alarm as if some frightful calamity hadovertaken the State. Confusion and alarm pervaded the court. TheGunpowder Plot itself hardly shook up the gray heads of King James'scabinet more than did the flight of this pair of parted doves. The windseemed to waft peril. The minutes seemed fraught with threats. Courierswere despatched in all haste to the neighboring seaports, and hurryeverywhere prevailed. 

A messenger was sent to the Tower, bidding the lieutenant to guardSeymour with double vigilance. To the surprise of the worthy lieutenant, he discovered that Seymour was not there to be guarded. The bird hadflown. Word of this threw King James into a ludicrous state of terror. He wished to issue a vindictive proclamation, full of hot fulminations, and could scarcely be persuaded by his minister to tone down his foolishutterances. The revised edict was sent off with as much speed as if anenemy's fleet were in the offing, the courier being urged to his utmostdespatch, the postmasters aroused to activity by the stirringsuperscription, "Haste, haste, post-haste! Haste for your life, yourlife!" One might have thought that a new Norman invasion was threateningthe coast, instead of a pair of new-married lovers flying to finishtheir honey-moon in peace and freedom abroad. 

[Illustration: ROTTEN ROW. LONDON. ]

When news of what had happened reached the family of the Seymours, itthrew them into a state of alarm not less than that of the king. Theyknew what it meant to offend the crown. The progenitor of the family, the Duke of Somerset, had lost his head through some offence to a king, and his descendants had no ambition to be similarly curtailed of theirnatural proportions. Francis Seymour wrote to his uncle, the Earl ofHertford, then distant from London, telling the story of the flight ofhis brother and the lady. This letter still exists, and its appearanceindicates the terror into which it threw the earl. It reached him atmidnight. With it came a summons to attend the privy council. He read itapparently by the light of a taper, and with such agitation that thesheet caught fire. The scorched letter still exists, and is burntthrough at the most critical part of its story. The poor old earllearned enough to double his terror, and lost the section that wouldhave alleviated it. He hastened up to London in a state of doubt andfear, not knowing but that he was about to be indicted for hightreason. 

Meanwhile, what had become of the disconsolate Lady Arabella? The poorbride found herself alone upon the seas, mourning for her lost Seymour, imploring her attendants to delay, straining her eyes in hopes of seeingsome boat bearing to her him she so dearly loved. It was in vain. NoSeymour appeared. And the delay in her flight proved fatal. The Frenchship which bore her was overtaken in Calais roads by one of the king'svessels which had been so hastily despatched in pursuit, and the ladywas taken on board and brought back, protesting that she cared not whatbecame of her if her dear Seymour should only escape. 

The story ends mournfully. The sad-hearted bride was consigned to animprisonment that preyed heavily upon her. Never very strong, her sorrowand depression of spirits reduced her powers, while, with the hope thatshe might die the sooner, she refused the aid of physicians. Grief, despair, intense emotion, in time impaired her reason, and at the end offour years of prison life she died, her mind having died before. Rarelyhas a simple and innocent marriage produced such sad results through theuncalled-for jealousy of kings. The sad romance of the poor LadyArabella's life was due to the fact that she had an unreasonable womanto deal with in Elizabeth, and a suspicious fool in James. Soundcommon-sense must say that neither had aught to gain from thispersecution of the poor lady, who they were so obstinately determinedshould end life a maid. 

Seymour spent some years abroad, and then was permitted to return toEngland. His wife was dead; the king had naught to fear. He livedthrough three successive reigns, distinguishing himself by his loyaltyto James and his two successors, and to the day of his death retaininghis warm affection for his first love. He married again, and to thedaughter born from this match he gave the name of Arabella Stuart, intoken of his undying attachment to the lady of his life's romance. 

_LOVE'S KNIGHT-ERRANT. _

On the 18th of February, 1623, two young men, Tom and John Smith byname, plainly dressed and attended by one companion in the attire of anupper-servant, rode to the ferry at Gravesend, on the Thames. They woreheavy beards, which did not look altogether natural, and had pulledtheir hats well down over their foreheads, as if to hide their facesfrom prying eyes. They seemed a cross between disguised highwaymen anddisguised noblemen. 

The ancient ferryman looked at them with some suspicion as they enteredhis boat, asking himself, "What lark is afoot with these young bloods?There's mischief lurking under those beards. "

His suspicions were redoubled when his passengers, in arbitrary tones, bade him put them ashore below the town, instead of at the usuallanding-place. And he became sure that they were great folks bent onmischief when, on landing, one of them handed him a gold-piece for hisfare, and rode away without asking for change. 

"Aha! my brisk lads, I have you now, " he said, with a chuckle. "There'sa duel afoot. Those two youngsters are off for the other side of theChannel, to let out some angry blood, and the other goes along as secondor surgeon. It's very neat, but the law says nay; and I know my duty. Iam not to be bought off with a piece of gold. "

Pocketing his golden fare, he hastened to the nearest magistrate, andtold his story and his suspicion. The magistrate agreed with him, and atonce despatched a post-boy to Rochester, with orders to have thedoubtful travellers stopped. Away rode the messenger at haste, on one ofthe freshest horses to be found in Gravesend stables. But his steed wasno match for the thoroughbreds of the suspected wayfarers, and they hadleft the ancient town of Rochester in the rear long before he reachedits skirts. 

Rochester passed, they rode briskly onward, conversing with the gayfreedom of frolicsome youth; when, much to their alarm as it seemed, they saw in the road before them a stately train. It consisted of acarriage that appeared royal in its decorations and in the glitteringtrappings of its horses, beside which rode two men dressed likenoblemen, following whom came a goodly retinue of attendants. 

The young wayfarers seemed to recognize the travellers, and drew up to aquick halt, as if in alarm. 

"Lewknor and Mainwaring, by all that's unlucky!" said the one known asTom Smith. 

"And a carriage-load of Spanish high mightiness between them; for that'sthe ambassador on his way to court, " answered John Smith. "It's all upwith our escapade if they get their eyes on us. We must bolt. "

"How and whither?"

"Over the hedge and far away. "

Spurring their horses, they broke through the low hedge that borderedthe road-side, and galloped at a rapid pace across the fields beyond. The approaching party viewed this movement with lively suspicion. 

"Who can they be?" queried Sir Lewis Lewknor, one of the noblemen. 

His companion, who was no less a personage than Sir Henry Mainwaring, lieutenant of Dover Castle, looked questioningly after the fugitives. 

"They are well mounted and have the start on us. We cannot overtakethem, " he muttered. 

"You know them, then?" asked Lewknor. 

"I have my doubt that two of them are the young Barneveldts, who havejust tried to murder the Prince of Orange. They must be stopped andquestioned. "

He turned and bade one of his followers to ride back with all speed toCanterbury, and bid the magistrates to detain three suspicioustravellers, who would soon reach that town. This done, the train movedon, Mainwaring satisfied that he had checked the runaways, whoever theywere. 

The Smiths and their attendant reached Canterbury in good time, but thistime they were outridden. Mainwaring's messenger had got in before them, and the young adventurers found themselves stopped by a mounted guard, with the unwelcome tidings that his honor, the mayor, would like to seethem. 

Being brought before his honor, they blustered a little, talked in bigtones of the rights of Englishmen, and asked angrily who had dared ordertheir detention. They found master mayor cool and decided. 

"Gentlemen, you will stay here till I know better who you are, " he said. "Sir Henry Mainwaring has ordered you to be stopped, and he best knowswhy. Nor do I fancy he has gone amiss, for your names of Tom and JohnSmith fit you about as well as your beards. "

At these words, the one that claimed the name of John Smith burst into ahearty laugh. Seizing his beard, he gave it a slight jerk, and it cameoff in his hand. The mayor started in surprise. The face before him wasone that he very well knew. 

"The Marquis of Buckingham!" he exclaimed. 

"The same, at your service, " said Buckingham, still laughing. "Mainwaring takes me for other than I am. Likely enough he deems me arunaway road-agent. You will scarcely stop the lord admiral, going indisguise to Dover to make a secret inspection of the fleet?"

"Why, that certainly changes the case, " said the mayor. "But who is yourcompanion?" he continued, in a low tone, looking askance at the other. 

"A young gallant of the court, who keeps me company, " said Buckingham, carelessly. 

"The road is free before you, gentlemen, " said the mayor, graciously. "Iwill answer to Mainwaring. "

He turned and bade his guards to deliver their horses to the travellers. But his eyes followed them with a peculiar twinkle as they left theroom. 

"A young gallant of the court!" he muttered. "I have seen that gallantbefore. Well, well, what mad frolic is afoot? Thank the stars, I am notbound, by virtue of my office, to know him. "

The party reached Dover without further adventure. But the inspection ofthe fleet was evidently an invention for the benefit of the mayor. Instead of troubling themselves about the fleet, they entered a vesselthat seemed awaiting them, and on whose deck they were joined by twocompanions. In a very short time they were out of harbor and off with afresh wind across the Channel. Mainwaring had been wrong, --was theferryman right?--was a duel the purpose of this flight in disguise?

No; the travellers made no halt at Boulogne, the favoriteduelling-ground of English hot-bloods, but pushed off in haste forMontreuil, and thence rode straight to Paris, which they reached after atwo-days' journey. 

It seemed an odd freak, this ride in disguise for the mere purpose of avisit to Paris. But there was nothing to indicate that the two young menhad any other object as they strolled carelessly during the next dayabout the French capital, known to none there, and enjoying themselveslike school-boys on a holiday. 

Among the sights which they managed to see were the king, Louis XIII. , and his royal mother, Marie de Medicis. That evening a mask was to berehearsed at the palace, in which the queen and the Princess HenriettaMaria were to take part. On the plea of being strangers in Paris, thetwo young Englishmen managed to obtain admittance to this royalmerrymaking, which they highly enjoyed. As to what they saw, we have apartial record in a subsequent letter from one of them. 

"There danced, " says this epistle, "the queen and madame, with as manyas made up nineteen fair dancing ladies; amongst which the queen is thehandsomest, which hath wrought in me a greater desire to see hersister. "

This sister was then at Madrid, for the queen of France was a daughterof Philip III. Of Spain. And, as if Spain was the true destination ofthe travellers, and to see the French queen's sister their object, atthe early hour of three the next morning they were up and on horseback, riding out of Paris on the road to Bayonne. Away they went, pressingonward at speed, he whom we as yet know only as Tom Smith taking thelead, and pushing forward with such youthful eagerness that even theseasoned Buckingham looked the worse for wear before they reached theborders of Spain. 

Who was this eager errant knight? All London by this time knew, and itis time that we should learn. Indeed, while the youthful wayfarers werespeeding away on their mad and merry ride, the privy councillors ofEngland were on their knees before King James, half beside themselveswith apprehension, saying that Prince Charles had disappeared, that therumor was that he had gone to Spain, and begging to know if this wildrumor were true. 

"There is no doubt of it, " said the king. "But what of that? His father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather all went into foreigncountries to fetch home their wives, --why not the prince, my son?"

"England may learn why, " was the answer of the alarmed councillors, andafter them of the disturbed country. "The king of Spain is not to betrusted with such a royal morsel. Suppose he seizes the heir toEngland's throne, and holds him as hostage! The boy is mad, and the kingin his dotage to permit so wild a thing. " Such was the scope of generalcomment on the prince's escapade. 

While England fumed, and King James had begun to fret in chorus with thecountry, his "sweet boys and dear venturous knights, worthy to be put ina new romanso, " as he had remarked on first learning of their flight, were making their way at utmost horse-speed across France. A few milesbeyond Bayonne they met a messenger from the Earl of Bristol, ambassadorat Madrid, bearing despatches to England. They stopped him, opened hispapers, and sought to read them, but found the bulk of them written in acipher beyond their powers to solve. Baffled in this, they bade Gresley, the messenger, to return with them as far as Irun, as they wished him tobear to the king a letter written on Spanish soil. 

No great distance farther brought them to the small river Bidassoa, theRubicon of their journey. It formed the boundary between France andSpain. On reaching its southern bank they stood on the soil of the landof the dons, and the truant prince danced for joy, filled with delightat the success of his runaway prank. Gresley afterwards reported inEngland that Buckingham looked worn from his long ride, but that he hadnever seen Prince Charles so merry. 

Onward through this new kingdom went the youthful scapegraces, over thehills and plains of Spain, their hearts beating with merrymusic, --Buckingham gay from his native spirit of adventure, Charleseager to see in knight-errant fashion the charming infanta of Spain, ofwhom he had seen, as yet, only the "counterfeit presentment, " and a viewof whom in person was the real object of his journey. So ardent were thetwo young men that they far outrode their companions, and at eighto'clock in the evening of March 7, seventeen days after they had leftBuckingham's villa at Newhall, the truant pair were knocking briskly atthe door of the Earl of Bristol at Madrid. 

Wilder and more perilous escapade had rarely been adventured. The kinghad let them go with fear and trembling. Weak-willed monarch as he was, he could not resist Buckingham's persuasions, though he dreaded theresult. The uncertain temper of Philip of Spain was well-known, thepreliminaries of the marriage which had been designed between Charlesand the infanta were far from settled, the political relations betweenEngland and Spain were not of the most pacific, and it was within thebounds of probability that Philip might seize and hold the heir ofEngland. It would give him a vast advantage over the sister realm, andprofit had been known to outweigh honor in the minds of potentates. 

Heedless of all this, sure that his appearance would dispel the cloudsthat hung over the marriage compact and shed the sunshine of peace andunion over the two kingdoms, giddy with the hopefulness of youth, andinfected with Buckingham's love of gallantry and adventure, Charlesreached Madrid without a thought of peril, wild to see the infanta inhis new rôle of knight-errant, and to decide for himself whether thebeauty and accomplishments for which she was famed were as patent to hiseye as to the voice of common report, and such as made her worthy thelove of a prince of high degree. 

Such was the mood and such the hopes with which the romantic princeknocked at Lord Bristol's door. But such was not the feeling with whichthe practised diplomat received his visitors. He saw at a glance thelake of possible mischief before him; yet he was versed in the art ofkeeping his countenance serene, and received his guests as cordially asif they had called on him in his London mansion. 

Bristol would have kept the coming of the prince to himself, if it hadbeen possible. But the utmost he could hope was to keep the secret forthat night, and even in this he failed. Count Gondomar, a Spanishdiplomat, called on him, saw his visitors, and while affecting ignorancewas not for an instant deceived. On leaving Bristol's house he at oncehurried to the royal palace, and, filled with his weighty tidings, burstupon Count Olivares, the king's favorite, at supper. Gondomar's face wasbeaming. Olivares looked at him in surprise. 

"What brings you so late?" he asked. "One would think that you had gotthe king of England in Madrid. "

"If I have not got the king, " replied Gondomar, "at least I have got theprince. You cannot ask a rarer prize. "

Olivares sat stupefied at the astounding news. As soon as he could findwords he congratulated Gondomar on his important tidings and quicklyhastened to find the king, who was in his bed-chamber, and whom heastonished with the tale he had to tell. 

The monarch and his astute minister earnestly discussed the subject inall its bearings. On one point they felt sure. The coming of Charles toSpain was evidence to them that he intended to change his religion andembrace the Catholic faith. He would never have ventured otherwise. But, to "make assurance doubly sure, " Philip turned to a crucifix which stoodat the head of his bed, and swore on it that the coming of the Prince ofWales should not induce him to take a step in the marriage not favoredby the pope, even if it should involve the loss of his kingdom. 

"As to what is temporal and mine, " he said, to Olivares, "see that allhis wishes are gratified, in consideration of the obligation under whichhe has placed us by coming here. "

Meanwhile, Bristol spent the night in the false belief that the secretwas still his own. He summoned Gondomar in the morning, told him, with ashow of conferring a favor, of what had occurred, and bade him to tellOlivares that Buckingham had arrived, but to say nothing about theprince. That Gondomar consented need not be said. He had already toldall there was to tell. In the afternoon Buckingham and Olivares had abrief interview in the gardens of the palace. After nightfall theEnglish marquis had the honor of kissing the hand of his CatholicMajesty, Philip IV. Of Spain. He told the king of the arrival of PrinceCharles, much to the seeming surprise of the monarch, who had learnedthe art of keeping his countenance. 

During the next day a mysterious silence was preserved concerning thegreat event, through certain unusual proceedings took place. Philip, with the queen, his sister, the infanta, and his two brothers, drovebackward and forward through the streets of Madrid. In another carriagethe Prince of Wales made a similarly stately progress through the samestreets, the purpose being to yield him a passing glimpse of hisbetrothed and the royal family. The streets were thronged, all eyeswere fixed on the coach containing the strangers, yet silence reigned. The rumor had spread far and wide who those strangers were, but it was asecret, and no one must show that the secret was afoot. Yet, thoughtheir voices were silent, their hearts were full of triumph in thebelief that the future king of England had come with the purpose ofembracing the national faith of Spain. 

At the end of the procession Olivares joined the prince and told himthat his royal master was dying to speak with him, and could scarcelyrestrain himself. An interview was quickly arranged, its locality to bethe coach of the king. Meanwhile, Olivares sought Buckingham. 

"Let us despatch this matter out of hand, " he said, "and strike it upwithout the pope. "

"Very well, " answered Buckingham; "but how is it to be done?"

"The means are very easy, " said Olivares, lightly. "It is but theconversion of the prince, which we cannot conceive but his highnessintended when he resolved upon this journey. "

This belief was a very natural one. The fact of Charles being aProtestant had been the stumbling-block in the way of the match. Adispensation for the marriage of a Catholic princess with the Protestantprince of England had been asked from the pope, but had not yet beengiven. Charles had come to Madrid with the empty hope that his presencewould cut the knot of this difficulty, and win him the princess out ofhand. The authorities and the people, on the contrary, fancied thatnothing less than an intention to turn Catholic could have brought himto Spain. As for the infanta herself, she was an ardent Catholic, andbitterly opposed to being united in marriage to a heretic prince. Suchwas the state of affairs that prevailed. The easy pathway out of thedifficulty which the hopeful prince had devised was likely to prove notquite free from thorns. 

[Illustration: THE ROYAL PALACE, MADRID. ]

The days passed on. Buckingham declared to Olivares that Charles had nothought of becoming a Catholic. Charles avoided the subject, and talkedonly of his love. The Spanish ministers blamed Bristol for hisindecision, and had rooms prepared for the prince in the royal palace. Charles willingly accepted them, and on the 16th of March rode throughthe streets of Madrid, on the right hand of the king, to his new abode. 

The people were now permitted to applaud to their hearts' desire, as nofurther pretence of a secret existed. Glad acclamations attended theprogress of the royal cortége. The people shouted with joy, and all, high and low, sang a song composed for the occasion by Lope de Vega, thefamous dramatist, which told how Charles had come, under the guidance oflove, to the Spanish sky to see his star Maria. 

 "Carlos Estuardo soy Que, siendo amor mi guia, Al cielo d'España voy Por ver mi estrella Maria. "

The palace was decorated with all its ancient splendor, the streetseverywhere showed signs of the public joy, and, as a special mark ofroyal clemency, all prisoners, except those held for heinous crimes, were set at liberty, among them numerous English galley-slaves, who hadbeen captured in pirate vessels preying upon Spanish commerce. 

Yet all this merrymaking and clemency, and all the negotiations whichproceeded in the precincts of the palace, did not expedite the questionat issue. Charles had no thought of becoming a Catholic. Philip hadlittle thought of permitting a marriage under any other conditions. Theinfanta hated the idea of the sacrifice, as she considered it. Theauthorities at Rome refused the dispensation. The wheels of the wholebusiness seemed firmly blocked. 

Meanwhile, Charles had seen the infanta again, somewhat more closelythan in a passing glance from a carriage, and though no words had passedbetween them, her charms of face strongly attracted his susceptibleheart. He was convinced that he deeply loved her, and he ardentlypressed for a closer interview. This Spanish etiquette hindered, and itwas not until April 7, Easter Day, that a personal interview was grantedthe ardent lover. On that day the king, accompanied by a train ofgrandees, led the English prince to the apartments of the queen, who satin state, with the infanta by her side. 

Greeting the queen with proper respect, Charles turned to address thelady of his love. A few ceremonial words had been set down for him toutter, but his English heart broke the bonds of Spanish etiquette, and, forgetting everything but his passion, he began to address the princessin ardent words of his own choice. He had not gone far before there wasa sensation. The persons present began to whisper. The queen looked withangry eyes on the presuming lover. The infanta was evidently annoyed. Charles hesitated and stopped short. Something seemed to have gonewrong. The infanta answered his eager words with a few cold, common-place sentences; a sense of constraint and uneasiness appeared tohaunt the apartment; the interview was at an end. English ideas oflove-making had proved much too unconventional for a Spanish court. 

From that day forward the affair dragged on with infinite deliberation, the passion of the prince growing stronger, the aversion of the infantaseemingly increasing, the purpose of the Spanish court to mould theardent lover to its own ends appearing more decided. 

While Charles showed his native disposition by prevarication, Buckinghamshowed his by an impatience that soon led to anger and insolence. Thewearisome slowness of the negotiations ill suited his hasty andarbitrary temper, he quarrelled with members of the State Council, and, in an interview between the prince and the friars, he grew so incensedat the demands made that, in disregard of all the decencies ofetiquette, he sprang from his seat, expressed his contempt for theecclesiastics by insulting gestures, and ended by flinging his hat onthe ground and stamping on it. That conference came to a sudden end. 

As the stay of the prince in Madrid now seemed likely to be protracted, attendants were sent him from England that he might keep up, some showof state. But the Spanish court did not want them, and contrived to maketheir stay so unpleasant and their accommodations so poor, that Charlessoon packed the most of them off home again. 

"I am glad to get away, " said one of these, James Eliot by name, to theprince; "and hope that your Highness will soon leave this pestiferousSpain. It is a dangerous place to alter a man and turn him. I myself ina short time have perceived my own weakness, and am almost turned. "

"What motive had you?" asked Charles. "What have you seen that shouldturn you?"

"Marry, " replied Eliot, "when I was in England, I turned the whole Bibleover to find Purgatory, and because I could not find it there I believedthere was none. But now that I have come to Spain, I have found it here, and that your Highness is in it; whence that you may be released, we, your Highness's servants, who are going to Paradise, will offer unto Godour utmost devotions. "

A purgatory it was, --a purgatory lightened for Charles by love, heplaying the rôle assigned by Dante to Paolo, though the infanta waslittle inclined to imitate Francesca da Rimini. Buckingham fumed andfretted, was insolent to the Spanish ministers, and sought as earnestlyto get Charles out of Madrid as he had done to get him there, and lesssuccessfully. But the love-stricken prince had become impracticable. Hisfancy deepened as the days passed by. Such was the ardor of his passion, that on one day in May he broke headlong through the rigid wall ofSpanish etiquette, by leaping into the garden in which the lady of hislove was walking, and addressing her in words of passion. The startledgirl shrieked and fled, and Charles was with difficulty hindered fromfollowing her. 

Only one end could come of all this. Spain and the pope had the game intheir own hands. Charles had fairly given himself over to them, and hisardent passion for the lady weakened all his powers of resistance. KingJames was a slave to his son, and incapable of refusing him anything. The end of it all was that the English king agreed that all persecutionof Catholics in England should come to an end, without a thought as towhat the parliament might say to this hasty promise, and Charles signedpapers assenting to all the Spanish demands, excepting that he shouldhimself become a Catholic. 

The year wore wearily on till August was reached. England and her kingwere by this time wildly anxious that the prince should return. Yet hehung on with the pitiful indecision that marked his whole life, and itis not unlikely that the incident which induced him to leave Spain atlast was a wager with Bristol, who offered to risk a ring worth onethousand pounds that the prince would spend his Christmas in Madrid. 

It was at length decided that he should return, the 2d of Septemberbeing the day fixed upon for his departure. He and the king enjoyed alast hunt together, lunched under the shadows of the trees, and badeeach other a seemingly loving farewell. Buckingham's good-by was of adifferent character. It took the shape of a violent quarrel withOlivares, the Spanish minister of state. And home again set out thebrace of knights-errant, not now in the simple fashion of Tom and JohnSmith, but with much of the processional display of a royal cortége. Then it was a gay ride of two ardent youths across France and Spain, onefilled with thoughts of love, the other with the spirit of adventure. Now it was a stately, almost a regal, movement, with anger as itssource, disappointment as its companion. Charles had fairly sold himselfto Philip, and yet was returning home without his bride. Buckingham, thenobler nature of the two, had by his petulance and arrogance kepthimself in hot water with the Spanish court. Altogether, the adventurehad not been a success. 

The bride was to follow the prince to England in the spring. But thefarther he got from Madrid the less Charles felt that he wanted her. Hislove, which had grown as he came, diminished as he went. It had thenspread over his fancy like leaves on a tree in spring; now it fell fromhim like leaves from an October tree. It had been largely made up, atthe best, of fancy and vanity, and blown to a white heat by theobstacles which had been thrown in his way. It cooled with every milethat took him from Madrid. 

To the port of Santander moved the princely train. As it entered thattown, the bells were rung and cannon fired in welcoming peals. A fleetlay there, sent to convey him home, one of the ships having agorgeously-decorated cabin for the infanta, --who was not there to occupyit. 

Late in the day as it was, Charles was so eager to leave the detestedsoil of Spain, that he put off in a boat after nightfall for the fleet. It was a movement not without its peril. The wind blew, the tide wasstrong, the rowers proved helpless against its force, and the boat withits precious freight would have been carried out to sea had not one ofthe sailors managed to seize a rope that hung by the side of a shipwhich they were being rapidly swept past. In a few minutes more theEnglish prince was on an English deck. 

For some days the wind kept the fleet at Santander. All was cordialityand festivity between English and Spaniards. Charles concealed hischange of heart. Buckingham repressed his insolence. On the 18th ofSeptember the fleet weighed anchor and left the coast of Spain. On the5th of October Prince Charles landed at Portsmouth, his romanticescapade happily at an end. 

He hurried to London with all speed. But rapidly as he went, the newsof his coming had spread before him. He came without a Spanish bride. The people, who despised the whole business and feared its results, werewild with delight. When Charles landed from the barge in which he hadcrossed the Thames, he found the streets thronged with applaudingpeople, he heard the bells on every side merrily ringing, he heard theenthusiastic people shouting, "Long live the Prince of Wales!" AllLondon was wild with delight. Their wandering prince had been lost andwas found again. 

The day was turned into a holiday. Tables loaded with food and wine wereplaced in the streets by wealthy citizens, that all who wished mightpartake. Prisoners for debt were set at liberty, their debts being paidby persons unknown to them. A cart-load of felons on its way to thegallows at Tyburn was turned back, it happening to cross the prince'spath, and its inmates gained an unlooked-for respite. When night fellthe town blazed out in illumination, candles being set in every window, while bonfires blazed in the streets. In the short distance between St. Paul's and London Bridge flamed more than a hundred piles. Carts ladenwith wood were seized by the populace, the horses taken out and thetorch applied, cart and load together adding their tribute of flame. Never had so sudden and spontaneous an ebullition of joy broken out inLondon streets. The return of the prince was a strikingly differentaffair from that mad ride in disguise a few months before, which spreadsuspicion at every step, and filled England with rage when the storybecame known. 

We have told the story of the prince's adventure; a few words will tellthe end of his love-affair. As for Buckingham, he had left England as amarquis, he came back with the title of duke. King James had thusrewarded him for abetting the folly of his son. The Spanish marriagenever took place. Charles's love had been lost in his journey home. Hebrought scarce a shred of it back to London. The temper of the Englishpeople in regard to the concessions to the Catholics was too outspokenlyhostile to be trifled with. Obstacles arose in the way of the marriage. It was postponed. Difficulties appeared on both sides of the water. Before the year ended all hopes of it were over, and the negotiations atan end. Prince Charles finally took for wife that Princess HenriettaMaria of France whom he and Buckingham had first seen dancing in a royalmasque, during their holiday visit in disguise to Paris. The romance ofhis life was over. The reality was soon to begin. 

_THE TAKING OF PONTEFRACT CASTLE. _

On the top of a lofty hill, with a broad outlook over the counties ofYorkshire, Lincolnshire, and Nottinghamshire, stood Pontefract Castle, astrong work belonging to the English crown, but now in the hands ofCromwell's men, and garrisoned by soldiers of the Parliamentary army. The war, indeed, was at an end, King Charles in prison, and Cromwelllord of the realm, so that further resistance seemed useless. 

But now came a rising in Scotland in favor of the king, and many of theroyalists took heart again, hoping that, while Cromwell was busy withthe Scotch, there would be risings elsewhere. In their view the war wasonce more afoot, and it would be a notable deed to take PontefractCastle from its Puritan garrison and hold it for the king. Such were theinciting causes to the events of which we have now to speak. 

There was a Colonel Morrice, who, as a very young man, had been anofficer in the king's army. He afterwards joined the army of theParliament, where he made friends and did some bold service. Later on, the strict discipline of Cromwell's army offended this versatilegentleman, and he threw up his commission and retired to his estates, where he enjoyed life with much of the Cavalier freedom. 

Among his most intimate friends was the Parliamentary governor ofPontefract Castle, who enjoyed his society so greatly that he wouldoften have him at the castle for a week at a time, they sleepingtogether like brothers. The confiding governor had no suspicion of thetreasonable disposition of his bed-fellow, and, though warned againsthim, would not listen to complaint. 

Morrice was familiar with the project to surprise the fortress, at thehead of which was Sir Marmaduke Langdale, an old officer of the king. Toone of the conspirators he said, --

"Do not trouble yourself about this matter. I will surprise the castlefor you, whenever you think the time ripe for it. "

This gentleman thereupon advised the conspirators to wait, and to trusthim to find means to enter the stronghold. As they had much confidencein him, they agreed to his request, without questioning him too closelyfor the grounds of his assurance. Meanwhile, Morrice went to work. 

"I should counsel you to take great care that you have none but faithfulmen in the garrison, " he said to the governor. "I have reason to suspectthat there are men in this neighborhood who have designs upon thecastle; among them some of your frequent visitors. "

He gave him a list of names, some of them really conspirators, otherssound friends of the Parliament. 

"You need hardly be troubled about these fellows, however, " he said. "Ihave a friend in their counsel, and am sure to be kept posted as totheir plans. And for that matter I can, in short notice, bring you fortyor fifty safe men to strengthen your garrison, should occasion arise. "

He made himself also familiar with the soldiers of the garrison, playingand drinking with them; and when sleeping there would often rise atnight and visit the guards, sometimes inducing the governor, bymisrepresentations, to dismiss a faithful man, and replace him by one inhis own confidence. 

So the affair went on, Morrice laying his plans with much skill andcaution. As it proved, however, the conspirators became impatient toexecute the affair before it was fully ripe. Scotland was in arms; therewere alarms elsewhere in the kingdom; Cromwell was likely to have enoughto occupy him; delay seemed needless. They told the gentleman who hadasked them to wait that he must act at once. He in his turn advisedMorrice, who lost no time in completing his plans. 

On a certain night fixed by him the surprise-party were to be ready withladders, which they must erect in two places against the wall. Morricewould see that safe sentinels were posted at these points. At a signalagreed upon they were to mount the ladders and break into the castle. 

The night came. Morrice was in the castle, where he shared thegovernor's bed. At the hour arranged he rose and sought the walls. Hewas just in time to prevent the failure of the enterprise. Unknown tohim, one of the sentinels had been changed. Those without gave thesignal. One of the sentinels answered it. The surprise-party ran forwardwith both ladders. 

Morrice, a moment afterwards, heard a cry of alarm from the othersentinel, and hasting forward found him running back to call the guard. He looked at him. It was the wrong man! There had been some mistake. 

"What is amiss?" he asked. 

"There are men under the wall, " replied the soldier. "Some villainy isafoot. "

"Oh, come, that cannot be. "

"It is. I saw them. "

"I don't believe you, sirrah, " said Morrice, severely. "You have beenfrightened by a shadow. Come, show me the place. Don't make yourself alaughing-stock for your fellows. "

The sentinel turned and led the way to the top of the wall. He pointeddown. 

"There; do you see?" he asked. 

His words stopped there, for at that instant he found himself clasped bystrong arms, and in a minute more was thrown toppling from the wall. Morrice had got rid of the dangerous sentry. 

By this time the ladders were up, and some of those without had reachedthe top of the wall. They signalled to their friends at a distance, andrushed to the court of guard, whose inmates they speedily mastered, after knocking two or three of them upon the head. The gates were nowthrown open, and a strong body of horse and foot who waited outside rodein. 

The castle was won. Morrice led a party to the governor's chamber, toldhim that "the castle was surprised and himself a prisoner, " and advisedhim to surrender. The worthy governor seized his arms and dealt someblows, but was quickly disarmed, and Pontefract was again a castle ofthe king. 

So ended the first act in this drama. There was a second act to beplayed, in which Cromwell was to take a hand. The garrison was quicklyreinforced by royalists from the surrounding counties; the castle waswell provisioned and its fortifications strengthened; contributions wereraised from neighboring parts; and the marauding excursions of thegarrison soon became so annoying that an earnest appeal was made toCromwell, "that he would make it the business of his army to reducePontefract. "

Just then Cromwell had other business for his army. The Scots were inthe field. He was marching to reduce them. Pontefract must wait. Hesent, however, two or three regiments, which, with aid from thecounties, he deemed would be sufficient for the work. 

Events moved rapidly. Before the Parliamentarian troops underRainsborough reached the castle, Cromwell had met and defeated the armyof Scots, taking, among other prisoners, Sir Marmaduke Langdale, whomthe Parliament threatened to make "an example of their justice. "

The men of Pontefract looked on Sir Marmaduke as their leader. Rainsborough was approaching the castle, but was still at some distance. It was deemed a worthy enterprise to take him prisoner, if possible andhold him as hostage for Sir Marmaduke. Morrice took on himself thisdifficult and dangerous enterprise. 

At nightfall, with a party of twelve picked and choice men, he left thecastle and made his way towards the town which Rainsborough thenoccupied. The whole party knew the roads well, and about daybreakreached the point for which they had aimed, --the common road leadingfrom York. The movement had been shrewdly planned. The guards looked forno enemy from this direction, and carelessly asked the party of strangehorsemen "whence they came. "

The answer was given with studied ease and carelessness. 

"Where is your general?" asked Morrice. "I have a letter for him fromCromwell. "

The guard sent one of their number with the party to show them whereRainsborough might be found, --at the best inn of the town. When theinn-gate was opened in response to their demand, three only of the partyentered. The others rode onward to the bridge at the opposite end of thetown, on the road leading to Pontefract. Here they found a guard ofhorse and foot, with whom they entered into easy conversation. 

"We are waiting for our officer, " they said. "He went in to speak tothe general. Is there anything convenient to drink? We have had a dryride. "

The guards sent for some drink, and, it being now broad day, gave overtheir vigilance, some of the horse-soldiers alighting, while the footmensought their court of guard, fancying that their hour of duty waspassed. 

Meanwhile, tragical work was going on at the inn. Nobody had been awakethere but the man who opened the gate. They asked him where the generallay. He pointed up to the chamber-door, and two of them ascended thestairs, leaving the third to hold the horses and in conversation withthe soldier who had acted as their guide. 

Rainsborough was still in bed, but awakened on their entrance and askedthem who they were and what they wanted. 

"It is yourself we want, " they replied. "You are our prisoner. It is foryou to choose whether you prefer to be killed, or quietly to put on yourclothes, mount a horse which is ready below for you, and go with us toPontefract. "

He looked at them in surprise. They evidently meant what they said;their voices were firm, their arms ready; he rose and dressed quickly. This completed, they led him down-stairs, one of them carrying hissword. 

When they reached the street only one man was to be seen. The soldier ofthe guard had been sent away to order them some breakfast. Theprisoner, seeing one man only where he had looked for a troop, struggled to escape and called loudly for help. 

It was evident that he could not be carried off; the moment wascritical; a few minutes might bring a force that it would be madness toresist; but they had not come thus far and taken this risk for nothing. He would not go; they had no time to force him; only one thing remained:they ran him through with their swords and left him dead upon theground. Then, mounting, they rode in haste for the bridge. 

Those there knew what they were to do. The approach of their comradeswas the signal for action. They immediately drew their weapons andattacked those with whom they had been in pleasant conversation. In abrief time several of the guard were killed and the others in fullflight. The road was clear. The others came up. A minute more and theywere away, in full flight, upon the shortest route to Pontefract, leaving the soldiers of the town in consternation, for the general wassoon found dead, with no one to say how he had been killed. Not a soulhad seen the tragic deed. In due time Morrice and his men reachedPontefract, without harm to horse or man, but lacking the hoped-forprisoner, and having left death and vengeance behind them. 

So far all had gone well with the garrison. Henceforth all promised togo ill. Pontefract was the one place in England that held out againstCromwell, the last stronghold of the king. And its holders had angeredthe great leader of the Ironsides by killing one of his most valuedofficers. Retribution was demanded. General Lambert was sent with astrong force to reduce the castle. 

The works were strong, and not easily to be taken by assault. They mightbe taken by hunger. Lambert soon had the castle surrounded, cooping thegarrison closely within its own precincts. 

Against this they protested, --in the martial manner. Many bold sallieswere made, in which numbers on both sides lost their lives. Lambert soondiscovered that certain persons in the country around were incorrespondence with the garrison, sending them information. Of these hemade short work, according to the military ethics of that day. They wereseized and hanged within sight of the castle, among them being twodivines and some women of note, friends of the besieged. Some might callthis murder. They called it war, --a salutary example. 

Finding themselves closely confined within their walls, their friendsoutside hanged, no hope of relief, starvation their ultimate fate, thegarrison concluded at length that it was about time to treat for termsof peace. All England besides was in the hands of Cromwell and theParliament; there was nothing to be gained by this one fortress holdingout, unless it were the gallows. They therefore offered to deliver upthe castle, if they might have honorable conditions. If not, theysaid, --

"We are still well stocked with provisions, and can hold out for a longtime. If we are assured of pardon we will yield; if not, we are ready todie, and will not sell our lives for less than a good price. "

"I know you for gallant men, " replied Lambert, "and am ready to grantlife and liberty to as many of you as I can. But there are six among youwhose lives I cannot save. I am sorry for this, for they are brave men;but my hands are bound. "

"Who are the six? And what have they done that they should be beyondmercy?"

"They were concerned in the death of Rainsborough. I do not desire theirdeath, but Cromwell is incensed against them. "

He named the six. They were Colonel Morrice, Sir John Digby, and fourothers who had been in the party of twelve. 

"These must be delivered up without conditions, " he continued. "The restof you may return to your homes, and apply to the Parliament for releasefrom all prosecution. In this I will lend you my aid. "

The leaders of the garrison debated this proposal, and after a shorttime returned their answer. 

"We acknowledge your clemency and courtesy, " they said, "and would beglad to accept your terms did they not involve a base desertion of someof our fellows. We cannot do as you say, but will make this offer. Giveus six days, and let these six men do what they can to deliverthemselves, we to have the privilege of assisting them. This much we askfor our honor. "

"Do you agree to surrender the castle and all within it at the end ofthat time?" asked Lambert. 

"We pledge ourselves to that. "

"Then I accept your proposal. Six days' grace shall be allowed you. "

Just what they proposed to do for the release of their proscribedcompanions did not appear. The castle was closely and strongly invested, and these men were neither rats nor birds. How did they hope to escape?

The first day of the six passed and nothing was done. A strong party ofthe garrison had made its appearance two or three times, as if resolvedupon a sally; but each time they retired, apparently not liking theoutlook. On the second day they were bolder. They suddenly appeared at adifferent point from that threatened the day before, and attacked thebesiegers with such spirit as to drive them from their posts, both sideslosing men. In the end the sallying party was driven back, but two ofthe six--Morrice being one--had broken through and made their escape. The other four were forced to retire. 

Two days now passed without a movement on the part of the garrison. Fourof the six men still remained in the castle. The evening of the fourthday came. The gloom of night gathered. Suddenly a strong party from thegarrison emerged from a sally-port and rushed upon the lines of thebesiegers with such fire and energy that they were for a time broken, and two more of the proscribed escaped. The others were driven back. 

The morning of the fifth day dawned. Four days had gone, and four of theproscribed men were free. How were the other two to gain their liberty?The method so far pursued could scarcely be successful again. Thebesiegers would be too heedfully on the alert. Some of the garrison hadlost their lives in aiding the four to escape. It was too dangerous anexperiment to be repeated, with their lives assured them if theyremained in the castle. What was to be done for the safety of the othertwo? The matter was thoroughly debated and a plan devised. 

On the morning of the sixth day the besieged made a great show of joy, calling from the walls that their six friends had gone, and that theywould be ready to surrender the next day. This news was borne toLambert, who did not believe a word of it, the escape of the four mennot having been observed. Meanwhile, the garrison proceeded to put ineffect their stratagem. 

The castle was a large one, its rooms many and spacious. Nor was it allin repair. Here and there walls had fallen and not been rebuilt, andabundance of waste stones strewed the ground in these localities. Seeking a place which was least likely to be visited, they walled up thetwo proscribed men, building the wall in such a manner that air couldenter and that they might have some room for movement. Giving them foodenough to last for thirty days, they closed the chamber, and left thetwo men in their tomb-like retreat. 

The sixth day came. The hour fixed arrived. The gates were thrown open. Lambert and his men marched in and took possession of the fortress. Thegarrison was marshalled before him, and a strict search made among themfor the six men, whom he fully expected to find. They were not there. The castle was closely searched. They could not be found. He wascompelled to admit that the garrison had told him the truth, and thatthe six had indeed escaped. 

For this Lambert did not seem in any sense sorry. The men were brave. Their act had been one allowable in war. He was secretly rather gladthat they had escaped, and treated the others courteously, permittingthem to leave the castle with their effects and seek their homes, as hehad promised. And so ended the taking and retaking of Pontefract Castle. 

It was the last stronghold of the king in England, and was not likely tobe used again for that purpose. But to prevent this, Lambert handled itin such fashion that it was left a vast pile of ruins, unfit to harbor agarrison. He then drew off his troops, not having discovered theconcealed men in this proceeding. Ten days passed. Then the two flungdown their wall and emerged among the ruins. They found the castle aplace for bats, uninhabited by man, but lost no time in seeking lesssuspicious quarters. 

Of the six men, Morrice was afterwards taken and executed; the othersremained free. Sir John Digby lived to become a favored member of thecourt of Charles II. As for Sir Marmaduke Langdale, to whoseimprisonment Rainsborough owed his death, he escaped from his prison inNottingham Castle, and made his way beyond the seas, not to return untilEngland again had a king. 

_THE ADVENTURES OF A ROYAL FUGITIVE. _

It was early September of 1651, the year that tolled the knell ofroyalty in England. In all directions from the fatal field of Worcesterpanic-stricken fugitives were flying; in all directions blood-cravingvictors were pursuing. Charles I. Had lost his head for his blindobstinacy, two years before. Charles II. , crowned king by the Scotch, had made a gallant fight for the throne. But Cromwell was his opponent, and Cromwell carried victory on his banners. The young king had invadedEngland, reached Worcester, and there felt the heavy hand of theProtector and his Ironsides. A fierce day's struggle, a defeat, aflight, and kingship in England was at an end while Cromwell lived; thelast scion of royalty was a flying fugitive. 

At six o'clock in the evening of that fatal day, Charles, the boy-king, discrowned by battle, was flying through St. Martin's Gate from a citywhose streets were filled with the bleeding bodies of his latesupporters. Just outside the town he tried to rally his men; but invain, no fight was left in their scared hearts. Nothing remained butflight at panic speed, for the bloodhounds of war were on his track, andif caught by those stern Parliamentarians he might be given the shortshriving of his beheaded father. Away went the despairing prince with afew followers, riding for life, flinging from him as he rode his blueribbon and garter and all his princely ornaments, lest pursuers shouldknow him by these insignia of royalty. On for twelve hours Charles andhis companions galloped at racing speed, onward through the whole nightfollowing that day of blood and woe; and at break of day on September 4they reached Whiteladies, a friendly house of refuge in Severn's fertilevalley. 

The story of the after-adventures of the fugitive prince is so repletewith hair-breadth escapes, disguises, refreshing instances of fidelity, and startling incidents, as to render it one of the most romantic talesto be found in English history. A thousand pounds were set upon hishead, yet none, peasant or peer, proved false to him. He was shelteredalike in cottage and hall; more than a score of people knew of hisroute, yet not a word of betrayal was spoken, not a thought of betrayalwas entertained; and the agents of the Protector vainly scoured thecountry in all directions for the princely fugitive, who found himselfsurrounded by a loyalty worthy a better man, and was at last enabled toleave the country in Cromwell's despite. 

Let us follow the fugitive prince in his flight. Reaching Whiteladies, he found a loyal friend in its proprietor. No sooner was it known in themansion that the field of Worcester had been lost, and that the flyingprince had sought shelter within its walls, than all was haste andexcitement. 

"You must not remain here, " declared Mr. Gifford, one of his companions. "The house is too open. The pursuers will be here within the hour. Measures for your safety must be taken at once. "

"The first of which is disguise, " said Charles. 

His long hair was immediately cut off, his face and hands stained a darkhue, and the coarse and threadbare clothing of a peasant provided totake the place of his rich attire. Thus dressed and disguised, the royalfugitive looked like anything but a king. 

"But your features will betray you, " said the cautious Gifford. "Many ofthese men know your face. You must seek a safer place of refuge. "

Hurried movements followed. The few friends who had accompanied Charlestook to the road again, knowing that their presence would endanger him, and hoping that their flight might lead the bloodhounds of pursuitastray. They gone, the loyal master of Whiteladies sent for certain ofhis employees whom he could trust. These were six brothers namedPenderell, laborers and woodmen in his service, Catholics, and devotedto the royal family. 

"This is the king, " he said to William Penderell; "you must have a careof him, and preserve him as you did me. "

Thick woodland adjoined the mansion of Whiteladies. Into this theyouthful prince was led by Richard Penderell, one of the brothers. Itwas now broad day. Through the forest went the two seeming peasants, toits farther side, where a broad highway ran past. Here, peering throughthe bushes, they saw a troop of horse ride by, evidently not oldsoldiers, more like the militia who made up part of Cromwell's army. 

These countrified warriors looked around them. Should they enter thewoods? Some of the Scottish rogues, mayhap Charles Stuart, their royalleader, himself, might be there in hiding. But it had begun to rain, andby good fortune the shower poured down in torrents upon the woodland, while little rain fell upon the heath beyond. To the countrymen, who hadbut begun to learn the trade of soldiers, the certainty of a dry skinwas better than the forlorn chance of a flying prince. They rode rapidlyon to escape a drenching, much to the relief of the lurking observers. 

"The rogues are hunting me close, " said the prince, "and by our Lady, this waterfall isn't of the pleasantest. Let us get back into the thickof the woods. "

Penderell led the way to a dense glade, where he spread a blanket whichhe had brought with him under one of the most thick-leaved trees, toprotect the prince from the soaked ground. Hither his sister, Mrs. Yates, brought a supply of food, consisting of bread, butter, eggs, andmilk. Charles looked at her with grateful eyes. 

"My good woman, " he said, "can you be faithful to a distressedcavalier?"

"I will die sooner than betray you, " was her devoted answer. 

Charles ate his rustic meal with a more hopeful heart than he had hadsince leaving Worcester's field. The loyal devotion of these humblefriends cheered him up greatly. 

As night came on the rain ceased. No sooner had darkness settled uponthe wood than the prince and his guide started towards the Severn, itbeing his purpose to make his way, if possible, into Wales, in some ofwhose ports a vessel might be found to take him abroad. Their route tookthem past a mill. It was quite dark, yet they could make out the millerby his white clothes, as he sat at the mill-door. The flour-sprinkledfellow heard their footsteps in the darkness, and called out, --

"Who goes there?"

"Neighbors going home, " answered Richard Penderell. 

"If you be neighbors, stand, or I will knock you down, " cried thesuspicious miller, reaching behind the door for his cudgel. 

"Follow me, " said Penderell, quietly, to the prince. "I fancy mastermiller is not alone. "

They ran swiftly along a lane and up a hill, opening a gate at the topof it. The miller followed, yelling out, "Rogues! rogues! Come on, lads;catch these runaways. "

He was joined by several men who came from the mill, and a sharp chasebegan along a deep and dirty lane, Charles and his guide running untilthey were tired out. They had distanced their pursuers; no sound offootsteps could be heard behind them. 

"Let us leap the hedge, and lie behind it to see if they are still onour track, " said the prince. 

This they did, and lay there for half an hour, listening intently forpursuers. Then, as it seemed evident that the miller and his men hadgiven up the chase, they rose and walked on. 

At a village near by lived an honest gentleman named Woolfe, who hadhiding-places in his house for priests. Day was at hand, and travellingdangerous. Penderell proposed to go on and ask shelter from this personfor an English gentleman who dared not travel by day. 

"Go, but look that you do not betray my name, " said the prince. 

Penderell left his royal charge in a field, sheltered under a hedgebeside a great tree, and sought Mr. Woolfe's house, to whose questionshe replied that the person seeking shelter was a fugitive from thebattle of Worcester. 

"Then I cannot harbor him, " was the good man's reply. "It is toodangerous a business. I will not venture my neck for any man, unless itbe the king himself. "

"Then you will for this man, for you have hit the mark; it is the king, "replied the guide, quite forgetting the injunction given him. 

"Bring him, then, in God's name, " said Mr. Woolfe. "I will risk all Ihave to help him. "

Charles was troubled when he heard the story of his loose-tongued guide. But there was no help for it now. The villager must be trusted. Theysought Mr. Woolfe's house by the rear entrance, the prince receiving awarm but anxious welcome from the loyal old gentleman. 

"I am sorry you are here, for the place is perilous, " said the host. "There are two companies of militia in the village who keep a guard onthe ferry, to stop any one from escaping that way. As for myhiding-places, they have all been discovered, and it is not safe to putyou in any of them. I can offer you no shelter but in my barn, where youcan lie behind the corn and hay. "

The prince was grateful even for this sorry shelter, and spent all thatday hidden in the hay, feasting on some cold meat which his host hadgiven him. The next night he set out for Richard Penderell's house, Mr. Woolfe having told him that it was not safe to try the Severn, it beingclosely guarded at all its fords and bridges. On their way they cameagain near the mill. Not caring to be questioned as before by thesuspicious miller, they diverged towards the river. 

"Can you swim?" asked Charles of his guide. 

"Not I; and the river is a scurvy one. "

"I've a mind to try it, " said the prince. "It's a small stream at thebest, and I may help you over. "

They crossed some fields to the river-side, and Charles entered thewater, leaving his attendant on the bank. He waded forward, and soonfound that the water came but little above his waist. 

"Give me your hand, " he said, returning. "There's no danger of drowningin this water. "

Leading his guide, he soon stood on the safe side of that river thepassage of which had given him so many anxious minutes. 

Towards morning they reached the house of a Mr. Whitgrave, a Catholic, whom the prince could trust. Here he found in hiding a Major Careless, afugitive officer from the defeated army. Charles revealed himself to themajor, and held a conference with him, asking him what he had best do. 

"It will be very dangerous for you to stay here; the hue and cry is up, and no place is safe from search, " said the major. "It is not you alonethey are after, but all of our side. There is a great wood near byBoscobel house, but I would not like to venture that, either. The enemywill certainly search there. My advice is that we climb into a great, thick-leaved oak-tree that stands near the woods, but in an open place, where we can see around us. "

"Faith, I like your scheme, major, " said Charles, briskly. "It is thickenough to hide us, you think?"

"Yes; it was lopped a few years ago, and has grown out again very closeand bushy. We will be as safe there as behind a thick-set hedge. "

"So let it be, then, " said the prince. 

Obtaining some food from their host, --bread, cheese, and small beer, enough for the day, --the two fugitives, Charles and Careless, climbedinto what has since been known as the "royal oak, " and remained therethe whole day, looking down in safety on soldiers who were searchingthe wood for royalist fugitives. From time to time, indeed, parties ofsearch passed under the very tree which bore such royal fruit, and theprince and the major heard their chat with no little amusement. 

Charles light-hearted by nature, and a mere boy in years, --he had justpassed twenty-one, --was rising above the heavy sense of depression whichhad hitherto borne him down. His native temperament was beginning todeclare itself, and he and the major, couched like squirrels in theirleafy covert, laughed quietly to themselves at the baffled searchers, while they ate their bread and cheese with fresh appetites. 

When night had fallen they left the tree, and the prince, parting withhis late companion, sought a neighboring house where he was promisedshelter in one of those hiding-places provided for proscribed priests. Here he found Lord Wilmot, one of the officers who had escaped with himfrom the fatal field of Worcester, and who had left him at Whiteladies. 

It is too much to tell in detail all the movements that followed. Thesearch for Prince Charles continued with unrelenting severity. Daily, noble and plebeian officers of the defeated army were seized. Thecountry was being scoured, high and low. Frequently the prince saw theforms or heard the voices of those who sought him diligently. But "WillJones, " the woodman, was not easily to be recognized as Charles Stuart, the prince. He was dressed in the shabbiest of weather-worn suits, hishair cut short to his ears, his face embrowned, his head covered with anold and greasy gray steeple hat, with turned-up brims, his ungloved andstained hands holding for cane a long and crooked thorn-stick. Altogether it was a very unprincely individual who roamed thoseperil-haunted shires of England. 

The two fugitives--Prince Charles and Lord Wilmot--now turned theirsteps towards the seaport of Bristol, hoping there to find means ofpassage to France. Their last place of refuge in Staffordshire was atthe house of Colonel Lane, of Bently, an earnest royalist. Here Charlesdropped his late name, and assumed that of Will Jackson. He threw offhis peasant's garb, put on the livery of a servant, and set off onhorseback with his seeming mistress, Miss Jane Lane, sister of thecolonel, who had suddenly become infected with the desire of visiting acousin at Abbotsleigh, near Bristol. The prince had now become a lady'sgroom, but he proved an awkward one, and had to be taught the duties ofhis office. 

"Will, " said the colonel, as they were about to start, "you must give mysister your hand to help her to mount. "

The new groom gave her the wrong hand. Old Mrs. Lane, mother to thecolonel, who saw the starting, but knew not the secret, turned to herson, saying satirically, --

"What a goodly horseman my daughter has got to ride before her!"

To ride before her it was, for, in the fashion of the day, groom andmistress occupied one horse, the groom in front, the mistress behind. Not two hours had they ridden, before the horse cast a shoe. A road-sidevillage was at hand, and they stopped to have the bare hoof shod. Theseeming groom held the horse's foot, while the smith hammered at thenails. As they did so an amusing conversation took place. 

"What news have you?" asked Charles. 

"None worth the telling, " answered the smith; "nothing has happenedsince the beating of those rogues, the Scots. "

"Have any of the English, that joined hands with the Scots, been taken?"asked Charles. 

"Some of them, they tell me, " answered the smith, hammering sturdily atthe shoe; "but I do not hear that that rogue, Charles Stuart, has beentaken yet. "

"Faith, " answered the prince, "if he should be taken, he deserveshanging more than all the rest, for bringing the Scots upon Englishsoil. "

"You speak well, gossip, and like an honest man, " rejoined the smith, heartily. "And there's your shoe, fit for a week's travel on hardroads. "

And so they parted, the king merrily telling his mistress the joke, whensafely out of reach of the smith's ears. 

There is another amusing story told of this journey. Stopping at a housenear Stratford-upon-Avon, "Will Jackson" was sent to the kitchen, asthe groom's place. Here he found a buxom cook-maid, engaged in preparingsupper. 

"Wind up the jack for me, " said the maid to her supposed fellow-servant. 

Charles, nothing loath, proceeded to do so. But he knew much less abouthandling a jack than a sword, and awkwardly wound it up the wrong way. The cook looked at him scornfully, and broke out in angry tones, --

"What countrymen are you, that you know not how to wind up a jack?"

Charles answered her contritely, repressing the merry twinkle in hiseye. 

"I am a poor tenant's son of Colonel Lane, in Staffordshire, " he said;"we seldom have roast meat, and when we have, we don't make use of ajack. "

"That's not saying much for your Staffordshire cooks, and less for yourlarders, " replied the maid, with a head-toss of superiority. 

The house where this took place still stands, with the old jack hangingbeside the fireplace; and those who have seen it of late years do notwonder that Charles was puzzled how to wind it up. It might puzzle awiser man. 

There is another story in which the prince played his part as a kitchenservant. It is said that the soldiers got so close upon his track thatthey sought the house in which he was, not leaving a room in itunvisited. Finally they made their way to the kitchen, where was the manthey sought, with a servant-maid who knew him. Charles looked around innervous fear. His pursuers had never been so near him. Doubtless, forthe moment, he gave up the game as lost. But the loyal cook was mistressof the situation. She struck her seeming fellow-servant a smart rap withthe basting-ladle, and called out, shrewishly, --

[Illustration: SCENE ON THE RIVER AVON. ]

"Now, then, go on with thy work; what art thou looking about for?"

The soldiers laughed as Charles sprang up with a sheepish aspect, andthey turned away without a thought that in this servant lad lay hiddenthe prince they sought. 

On September 13, ten days after the battle, Miss Lane and her groomreached Abbotsleigh, where they took refuge at the house of Mr. Norton, Colonel Lane's cousin. To the great regret of the fugitive, he learnedhere that there was no vessel in the port of Bristol that would servehis purpose of flight. He remained in the house for four days, under hisguise of a servant, but was given a chamber of his own, on pretence ofindisposition. He was just well of an ague, said his mistress. He was, indeed, somewhat worn out with fatigue and anxiety, though of adisposition that would not long let him endure hunger or loneliness. 

In fact, on the very morning after his arrival he made an earlytoilette, and went to the buttery-hatch for his breakfast. Here wereseveral servants, Pope, the butler, among them. Bread and butter seemsto have been the staple of the morning meal, though the butler made itmore palatable by a liberal addition of ale and sack. As they ate theywere entertained by a minute account of the battle of Worcester, givenby a country fellow who sat beside Charles at table, and whom heconcluded, from the accuracy of his description, to have been one ofCromwell's soldiers. 

Charles asked him how he came to know so well what took place, and wastold in reply that he had been in the king's regiment. On beingquestioned more closely, it proved that he had really been in Charles'sown regiment of guards. 

"What kind of man was he you call the king?" asked Charles, with anassumed air of curiosity. 

The fellow replied with an accurate description of the dress worn by theprince during the battle, and of the horse he rode. He looked at Charleson concluding. 

"He was at least three fingers taller than you, " he said. 

The buttery was growing too hot for Will Jackson. What if, in anotherlook, this fellow should get a nearer glimpse at the truth? Thedisguised prince made a hasty excuse for leaving the place, being, as hesays, "more afraid when I knew he was one of our own soldiers, than whenI took him for one of the enemy's. "

This alarm was soon followed by a greater one. One of his companionscame to him in a state of intense affright. 

"What shall we do?" he cried. "I am afraid Pope, the butler, knows you. He has said very positively to me that it is you, but I have denied it. "

"We are in a dangerous strait, indeed, " said Charles. "There is nothingfor it, as I see, but to trust the man with our secret. Boldness, incases like this, is better than distrust. Send Pope to me. "

The butler was accordingly sent, and Charles, with a flattering show ofcandor, told him who he was, and requested his silence and aid. He hadtaken the right course, as it proved. Pope was of loyal blood. He couldnot have found a more intelligent and devoted adherent than the butlershowed himself during the remainder of his stay in that house. 

But the attentions shown the prince were compromising, in considerationof his disguise as a groom; suspicions were likely to be aroused, and itwas felt necessary that he should seek a new asylum. One was found atTrent House, in the same county, the residence of a fervent royalistnamed Colonel Windham. Charles remained here, and in this vicinity, tillthe 6th of October, seeking in vain the means of escape from one of theneighboring ports. The coast proved to be too closely watched, however;and in the end soldiers began to arrive in the neighborhood, and therumor spread that Colonel Windham's house was suspected. There wasnothing for it but another flight, which, this time, brought him intoWiltshire, where he took refuge at Hele House, the residence of Mr. Hyde. 

Charles himself tells an interesting story of one of his adventureswhile at Trent House. He, with some companions, had ridden to a placecalled Burport, where they were to wait for Lord Wilmot, who had gone toLyme, four miles farther, to look after a possible vessel. As they camenear Burport they saw that the streets were full of red-coats, Cromwell's soldiers, there being a whole regiment in the town. 

"What shall we do?" asked Colonel Windham, greatly startled at thesight. 

"Do? why face it out impudently, go to the best hotel in the place, andtake a room there, " said Charles. "It is the only safe thing to do. Andotherwise we would miss Lord Wilmot, which would be inconvenient to bothof us. "

Windham gave in, and they rode boldly forward to the chief inn of theplace. The yard was filled with soldiers. Charles, as the groom of theparty, alighted, took the horses, and purposely led them in a blunderingway through the midst of the soldiers to the stable. Some of thered-coats angrily cursed him for his rudeness, but he went serenely on, as if soldiers were no more to him than flies. 

Reaching the stable, he took the bridles from the horses, and called tothe hostler to give them some oats. 

"Sure, " said the hostler, peering at him closely, "I know your face. "

This was none too pleasant a greeting for the disguised prince, but heput on a serene countenance, and asked the man whether he had alwayslived at that place. 

"No, " said the hostler. "I was born in Exeter, and was hostler in an innthere near Mr. Potter's, a great merchant of that town. "

"Then you must have seen me at Mr. Potter's, " said Charles. "I livedwith him over a year. "

"That is it, " answered the hostler. "I remember you a boy there. Let usgo drink a pot of beer on it. "

Charles excused himself, saying that he must go look after his master'sdinner, and he lost little time in getting out of that town, lest someone else might have as inconvenient and less doubtful a memory. 

While the prince was flying, his foes were pursuing. The fact that theroyal army was scattered was not enough for the politic mind ofCromwell. Its leader was still at large, somewhere in England; while heremained free all was at risk. Those turbulent Scotch might be againraised. A new Dunbar or Worcester might be fought, with differentfortune. The flying Charles Stuart must be held captive within thecountry, and made prisoner within a fortress as soon as possible. Inconsequence, the coast was sedulously watched to prevent his escape, andthe country widely searched, the houses of known royalists beingparticularly placed under surveillance; a large reward was offered forthe arrest of the fugitive; the party of the Parliament was everywhereon the alert for him; only the good faith and sound judgment of hisfriends kept him from the hands of his foes. 

At Hele House, the fugitive was near the Sussex coast, and his friendshoped that a passage to France might be secured from some of its smallports. They succeeded at length. On October 13, in early morning, theprince, with a few loyal companions, left his last hiding-place. Theytook dogs with them, as if they were off for a hunting excursion to thedowns. 

That night they spent at Hambledon, in Hampshire. Colonel Gunter, one ofthe party, led the way to the house of his brother-in-law, thoughwithout notifying him of his purpose. The master of the house wasabsent, but returned while the party were at supper, and was surprisedto find a group of hilarious guests around his table. Colonel Gunter wasamong them, however, and explained that he had taken the privilege ofkinship to use his house as his own. 

The worthy squire, who loved good cheer and good society, was nothingloath to join this lively company, though in his first surprise to findhis house invaded a round Cavalier oath broke from his lips. To hisastonishment, he was taken to task for this by a crop-haired member ofthe company, who reproved him in true Puritan phrase for his profanity. 

"Whom have you here, Gunter?" the squire asked his brother-in-law. "This fellow is not of your sort. I warrant me the canting chap is someround-headed rogue's son. "

"Not a bit of it, " answered the colonel. "He is true Cavalier, though hedoes wear his hair somewhat of the shortest, and likes not oaths. He'sone of us, I promise you. "

"Then here's your health, brother Roundhead!" exclaimed the host, heartily, draining a brimming glass of ale to his unknown guest. 

The prince, before the feast was over, grew gay enough to prove that hewas no Puritan, though he retained sufficient caution in his cups notfurther to arouse his worthy host's suspicions. The next day theyreached a small fishing-village, then known as Brighthelstone, now growninto the great town of Brighton. Here lay the vessel which had beenengaged. The master of the craft, Anthony Tattersall by name, with themerchant who had engaged his vessel, supped with the party at thevillage inn. It was a jovial meal. The prince, glad at the near approachof safety, allowed himself some freedom of speech. Captain Tattersallwatched him closely throughout the meal. After supper he drew hismerchant friend aside, and said to him, --

"You have not dealt fairly with me in this business. You have paid me agood price to carry over that gentleman; I do not complain of that; butyou should have been more open. He is the king, as I very well know. "

"You are very much mistaken, captain, " protested the merchant, nervously. "What has put such nonsense into your pate?"

"I am not mistaken, " persisted the captain. "He took my ship in '48, with other fishing-craft of this port, when he commanded his father'sfleet. I know his face too well to be deceived. But don't be troubled atthat; I think I do my God and my country good service in preserving theking; and by the grace of God, I will venture my life and all for him, and set him safely on shore, if I can, in France. "

Happily for Charles, he had found a friend instead of a foe in thiscritical moment of his adventure. He found another, for the mariner wasnot the only one who knew his face. As he stood by the fire, with hispalm resting on the back of a chair, the inn-keeper came suddenly up andkissed his hand. 

"God bless you wheresoever you go!" he said, fervently. "I do not doubt, before I die, to be a lord, and my wife a lady. "

Charles burst into a hearty laugh at this ambitious remark of his host. He had been twice discovered within the hour, after a month and a halfof impunity. Yet he felt that he could put full trust in these worthymen, and slept soundly that last night on English soil. 

At five o'clock of the next morning, he, with Lord Wilmot, his constantcompanion, went on board the little sixty-ton craft, which lay inShoreham harbor, waiting the tide to put to sea. By daybreak they wereon the waves. The prince was resting in the cabin, when in came CaptainTattersall, kissed his hand, professed devotion to his interests, andsuggested a course for him to pursue. 

His crew, he said, had been shipped for the English port of Poole. Tohead for France might cause suspicion. He advised Charles to representhimself as a merchant who was in debt and afraid of arrest in England, and who wished to reach France to collect money due him at Rouen. If hewould tell this story to the sailors, and gain their good-will, it mightsave future trouble. 

Charles entered freely into this conspiracy, went on deck, talkedaffably with the crew, told them the story concocted by the captain, andsoon had them so fully on his side, that they joined him in begging thecaptain to change his course and land his passengers in France. CaptainTattersall demurred somewhat at this, but soon let himself be convinced, and headed his ship for the Gallic coast. 

The wind was fair, the weather fine. Land was sighted before noon of the16th. At one o'clock the prince and Lord Wilmot were landed at Fécamp, asmall French port. They had distanced the bloodhounds of the Parliament, and were safe on foreign soil. 

_CROMWELL AND THE PARLIAMENT. _

The Parliament of England had defeated and put an end to the king; itremained for Cromwell to put an end to the Parliament. "The Rump, " theremnant of the old Parliament was derisively called. What was left ofthat great body contained little of its honesty and integrity, much ofits pride and incompetency. The members remaining had become infectedwith the wild notion that they were the governing power in England, andinstead of preparing to disband themselves they introduced a bill forthe disbanding of the army. They had not yet learned of what stuffOliver Cromwell was made. 

A bill had been passed, it is true, for the dissolution of theParliament, but in the discussion of how the "New Representative" was tobe chosen it became plainly evident that the members of the Rumpintended to form part of it, without the formality of re-election. Astruggle for power seemed likely to arise between the Parliament and thearmy. It could have but one ending, with a man like Oliver Cromwell atthe head of the latter. The officers demanded that Parliament shouldimmediately dissolve. The members resolutely refused. Cromwell growledhis comments. 

"As for the members of this Parliament, " he said, "the army begins totake them in disgust. "

There was ground for it, he continued, in their selfish greed, theirinterference with law and justice, the scandalous lives of many of themembers, and, above all, their plain intention to keep themselves inpower. 

"There is little to hope for from such men for a settlement of thenation, " he concluded. 

The war with Holland precipitated the result. This war acted as abarometer for the Parliament. It was a naval combat. In the firstmeeting of the two fleets the Dutch were defeated, and the mercury ofParliamentarian pride rose. In the next combat Van Tromp, the veteranDutch admiral, drove Blake with a shattered fleet into the Thames. VanTromp swept the Channel in triumph, with a broom at his mast-head. Thehopes of the members went down to zero. They agreed to disband inNovember. Cromwell promised to reduce the army. But Blake put to seaagain, fought Van Tromp in a four days' running fight, and won thehonors of the combat. Up again went the mercury of Parliamentary hopeand pride. The members determined to continue in power, and not onlyclaimed the right to remain members of the new Parliament, but even torevise the returns of the elected members, and decide for themselves ifthey would have them as fellows. 

The issue was now sharply drawn between army and Parliament. Theofficers met and demanded that Parliament should at once dissolve, andlet the Council of State manage the new elections. A conference was heldbetween officers and members, at Cromwell's house, on April 19, 1653. Itended in nothing. The members were resolute. 

"Our charge, " said Haslerig, arrogantly, "cannot be transferred to anyone. "

The conference adjourned till the next morning, Sir Harry Vane engagingthat no action should be taken till it met again. Yet when it met thenext morning the leading members of Parliament were absent, Vane amongthem. Their absence was suspicious. Were they pushing the bill throughthe House in defiance of the army?

Cromwell was present, --"in plain black clothes, and gray worstedstockings, "--a plain man, but one not safe to trifle with. The officerswaited a while for the members. They did not come. Instead there cameword that they were in their seats in the House, busily debating thebill that was to make them rulers of the nation without consent of thepeople, hurrying it rapidly through its several stages. If left alonethey would soon make it a law. 

Then the man who had hurled Charles I. From his throne lost hispatience. This, in his opinion, had gone far enough. Since it had cometo a question whether a self-elected Parliament, or the army to whichEngland owed her freedom, should hold the balance of power, Cromwell wasnot likely to hesitate. 

"It is contrary to common honesty!" he broke out, angrily. 

Leaving Whitehall, he set out for the House of Parliament, bidding acompany of musketeers to follow him. He entered quietly, leaving hissoldiers outside. The House now contained no more than fifty-threemembers. Sir Harry Vane was addressing this fragment of a Parliamentwith a passionate harangue in favor of the bill. Cromwell sat for sometime in silence, listening to his speech, his only words being to hisneighbor, St. John. 

"I am come to do what grieves me to the heart, " he said. 

Vane pressed the House to waive its usual forms and pass the bill atonce. 

"The time has come, " said Cromwell to Harrison, whom he had beckonedover to him. 

"Think well, " answered Harrison; "it is a dangerous work. "

[Illustration: OLIVER CROMWELL. ]

The man of fate subsided into silence again. A quarter of an hour morepassed. Then the question was put "that this bill do now pass. "

Cromwell rose, took off his hat, and spoke. His words were strong. Beginning with commendation of the Parliament for what it had done forthe public good, he went on to charge the present members with acts ofinjustice, delays of justice, self-interest, and similar faults, histone rising higher as he spoke until it had grown very hot andindignant. 

"Your hour is come; the Lord hath done with you, " he added. 

"It is a strange language, this, " cried one of the members, springing uphastily; "unusual this within the walls of Parliament. And from atrusted servant, too; and one whom we have so highly honored; andone----"

"Come, come, " cried Cromwell, in the tone in which he would havecommanded his army to charge, "we have had enough of this. " He strodefuriously into the middle of the chamber, clapped on his hat, andexclaimed, "I will put an end to your prating. "

He continued speaking hotly and rapidly, "stamping the floor with hisfeet" in his rage, the words rolling from him in a fury. Of these wordswe only know those with which he ended. 

"It is not fit that you should sit here any longer! You should giveplace to better men! You are no Parliament!" came from him in harsh andbroken exclamations. "Call them in, " he said, briefly, to Harrison. 

At the word of command a troop of some thirty musketeers marched intothe chamber. Grim fellows they were, dogs of war, --the men of the Rumpcould not face this argument; it was force arrayed against law, --or whatcalled itself law, --wrong against wrong, for neither army nor Parliamenttruly represented the people, though just then the army seemed its mostrightful representative. 

"I say you are no Parliament!" roared the lord-general, hot with anger. "Some of you are drunkards. " His eye fell on a bottle-loving member. "Some of you are lewd livers; living in open contempt of God'scommandments. " His hot gaze flashed on Henry Marten and Sir PeterWentworth. "Following your own greedy appetites and the devil'scommandments; corrupt, unjust persons, scandalous to the profession ofthe gospel: how can you be a Parliament for God's people? Depart, I say, and let us have done with you. In the name of God--go!"

These words were like bomb-shells exploded in the chamber of Parliament. Such a scene had never before and has never since been seen in the Houseof Commons. The members were all on their feet, some white with terror, some red with indignation. Vane fearlessly faced the irate general. 

"Your action, " he said, hotly, "is against all right and all honor. "

"Ah, Sir Harry Vane, Sir Harry Vane, " retorted Cromwell, bitterly, "youmight have prevented all this; but you are a juggler, and have no commonhonesty. The Lord deliver me from Sir Harry Vane!"

The retort was a just one. Vane had attempted to usurp the government. Cromwell turned to the speaker, who obstinately clung to his seat, declaring that he would not yield it except to force. 

"Fetch him down!" roared the general. 

"Sir, I will lend you a hand, " said Harrison. 

Speaker Lenthall left the chair. One man could not resist an army. Through the door glided, silent as ghosts, the members of Parliament. 

"It is you that have forced me to this, " said Cromwell, with a shade ofregret in his voice. "I have sought the Lord night and day, that Hewould rather slay me than put upon me the doing of this work. "

He had, doubtless; he was a man of deep piety and intense bigotry; butthe Lord's answer, it is to be feared, came out of the depths of his ownconsciousness. Men like Cromwell call upon God, but answer for Himthemselves. 

"What shall be done with this bauble?" said the general, lifting thesacred mace, the sign-manual of government by the representatives of thepeople. "Take it away!" he finished, handing it to a musketeer. 

His flashing eyes followed the retiring members until they all had leftthe House. Then the musketeers filed out, followed by Cromwell andHarrison. The door was locked, and the key and mace carried away byColonel Otley. 

A few hours afterwards the Council of State, the executive committee ofParliament, was similarly dissolved by the lord-general, who, in person, bade its members to depart. 

"We have heard, " cried John Bradshaw, one of its members, "what you havedone this morning at the House, and in some hours all England will hearit. But you mistake, sir, if you think the Parliament dissolved. Nopower on earth can dissolve the Parliament but itself, be sure of that. "

The people did hear it, --and sustained Cromwell in his action. Of thetwo sets of usurpers, the army and a non-representative Parliament, theypreferred the former. 

"We did not hear a dog bark at their going, " said Cromwell, afterwards. 

It was not the first time in history that the army had overturnedrepresentative government. In this case it was not done with the designof establishing a despotism. Cromwell was honest in his purpose ofreforming the administration, and establishing a Parliamentarygovernment. But he had to do with intractable elements. He called aconstituent convention, giving to it the duty of paving the way to aconstitutional Parliament. Instead of this, the convention began thework of reforming the constitution, and proposed such radical changesthat the lord-general grew alarmed. Doubtless his musketeers would havedealt with the convention as they had done with the Rump Parliament, hadit not fallen to pieces through its own dissensions. It handed back toCromwell the power it had received from him. He became the lordprotector of the realm. The revolutionary government had drifted, despite itself, into a despotism. A despotism it was to remain whileCromwell lived. 

_THE RELIEF OF LONDONDERRY. _

Frightful was the state of Londonderry. "No surrender" was the ultimatumof its inhabitants, "blockade and starvation" the threat of thebesiegers; the town was surrounded, the river closed, relief seemedhopeless, life, should the furious besiegers break in, equally hopeless. Far off, in the harbor of Lough Foyle, could be seen the English ships. Thirty vessels lay there, laden with men and provisions, but they wereable to come no nearer. The inhabitants could see them, but the sightonly aggravated their misery. Plenty so near at hand! Death anddestitution in their midst! Frightful, indeed, was their extremity. 

The Foyle, the river leading to the town, was fringed with hostile fortsand batteries, and its channel barricaded. Several boats laden withstone had been sunk in the channel. A row of stakes was driven into thebottom of the stream. A boom was formed of trunks of fir-trees, stronglybound together, and fastened by great cables to the shore. Relief fromthe fleet, with the river thus closed against it, seemed impossible. Yetscarcely two days' supplies were left in the town, and without hastyrelief starvation or massacre seemed the only alternatives. 

Let us relate the occasion of this siege. James II. Had been driven fromEngland, and William of Orange was on the throne. In his effort torecover his kingdom, James sought Ireland, where the Catholic peasantrywere on his side. His appearance was the signal for fifty thousandpeasants to rise in arms, and for the Protestants to fly from peril ofmassacre. They knew their fate should they fall into the hands of thehalf-savage peasants, mad with years of misrule. 

In the north, seven thousand English fugitives fled to Londonderry, andtook shelter behind the weak wall, manned by a few old guns, and withouteven a ditch for defence, which formed the only barrier between them andtheir foes. Around this town gathered twenty-five thousand besiegers, confident of quick success. But the weakness of the battlements wascompensated for by the stoutness of the hearts within. So fierce werethe sallies of the desperate seven thousand, so severe the loss of thebesiegers in their assaults, that the attempt to carry the place bystorm was given up, and a blockade substituted. From April till the endof July this continued, the condition of the besieged daily growingworse, the food-supply daily growing less. Such was the state of affairsat the date with which we are specially concerned. 

Inside the town, at that date, the destitution had grown heart-rending. The fire of the enemy was kept up more briskly than ever, but famine anddisease killed more than cannon-balls. The soldiers of the garrisonwere so weak from privation that they could scarcely stand; yet theyrepelled every attack, and repaired every breach in the walls as fast asmade. The damage done by day was made good at night. For the garrisonthere remained a small supply of grain, which was given out bymouthfuls, and there was besides a considerable store of salted hides, which they gnawed for lack of better food. The stock of animals had beenreduced to nine horses, and these so lean and gaunt that it seemeduseless to kill them for food. 

The townsmen were obliged to feed on dogs and rats, an occasional smallfish caught in the river, and similar sparse supplies. They died byhundreds. Disease aided starvation in carrying them off. The living weretoo few and too weak to bury the dead. Bodies were left unburied, and adeadly and revolting stench filled the air. That there was secretdiscontent and plottings for surrender may well be believed. But no suchfeeling dared display itself openly. Stubborn resolution and vigorousdefiance continued the public tone. "No surrender" was the general cry, even in that extremity of distress. And to this voices added, in tonesof deep significance, "First the horses and hides; then the prisoners;and then each other. "

Such was the state of affairs on July 28, 1689. Two days' very sparserations alone remained for the garrison. At the end of that time allmust end. Yet still in the distance could be seen the masts of theships, holding out an unfulfilled promise of relief; still hope was notquite dead in the hearts of the besieged. Efforts had been made to sendword to the town from the fleet. One swimmer who attempted to pass theboom was drowned. Another was caught and hanged. On the 13th of July aletter from the fleet, sewed up in a cloth button, reached the commanderof the garrison. It was from Kirke, the general in command of the partyof relief, and promised speedy aid. But a fortnight and more had passedsince then, and still the fleet lay inactive in Lough Foyle, nine milesaway, visible from the summit of the Cathedral, yet now tending ratherto aggravate the despair than to sustain the hopes of the besieged. 

The sunset hour of July 28 was reached. Services had been held thatafternoon in the Cathedral, --services in which doubtless the help of Godwas despairingly invoked, since that of man seemed in vain. Theheart-sick people left the doors, and were about to disperse to theirfoodless homes, when a loud cry of hope and gladness came from thelookout in the tower above their heads. 

"They are coming!" was the stirring cry. "The ships are coming up theriver! I can see their sails plainly! Relief is coming!"

How bounded the hearts of those that heard this gladsome cry! Thelisteners dispersed, carrying the glad news to every corner of the town. Others came in hot haste, eager to hear further reports from the lookouttower. The town, lately so quiet and depressed, was suddenly filled withactivity. Hope swelled every heart, new life ran in every vein; thenews was like a draught of wine that gave fresh spirit to the mostdespairing soul. 

And now other tidings came. There was a busy stir in the camp of thebesiegers. They were crowding to the river-banks. As far as the eyecould see, the stream was lined. The daring ships had a gauntlet of fireto run. Their attempt seemed hopeless, indeed. The river was low. Thechannel which they would have to follow ran near the left bank, wherenumerous batteries had been planted. They surely would never succeed. Yet still they came, and still the lookout heralded their movements tothe excited multitude below. 

The leading ship was the Mountjoy, a merchant-vessel laden heavily withprovisions. Its captain was Micaiah Browning, a native of Londonderry. He had long advised such an attempt, but the general in command haddelayed until positive orders came from England that something must bedone. 

On hearing of this, Browning immediately volunteered. He was eager tosuccor his fellow-townsmen. Andrew Douglas, captain of the Phoenix, avessel laden with meal from Scotland, was willing and anxious to join inthe enterprise. As an escort to these two merchantmen came theDartmouth, a thirty-six-gun frigate, its commander John Leake, afterwards an admiral of renown. 

Up the stream they came, the Dartmouth in the lead, returning the fireof the forts with effect, pushing steadily onward, with the merchantmenclosely in the rear. At length the point of peril was reached. The boomextended across the stream, seemingly closing all further passage. Butthat remained to be seen. The Mountjoy took the lead, all its sailsspread, a fresh breeze distending the canvas, and rushed head on at theboom. 

A few minutes of exciting suspense followed, then the great barricadewas struck, strained to its utmost, and, with a rending sound, gave way. So great was the shock that the Mountjoy rebounded and stuck in the mud. A yell of triumph came from the Irish who crowded the banks. They rushedto their boats, eager to board the disabled vessel; but a broadside fromthe Dartmouth sent them back in disordered flight. 

In a minute more the Phoenix, which had followed close, sailed throughthe breach which the Mountjoy had made, and was past the boom. Immediately afterwards the Mountjoy began to move in her bed of mud. Thetide was rising. In a few minutes she was afloat and under way again, safely passing through the barrier of broken stakes and spars. But herbrave commander was no more. A shot from one of the batteries had struckand killed him, when on the very verge of gaining the highest honor thatman could attain, --that of saving his native town from the horrors ofstarvation or massacre. 

While this was going on, the state of feeling of the lean and hungrymultitude within the town was indescribable. Night had fallen before theships reached the boom. The lookout could no longer see and reporttheir movements. Intense was the suspense. Minutes that seemed hourspassed by. Then, in the distance, the flash of guns could be seen. Thesound of artillery came from afar to the ears of the expectant citizens. But the hope which this excited went down when the shout of triumph rosefrom the besiegers as the Mountjoy grounded. It was taken up andrepeated from rank to rank to the very walls of the city, and the heartsof the besieged sank dismally. This cry surely meant failure. Themiserable people grew livid with fear. There was unutterable anguish intheir eyes, as they gazed with despair into one another's pallid faces. 

A half-hour more passed. The suspense continued. Yet the shouts oftriumph had ceased. Did it mean repulse or victory? "Victory! victory!"for now a spectral vision of sails could be seen, drawing near the town. They grew nearer and plainer; dark hulls showed below them; the vesselswere coming! the town was saved!

Wild was the cry of glad greeting that went up from thousands ofthroats, soul-inspiring the cheers that came, softened by distance, backfrom the ships. It was ten o'clock at night. The whole population hadgathered at the quay. In came the ships. Loud and fervent were thecheers and welcoming cries. In a few minutes more the vessels hadtouched the wharves, well-fed sailors and starved townsmen werefraternizing, and the long months of misery and woe were forgotten inthe intense joy of that supreme moment of relief. 

Many hands now made short work. Wasted and weak as were the townsmen, hope gave them strength. A screen of casks filled with earth was rapidlybuilt up to protect the landing-place from the hostile batteries on theother side of the river. Then the unloading began. The eyes of thestarving inhabitants distended with joy as they saw barrel after barrelrolled ashore, until six thousand bushels of meal lay on the wharf. Great cheeses came next, beef-casks, flitches of bacon, kegs of butter, sacks of peas and biscuit, until the quay was piled deep withprovisions. 

One may imagine with what tears of joy the soldiers and people ate theirmidnight repast that night. Not many hours before the ration to each manof the garrison had been half a pound of tallow and three-quarters of apound of salted hide. Now to each was served out three pounds of flour, two pounds of beef, and a pint of peas. There was no sleep for theremainder of the night, either within or without the walls. The bonfiresthat blazed along the whole circuit of the walls told the joy within thetown. The incessant roar of guns told the rage without it. Peals ofbells from the church-towers answered the Irish cannon; shouts oftriumph from the walls silenced the cries of anger from the batteries. It was a conflict of joy and rage. 

Three days more the batteries continued to roar. But on the night ofJuly 31 flames were seen to issue from the Irish camp; on the morning ofAugust 1 a line of scorched and smoking ruins replaced thelately-occupied huts, and along the Foyle went a long column of pikesand standards, marking the retreat of the besieging army. 

The retreat became a rout. The men of Enniskillen charged the retreatingarmy of Newtown Butler, struggling through a bog to fall on double theirnumber, whom they drove in a panic before them. The panic spread throughthe whole army. Horse and foot, they fled. Not until they had reachedDublin, then occupied by King James, did the retreat stop, andconfidence return to the baffled besiegers of Londonderry. 

Thus ended the most memorable siege in the history of the Britishislands. It had lasted one hundred and five days. Of the seven thousandmen of the garrison but about three thousand were left. Of the besiegersprobably more had fallen than the whole number of the garrison. 

To-day Londonderry is in large measure a monument to its great siege. The wall has been carefully preserved, the summit of the rampartsforming a pleasant walk, the bastions being turned into pretty littlegardens. Many of the old culverins, which threw lead-covered bricksamong the Irish ranks, have been preserved, and may still be seen amongthe leaves and flowers. The cathedral is filled with relics andtrophies, and over its altar may be observed the French flag-staffs, taken by the garrison in a desperate sally, the flags they once borelong since reduced to dust. Two anniversaries are still kept, --that ofthe day on which the gates were closed, that of the day on which thesiege was raised, --salutes, processions, banquets, addresses, sermonssignalizing these two great events in the history of a city which passedthrough so frightful a baptism of war, but has ever since been the abodeof peace. 

_THE HUNTING OF BRAEMAR. _

In the great forest of Braemar, in the Highlands of Scotland, wasgathered a large party of hunters, chiefs, and clansmen, all dressed inthe Highland costume, and surrounded by extensive preparations for thecomfort and enjoyment of all concerned. Seldom, indeed, had so manygreat lords been gathered for such an occasion. On the invitation of theEarl of Mar, within whose domain the hunt was to take place, there hadcome together the Marquises of Huntly and Tulliebardine, the Earls ofNithsdale, Marischal, Traquair, Errol, and several others, and numerousviscounts, lords, and chiefs of clans, many of the most important of thenobility and clan leaders of the Highlands being present. 

With these great lords were hosts of clansmen, all attired in thepicturesque dress of the Highlands, and so numerous that the convocationhad the appearance of a small army, the sport of hunting in those daysbeing often practised on a scale of magnificence resembling war. The reddeer of the Highlands were the principal game, and the method of huntingusually employed could not be conducted without the aid of a large bodyof men. Around the broad extent of wild forest land and mountainwilderness, which formed the abiding-place of these animals, a circuitof hunters many miles in extent was formed. This circuit was called the_tinchel_. Upon a given signal, the hunters composing the circle beganto move inwards, rousing the deer from their lairs, and driving thembefore them, with such other animals as the forest might contain. 

Onward moved the hunters, the circle steadily growing less, and theterrified beasts becoming more crowded together, until at length theywere driven down some narrow defile, along whose course the lords andgentlemen had been posted, lying in wait for the coming of the deer, andready to show their marksmanship by shooting such of the bucks as werein season. 

The hunt with which we are at present concerned, however, had otherpurposes than the killing of deer. The latter ostensible objectconcealed more secret designs, and to these we may confine ourattention. It was now near the end of August, 1715. At the beginning ofthat month, the Earl of Mar, in company with General Hamilton andColonel Hay, had embarked at Gravesend, on the Thames, all in disguiseand under assumed names. To keep their secret the better, they had takenpassage on a coal sloop, agreeing to work their way like common seamen;and in this humble guise they continued until Newcastle was reached, where a vessel in which they could proceed with more comfort wasengaged. From this craft they landed at the small port of Elie, on thecoast of Fife, a country then well filled with Jacobites, or adherentsto the cause of the Stuart princes. Such were the mysteriouspreliminary steps towards the hunting-party in the forest of Braemar. 

In truth, the hunt was little more than a pretence. While the clansmenwere out forming the tinchel, the lords were assembled in secretconvocation, in which the Earl of Mar eloquently counselled resistanceto the rule of King George, and the taking of arms in the cause of JamesFrancis Edward, son of the exiled James II. , and, as he argued, the onlytrue heir to the English throne. He told them that he had been promisedabundant aid in men and money from France, and assured them that arising in Scotland would be followed by a general insurrection inEngland against the Hanoverian dynasty. He is said to have shown lettersfrom the Stuart prince, the Chevalier de St. George, as he was called, making the earl his lieutenant-general and commander-in-chief of thearmies of Scotland. 

How many red deer were killed on this occasion no one can say. The nobleguests of Mar had other things to think of than singling out fat bucks. None of them opposed the earl in his arguments, and in the end it wasagreed that all should return home, raise what forces they could by the3d of September, and meet again on that day at Aboyne, in Aberdeenshire, where it would be settled how they were to take the field. 

Thus ended that celebrated hunt of Braemar, which was destined to bringtears and blood to many a household in Scotland, through loyal devotionto a prince who was not worth the sacrifice, and at the bidding of anearl who was considered by many as too versatile in disposition to befully trusted. An anecdote is given in evidence of this opinion. Thecastle of Braemar was, as a result of the hunt, so overflowing withguests, that many of the gentlemen of secondary importance could not beaccommodated with beds, but were forced to spend the night around thekitchen fire, --a necessity then considered no serious matter by thehardy Scotch. But such was not the opinion of all present. An Englishfootman, a domestic of the earl, came pushing among the gentlemen, complaining bitterly at having to sit up all night, and saying thatrather than put up with much of this he would go back to his own countryand turn Whig. As to his Toryism, however, he comforted himself with theidea that he served a lord who was especially skilful in escapingdanger. 

"Let my lord alone, " he said; "if he finds it necessary, he can turncat-in-pan with any man in England. "

While these doings were in progress in the Highlands, the Jacobites wereno less active in the Lowlands, and an event took place in themetropolis of Scotland which showed that the spirit of disaffection hadpenetrated within its walls. This was an attempt to take the castle ofEdinburgh by surprise, --an exploit parallel in its risky and daringcharacter with those told of the Douglas and other bold lords at anearlier period. 

The design of scaling this almost inaccessible stronghold was made by aMr. Arthur, who had been an ensign in the Scots' Guards and quartered inthe castle, and was, therefore, familiar with its interior arrangement. He found means to gain over, by cash and promises, a sergeant and twoprivates, who agreed that, when on duty as sentinels on the walls overthe precipice to the north, they would draw up rope-ladders, and fastenthem by grappling-irons at their top to the battlements of the castle. This done, it would be easy for an armed party to scale the walls andmake themselves masters of the stronghold. Arthur's plan did not endwith the mere capture of the fortress. He had arranged a set of signalswith the Earl of Mar, consisting of a beacon displayed at a fixed pointon the castle walls, three rounds of artillery, and a succession offires flashing the news from hill-top to hill-top. The earl, thusapprised of the success of the adventurers, was to hasten south with allthe force he could bring, and take possession of Edinburgh. 

The scheme was well devised, and might have succeeded but for one ofthose unlucky chances which have defeated so many well-laid plans. Agents in the enterprise could be had in abundance. Fifty Highlanderswere selected, picked men from Lord Drummond's estates in Perthshire. Tothese were added fifty others chosen from the Jacobites of Edinburgh. Drummond, otherwise known as MacGregor, of Bahaldie, was given thecommand. The scheme was one of great moment. Its success would give theEarl of Mar a large supply of money, arms, and ammunition, deposited inthe fortress, and control of the greater part of Scotland, whileaffording a ready means of communication with the English malcontents. 

Unluckily for the conspirators, they had more courage than prudence. Eighteen of the younger men were, on the night fixed, amusing themselveswith drinking in a public-house, and talked with such freedom that thehostess discovered their secret. She told a friend that the partyconsisted of some young gentlemen who were having their hair powdered inorder to go to an attack on the castle. Arthur, the originator of theenterprise, also made what proved to be a dangerous revelation. Heengaged his brother, a doctor, in the scheme. The brother grew sonervous and low-spirited that his wife, seeing that something was amisswith him, gave him no rest until he had revealed the secret. She, perhaps to save her husband, perhaps from Whig proclivities, instantlysent an anonymous letter to Sir Adam Cockburn, lord justice-clerk ofEdinburgh, apprising him of the plot. He at once sent the intelligenceto the castle. His messenger reached there at a late hour, and had muchdifficulty in gaining admittance. When he did so, the deputy-governorsaw fit to doubt the improbable tidings sent him. The only precaution hetook was to direct that the rounds and patrols should be made withgreat care. With this provision for the safety of the castle, he wentto bed, doubtless with the comfortable feeling that he had done all thatcould be expected of a reasonable man in so improbable a case. 

While this was going on, the storming-party had collected at thechurch-yard of the West Kirk, and from there proceeded to the chosenplace at the foot of the castle walls. There had been a serious failure, however, in their preparations. They had with them a part of therope-ladders on which their success depended, but he who was to havebeen there with the remainder--Charles Forbes, an Edinburgh merchant, who had attended to their making--was not present, and they awaited himin vain. 

Without him nothing could be done; but, impatient at the delay, theparty made their way with difficulty up the steep cliff, and at lengthreached the foot of the castle wall. Here they found on duty one of thesentinels whom they had bribed; but he warned them to make haste, sayingthat he was to be relieved at twelve o'clock, and after that hour hecould give them no aid. 

The affair was growing critical. The midnight hour was fast approaching, and Forbes was still absent. Drummond, the leader, had the sentinel todraw up the ladder they had with them and fasten it to the battlements, to see if it were long enough for their purpose. He did so; but itproved to be more than a fathom short. 

[Illustration: EDINBURGH CASTLE. ]

And now happened an event fatal to their enterprise. The informationsent the deputy-governor, and his direction that the patrols should bealert, had the effect of having them make the rounds earlier than usual. They came at half-past eleven instead of at twelve. The sentinel, hearing their approaching steps, had but one thing to do for his ownsafety. He cried out to the party below, with an oath, --

"Here come the rounds I have been telling you of this half-hour; youhave ruined both yourselves and me; I can serve you no longer. "

With these words, he loosened the grappling-irons and flung down theladders, and, with the natural impulse to cover his guilty knowledge ofthe affair, fired his musket, with a loud cry of "Enemies!"

This alarm cry forced the storming-party to fly with all speed. Thepatrol saw them from the wall and fired on them as they scrambledhastily down the rocks. One of them, an old man, Captain McLean, rolleddown the cliff and was much hurt. He was taken prisoner by a party ofthe burgher guard, whom the justice-clerk had sent to patrol the outsideof the walls. They took also three young men, who protested that theywere there by accident, and had nothing to do with the attempt. The restof the party escaped. In their retreat they met Charles Forbes, comingtardily up with the ladders which, a quarter of an hour earlier, mighthave made them masters of the castle, but which were now simply anaggravation. 

It does not seem that any one was punished for this attempt, beyond thetreacherous sergeant, who was tried, found guilty, and hanged, and thedeputy-governor, who was deprived of his office and imprisoned for sometime. No proof could be obtained against any one else. 

As for the conspirators, indeed, it is probable that the most of themfound their way to the army of the Earl of Mar, who was soon afterwardsin the field at the head of some twelve thousand armed men, pronouncinghimself the general of His Majesty James III. , --known to history as the"Old Pretender. "

What followed this outbreak it is not our purpose to describe. It willsuffice to say that Mar was more skilful as a conspirator than as ageneral, that his army was defeated by Argyle at Sheriffmuir, and that, when Prince James landed in December, it was to find his adherentsfugitives and his cause in a desperate state. Perceiving that successwas past hope, he made his way back to France in the following month, the Earl of Mar going with him, and thus, as his English footman hadpredicted, escaping the fate which was dealt out freely to those whom hehad been instrumental in drawing into the outbreak. Many of these paidwith their lives for their participation in the rebellion, but Mar livedto continue his plotting for a number of years afterwards, though itcannot be said that his later plots were more notable for success thanthe one we have described. 

_THE FLIGHT OF PRINCE CHARLES. _

It was early morning on the Hebrides, that crowded group of rockyislands on the west coast of Scotland where fish and anglers much docongregate. From one of these, South Uist by name, a fishing-boat hadput out at an early hour, and was now, with a fresh breeze in its sail, making its way swiftly over the ruffled waters of the Irish Channel. Itsoccupants, in addition to the two watermen who managed it, were threepersons, --two women and a man. To all outward appearance only one ofthese was of any importance. This was a young lady of bright andattractive face, dressed in a plain and serviceable travelling-costume, but evidently of good birth and training. Her companions were a man anda maid-servant, the latter of unusual height for a woman, and with anembrowned and roughened face that indicated exposure to severe hardshipsof life and climate. The man was a thorough Highlander, red-bearded, shock-haired, and of weather-beaten aspect. 

The boat had already made a considerable distance from the shore whenits occupants found themselves in near vicinity to another small craft, which was moving lazily in a line parallel to the island coast. At adistance to right and left other boats were visible. The island watersseemed to be patrolled. As the fishing-boat came near, the craft justmentioned shifted its course and sailed towards it. It was sufficientlynear to show that it contained armed men, one of them in uniform. A hailnow came across the waters. 

"What boat is that? Whom have you on board?"

"A lady; on her way to Skye, " answered the boatman. 

"Up helm, and lay yourself alongside of us. We must see who you are. "

The fishermen obeyed. They had reason to know that, just then, there wasno other course to pursue. In a few minutes the two boats were ridingside by side, lifting and falling lazily on the long Atlantic swell. Thelady looked up at the uniformed personage, who seemed an officer. 

"My name is Flora McDonald, " she said. "These persons are my servants. My father is in command of the McDonalds on South Uist. I have beenvisiting at Clanranald, and am now on my way home. "

"Forgive me, Miss McDonald, " said the officer, courteously; "but ourorders are precise; no one can leave the island without a pass. "

"I know it, " she replied, with dignity, "and have provided myself. Hereis my passport, signed by my father. "

The officer took and ran his eye over it quickly: "Flora McDonald; withtwo servants, Betty Bruce and Malcolm Rae, " he read. His gaze movedrapidly over the occupants of the boat, resting for a moment on thebright and intelligent face of the young lady. 

"This seems all right, Miss McDonald, " he said, respectfully, returningher the paper. "You can pass. Good-by, and a pleasant journey. "

"Many thanks, " she answered. "You should be successful in catching thebird that is seeking to fly from that island. Your net is spread wideenough. "

"I hardly think our bird will get through the meshes, " he answered, laughingly. 

In a few minutes more they were wide asunder. A peculiar smile rested onthe face of the lady, which seemed reflected from the countenances ofher attendants, but not a word was said on the subject of the recentincident. 

Their reticence continued until the rocky shores of the Isle of Skyewere reached, and the boat was put into one of the many inlets thatbreak its irregular contour. Silence, indeed, was maintained until theyhad landed on a rocky shelf, and the boat had pushed off on its returnjourney. Then Flora McDonald spoke. 

"So far we are safe, " she said. "But I confess I was frightfully scaredwhen that patrol-boat stopped us. "

"You did not look so, " said Betty Bruce, in a voice of masculine depth. 

"I did not dare to, " she answered. "If I had looked what I felt, wewould never have passed. But let us continue our journey. We have notime to spare. "

It was a rocky and desolate spot on which they stood, the ruggedrock-shelves which came to the water's edge gradually rising to highhills in the distance. But as they advanced inland the appearance of theisland improved, and signs of human habitation appeared. They had notgone far before the huts of fishermen and others became visible, plantedin little clearings among the rocks, whose inmates looked with eyes ofcuriosity on the strangers. This was particularly the case when theypassed through a small village, at no great distance inland. Of thethree persons, it was the maid-servant, Betty Bruce, that attracted mostattention, her appearance giving rise to some degree of amusement. Norwas this without reason. The woman was so ungainly in appearance, andwalked with so awkward a stride, that the skirts which clung round herheels seemed a decided incumbrance to her progress. Her face, too, presented a roughness that gave hint of possibilities of a beard. Shekept unobtrusively behind her mistress, her peculiar gait set thegoodwives of the village whispering and laughing as they pointed herout. 

For several miles the travellers proceeded, following the generaldirection of the coast, and apparently endeavoring to avoid allcollections of human habitations. Now and then, however, they metpersons in the road, who gazed at them with the same curiosity as thosethey had already passed. 

The scenery before them grew finer as they advanced. Near nightfall theycame near mountainous elevations, abutting on the sea-shore in greatcliffs of columnar basalt, a thousand feet and more in height, overwhich leaped here and there waterfalls of great height and beauty. Theirroute now lay along the base of these cliffs, on the narrow strip ofland between them and the sea. 

Here they paused, just as the sun was shedding its last rays upon thewater. Seating themselves on some protruding boulders, they entered intoconversation, the fair Flora's face presenting an expression of doubtand trouble. 

"I do not like the looks of the people, " she said. "They watch you tooclosely. And we are still in the country of Sir Alexander, a land filledwith our enemies. If you were only a better imitation of a woman. "

"Faith, I fear I'm but an awkward sample, " answered Betty, in a voice ofman-like tone. "I have been doing my best, but----"

"But the lion cannot change his skin, " supplied the lady. "This will notdo. We must take other measures. But our first duty is to find theshelter fixed for to-night. It will not do to tarry here till it growsdark. "

They rose and proceeded, following Malcolm, who acted as guide. Theplace was deserted, and Betty stepped out with a stride of mostunmaidenly length, as if to gain relief from her late restraint. Hermanner now would have revealed the secret to any shrewd observer. Theungainly maid-servant was evidently a man in disguise. 

We cannot follow their journey closely. It will suffice to say that theawkwardness of the assumed Betty gave rise to suspicion on more than oneoccasion in the next day or two. It became evident that, if the secretof the disguised personage was not to be discovered, they must ceasetheir wanderings; some shelter must be provided, and a safer means ofprogress be devised. 

A shelter was obtained, --one that promised security. In the base of thebasaltic cliffs of which we have spoken many caverns had been excavatedby the winter surges of the sea. In one of these, near the village ofPortree, and concealed from too easy observation, the travellers foundrefuge. Food was obtained by Malcolm from the neighboring settlement, and some degree of comfort provided for. Leaving her disguised companionin this shelter, with Malcolm for company, Flora went on. She haddevised a plan of procedure not without risk, but which seemednecessary. It was too perilous to continue as they had done during thefew past days. 

Leaving our travellers thus situated, we will go back in time toconsider the events which led to this journey in disguise. It was nowJuly, the year being 1746. On the 16th of April of the same year afierce battle had been fought on Culloden moor between the English armyunder the Duke of Cumberland and the host of Highlanders led by CharlesEdward Stuart, the "Young Pretender. " Fierce had been the fray, terriblethe bloodshed, fatal the defeat of the Highland clans. Beaten andbroken, they had fled in all directions for safety, hotly pursued bytheir victorious foes. 

Prince Charles had fought bravely on the field; and, after the fataldisaster, had fled--having with him only a few Irish officers whose goodfaith he trusted--to Gortuleg, the residence of Lord Lovat. If he hopedfor shelter there, he found it not. He was overcome with distress; LordLovat, with fear and embarrassment. No aid was to be had from Lovat, and, obtaining some slight refreshment, the prince rode on. 

He obtained his next rest and repast at Invergarry, the castle of thelaird of Glengarry, and continued his journey into the west Highlands, where he found shelter in a village called Glenbeisdale, near where hehad landed on his expedition for the conquest of England. For nearly ayear he had been in Scotland, pursuing a career of mingled success anddefeat, and was now back at his original landing-place, a hopelessfugitive. Here some of the leaders of his late army communicated withhim. They had a thousand men still together, and vowed that they wouldnot give up hope while there were cattle in the Highlands or meal in theLowlands. But Prince Charles refused to deal with such a forlorn hope. He would seek France, he said, and return with a powerfulreinforcement. With this answer he left the mainland, sailing for LongIsland, in the Hebrides, where he hoped to find a French vessel. 

And now dangers, disappointments, and hardships surrounded the fugitive. The rebellion was at an end; retribution was in its full tide. TheHighlands were being scoured, the remnants of the defeated armyscattered or massacred, the adherents of the Pretender seized, andCharles himself was sought for with unremitting activity. The islands inparticular were closely searched, as it was believed that he had fled totheir shelter. His peril was extreme. No vessel was to be had. Storms, contrary winds, various disappointments attended him. He sought onehiding-place after another in Long Island and those adjoining, exposedto severe hardships, and frequently having to fly from one place ofshelter to another. In the end he reached the island of South Uist, where he found a faithful friend in Clanranald, one of his lateadherents. Here he was lodged in a ruined forester's hut, situated nearthe summit of the wild mountain called Corradale. Even this remote andalmost inaccessible shelter grew dangerous. The island was suspected, and a force of not less than two thousand men landed on it, with ordersto search the interior with the closest scrutiny, while smallwar-vessels, cutters, armed boats, and the like surrounded the island, rendering escape by water almost hopeless. It was in this critical stateof affairs that the devotion of a woman came to the rescue of theimperilled Prince. Flora McDonald was visiting the family ofClanranald. She wished to return to her home in Skye. At her suggestionthe chief provided her with the attendants whom we have alreadydescribed, her awkward maid-servant Betty Bruce being no less apersonage than the wandering prince. The daring and devoted lady wasstep-daughter to a chief of Sir Alexander McDonald's clan, who was onthe king's side, and in command of a section of the party of search. From him Flora obtained a passport for herself and two servants, and wasthus enabled to pass in safety through the cordon of investing boats. Noone suspected the humble-looking Betty Bruce as being a flying prince. And so it was that the bird had passed through the net of the fowlers, and found shelter in the island of Skye. 

And now we must return to the fugitives, whom we left concealed in abasaltic cavern on the rocky coast of Skye. The keen-witted Flora haddevised a new and bold plan for the safety of her charge, no less a onethan that of trusting the Lady Margaret McDonald, wife of Sir Alexander, with her dangerous secret. This seemed like penetrating the verystronghold of the foe; but the women of the Highlands had--most ofthem--a secret leaning to Jacobitism, and Flora felt that she couldtrust her high-born relative. 

She did so, telling Lady Margaret her story. The lady heard it withintense alarm. What to do she did not know. She would not betray theprince, but her husband was absent, her house filled with militiaofficers, and shelter within its walls impossible. In this dilemma shesuggested that Flora should conduct the disguised prince to the house ofMcDonald of Kingsburgh, her husband's steward, a brave and intelligentman, in whom she could fully trust. 

Returning to the cavern, the courageous girl did as suggested, and hadthe good fortune to bring her charge through in safety, though more thanonce suspicion was raised. At Kingsburgh the connection of FloraMcDonald with the unfortunate prince ended. Her wit and shrewdness hadsaved him from inevitable capture. He was now out of the immediate rangeof search of his enemies, and must henceforth trust to his own devices. 

From Kingsburgh the fugitive sought the island of Rasa, led by a guidesupplied by McDonald, and wearing the dress of a servant. The laird ofRasa had taken part in the rebellion, and his domain had been plunderedin consequence. Food was scarce, and Charles suffered great distress. Henext followed his seeming master to the land of the laird of MacKinnon, but, finding himself still in peril, felt compelled to leave theislands, and once more landed on the Scottish mainland at Loch Nevis. 

Here his peril was as imminent as it had been at South Uist. It was thecountry of Lochiel, Glengarry, and other Jacobite chiefs, and was filledwith soldiers, diligently seeking the leaders of the insurrection. Charles and his guides found themselves surrounded by foes. A completeline of sentinels, who crossed each other upon their posts, inclosed thedistrict in which he had sought refuge, and escape seemed impossible. The country was rough, bushy, and broken; and he and his companions wereforced to hide in defiles and woodland shelters, where they dared notlight a fire, and from which they could see distant soldiers and hearthe calls of the sentinels. 

For two days they remained thus cooped up, not knowing at what minutethey might be taken, and almost hopeless of escape. Fortunately, theydiscovered a deep and dark ravine that led down from the mountainsthrough the line of sentries. The posts of two of these reached to theedges of the ravine, on opposite sides. Down this gloomy and roughdefile crept noiselessly the fugitives, hearing the tread of thesentinels above their heads as they passed the point of danger. No alarmwas given, and the hostile line was safely passed. Once more thefugitive prince had escaped. 

And now for a considerable time Charles wandered through the roughHighland mountains, his clothes in rags, often without food and shelter, and not daring to kindle a fire; vainly hoping to find a French vesselhovering off the coast, and at length reaching the mountains ofStrathglass. Here he, with Glenaladale, his companion at that time, sought shelter in a cavern, only to find it the lurking-place of a gangof robbers, or rather of outlaws, who had taken part in the rebellion, and were here in hiding. There were seven of these, who lived on sheepand cattle raided in the surrounding country. 

These men looked on the ragged suppliants of their good-will at first asfugitives of their own stamp. But they quickly recognized, in the mosttattered of the wanderers, that "Bonnie Charlie" for whom they hadrisked their lives upon the battle-field, and for whom they still felt apassionate devotion. They hailed his appearance among them withgladness, and expressed themselves as his ardent and faithful servantsin life and death. 

In this den of robbers the unfortunate prince was soon made morecomfortable than he had been since his flight from Culloden. Their faithwas unquestionable, their activity in his service unremitting. Food wasabundant, and, in addition, they volunteered to provide him with decentclothing, and tidings of the movements of the enemy. The first wasaccomplished somewhat ferociously. Two of the outlaws met the servant ofan officer, on his way to Fort Augustus with his master's baggage. Thispoor fellow they killed, and thus provided their guest with a good stockof clothing. Another of them, in disguise, made his way into FortAugustus. Here he learned much about the movements of the troops, and, eager to provide the prince with something choice in the way of food, brought him back a pennyworth of gingerbread, --a valuable luxury to hissimple soul. 

For three weeks Charles remained with these humble but devoted friends. It was not easy to break away from their enthusiastic loyalty. 

"Stay with us, " they said; "the mountains of gold which the governmenthas set upon your head may induce some gentleman to betray you, for hecan go to a distant country and live upon the price of his dishonor. Butto us there exists no such temptation. We can speak no language but ourown, we can live nowhere but in this country, where, were we to injure ahair of your head, the very mountains would fall down to crush us todeath. Do not leave us, then. You will nowhere be so safe as with us. "

This advice was hardly to Charles's taste. He preferred court-life inFrance to cave-life in Scotland, and did not cease his efforts toescape. His purposes were aided by an instance of enthusiastic devotion. A young man named McKenzie, son of an Edinburgh goldsmith, and afugitive officer from the defeated army, happened to resemble the princeclosely in face and person. He was attacked by a party of soldiers, defended himself bravely, and when mortally wounded, cried out, "Ah, villains, you have slain your prince!"

His generous design proved successful. His head was cut off, and sent toLondon as that of the princely fugitive, which it resembled so closelythat it was some time before the mistake was discovered. This errorproved of the utmost advantage to the prince. The search was greatlyrelaxed, and he found it safe to leave the shelter of his cave, andseek some of his late adherents, of whose movements he had been keptinformed. He therefore bade farewell to the faithful outlaws, with theexception of two, who accompanied him as guides and guards. 

Safety was not yet assured. It was with much difficulty, and at greatrisk, that he succeeded in meeting his lurking adherents, Lochiel andCluny McPherson, who were hiding in Badenoch. Here was an extensiveforest, the property of Cluny, extending over the side of a mountain, called Benalder. In a deep thicket of this forest was a well-concealedhut, called the Cage. In this the fugitives took up their residence, andlived there in some degree of comfort and safety, the game of the forestand its waters supplying them with abundant food. 

Word was soon after brought to Charles that two French frigates hadarrived at Lochnanuagh, their purpose being to carry him and otherfugitives to France. The news of their arrival spread rapidly throughthe district, which held many fugitives from Culloden, and on the 20thof September Charles and Lochiel, with nearly one hundred others of hisparty, embarked on these friendly vessels, and set sail for France. Cluny McPherson refused to go. He remained concealed in his own countryfor several years, and served as the agent by which Charles kept up acorrespondence with the Highlanders. 

On September 29 the fugitive prince landed near Morlaix, in Brittany, having been absent from France about fourteen months, five of which hadbeen months of the most perilous and precarious series of escapes andadventures ever recorded of a princely fugitive in history or romance. During these months of flight and concealment several hundred personshad been aware of his movements, but none, high or low, noble or outlaw, had a thought of betraying his secret. Among them all, the devoted FloraMcDonald stands first, and her name has become historically famousthrough her invaluable services to the prince. 

_TRAFALGAR AND THE DEATH OF NELSON. _

From the main peak of the flag-ship Victory hung out Admiral Nelson'sfamous signal, "England expects every man to do his duty!" an inspiringappeal, which has been the motto of English warriors since that day. Thefleet under the command of the great admiral was drawing slowly in uponthe powerful naval array of France, which lay awaiting him off the rockyshore of Cape Trafalgar. It was the morning of October 21, 1805, thedawn of the greatest day in the naval history of Great Britain. 

Let us rapidly trace the events which led up to this scene, --theprologue to the drama about to be played. The year 1805 was one ofthreatening peril to England. Napoleon was then in the ambitious youthof his power, full of dreams of universal empire, his mind set on aninvasion of the pestilent little island across the channel which shouldrival the "Invincible Armada" in power and far surpass it inperformance. 

Gigantic had been his preparations. Holland and Belgium were his, theircoast-line added to that of France. In a hundred harbors all wasactivity, munitions being collected, and flat-bottomed boats built, inreadiness to carry an invading army to England's shores. The landing ofWilliam the Conqueror in 1066 was to be repeated in 1805. The landforces were encamped at Boulogne. Here the armament was to meet. Meanwhile, the allied fleets of France and Spain were to patrol theChannel, one part of them to keep Nelson at bay, the other part toescort the flotilla bearing the invading army. 

While Napoleon was thus busy, his enemies were not idle. The warships ofEngland hovered near the French ports, watching all movements, doingwhat damage they could. Lord Nelson keenly observed the hostile fleet. To throw him off the track, two French naval squadrons set sail for theWest Indies, as if to attack the British islands there. Nelson followed. Suddenly turning, the decoying squadron came back under a press of sail, joined the Spanish fleet, and sailed for England. Nelson had notreturned, but a strong fleet remained, under Sir Robert Calder, whichwas handled in such fashion as to drive the hostile ships back to theharbor of Cadiz. 

Such was the state of affairs when Nelson again reached England. Full ofthe spirit of battle, he hoisted his flag on the battle-ship Victory, and set sail in search of his foes. There were twenty-sevenline-of-battle ships and four frigates under his command. The Frenchfleet, under Admiral Villeneuve, numbered thirty-three sail of the lineand seven frigates. Napoleon, dissatisfied with the disinclination ofhis fleet to meet that of England, and confident in its strength, issued positive orders, and Villeneuve sailed out of the harbor ofCadiz, and took position in two crescent-shaped lines off CapeTrafalgar. As soon as Nelson saw him he came on with the eagerness of alion in sight of its prey, his fleet likewise in two lines, his signalflags fluttering with the inspiring order, "England expects every man todo his duty. "

The wind was from the west, blowing in light breezes; a long, heavyswell ruffled the sea. Down came the great ships, Collingwood, in theRoyal Sovereign, commanding the lee-line; Nelson, in the Victory, leading the weather division. One order Nelson had given, which breathesthe inflexible spirit of the man. "His admirals and captains, knowinghis object to be that of a close and decisive action, would supply anydeficiency of signals, and act accordingly. In case signals cannot beseen or clearly understood, _no captain can do wrong if he places hisship alongside that of an enemy_. "

Nelson wore that day his admiral's frock-coat, bearing on the breastfour stars, the emblems of the orders with which he had been invested. His officers beheld these ornaments with apprehension. There wereriflemen on the French ships. He was offering himself as a mark fortheir aim. Yet none dare suggest that he should remove or cover thestars. "In honor I gained them, and in honor I will die with them, " hehad said on a previous occasion. 

The long swell set in to the bay of Cadiz. The English ships moved withit, all sail set, a light southwest wind filling their canvas. Beforethem lay the French ships, with the morning sun on their sails, presenting a stately and beautiful appearance. 

On came the English fleet, like a flock of giant birds swooping lowacross the ocean. Like a white flock at rest awaited the Frenchthree-deckers. Collingwood's line was the first to come into action, Nelson steering more to the north, that the flight of the enemy toCadiz, in case of their defeat, should be prevented. Straight for thecentre of the foeman's line steered the Royal Sovereign, taking herstation side by side with the Santa Anna, which she engaged at themuzzle of her guns. 

"What would Nelson give to be here!" exclaimed Collingwood, in delight. 

"See how that noble fellow, Collingwood, carries his ship into action!"responded Nelson from the deck of the Victory. 

It was not long before the two fleets were in hot action, the Britishships following Collingwood's lead in coming to close quarters with theenemy. As the Victory approached, the French ships opened withbroadsides upon her, in hopes of disabling her before she could closewith them. Not a shot was returned, though men were falling on her decksuntil fifty lay dead or wounded, and her main-top-mast, with all herstudding-sails and booms, had been shot away. 

[Illustration: THE OLD TEMERAIRE. ]

"This is too warm work, Hardy, to last, " said Nelson, with a smile, as asplinter tore the buckle from the captain's shoe. 

Twelve o'clock came and passed. The Victory was now well in. Firing fromboth sides as she advanced, she ran in side by side with theRedoubtable, of the French fleet, both ships pouring broadsides intoeach other. On the opposite side of the Redoubtable came up the Englishship Temeraire, while another ship of the enemy lay on the opposite sideof the latter. 

The four ships lay head to head and side to side, as close as if theyhad been moored together, the muzzles of their guns almost touching. Soclose were they that the middle-and lower-deck guns of the Victory hadto be depressed and fired with light charges, lest their balls shouldpierce through the foe and injure the Temeraire. And lest theRedoubtable should take fire from the lower-deck guns, whose muzzlestouched her side when they were run out, the fireman of each gun stoodready with a bucket of water to dash into the hole made by the shot. While the starboard guns of the Victory were thus employed, her larboardguns were in full play upon the Bucentaure and the huge SantissimaTrinidad. This warm work was repeated through the entire fleet. Neverhad been closer and hotter action. 

The fight had reached its hottest when there came a tragical event thatrendered the victory at Trafalgar, glorious as it was, a loss toEngland. The Redoubtable, after her first broadside, had closed herlower-deck ports, lest the English should board her through them. Shedid not fire another great gun during the action. But her tops, likethose of her consorts, were filled with riflemen, whose balls swept thedecks of the assailing ships. One of these, fired from the mizzen-top ofthe Redoubtable, not fifteen yards from where Nelson stood, struck himon the left shoulder, piercing the epaulette. It was about quarter afterone, in the heat of the action. He fell upon his face. 

"They have done for me, at last, Hardy, " he said, as his captain ran tohis assistance. 

"I hope not!" cried Hardy. 

"Yes, " he replied, "my backbone is shot through. "

A thorough sailor to the last, he saw, as they were carrying him below, that the tiller ropes which had been shot away were not replaced, andordered that this should be immediately attended to. Then, that he mightnot be seen by the crew, he spread his handkerchief over his face andhis stars. But for his needless risk in revealing them before, he mighthave lived. 

The cockpit was crowded with the wounded and dying men. Over theirbodies he was carried, and laid upon a pallet in the midshipmen's berth. The wound was mortal. A brief examination showed this. He had known itfrom the first, and said to the surgeon, --

"Leave me, and give your services to those for whom there is some hope. You can do nothing for me. "

Such was the fact. All that could be done was to fan him, and relievehis intense thirst with lemonade. On deck the fight continued withundiminished fury. The English star was in the ascendant. Ship aftership of the enemy struck, the cheers of the crew of the Victoryheralding each surrender, while every cheer brought a smile of joy tothe face of the dying veteran. 

"Will no one bring Hardy to me?" he repeatedly cried. "He must bekilled! He is surely dead!"

In truth, the captain dared not leave the deck. More than an hourelapsed before he was able to come down. He grasped in silence the handof the dying admiral. 

"Well, Hardy, how goes the day with us?" asked Nelson, eagerly. 

"Very well, " was the answer. "Ten ships have struck; but five of the vanhave tacked, and show an intention to bear down upon the Victory. I havecalled two or three of our fresh ships around, and have no doubt ofgiving them a drubbing. "

"I hope none of our ships have struck, " said Nelson. 

"There is no fear of that, " answered Hardy. 

Then came a moment's silence, and then Nelson spoke of himself. 

"I am a dead man, Hardy, " he said. "I am going fast; it will be allover with me soon. Come nearer to me. Let my dear Lady Hamilton have myhair and all other things belonging to me. "

"I hope it is not so bad as that, " said Hardy, with much emotion. "Dr. Beatty must yet hold out some hope of life. "

"Oh, no, that is impossible, " said Nelson. "My back is shot through:Beatty will tell you so. "

Captain Hardy grasped his hand again, the tears standing in his eyes, and then hurried on deck to hide the emotion he could scarcely repress. 

Life slowly left the frame of the dying hero: every minute he was nearerdeath. Sensation vanished below his breast. He made the surgeon test andacknowledge this. 

"You know I am gone, " he said. "I know it. I feel something rising in mybreast which tells me so. "

"Is your pain great?" asked Beatty. 

"So great, that I wish I were dead. Yet, " he continued, in lower tones, "one would like to live a little longer, too. "

A few moments of silence passed; then he said in the same low tone, --

"What would become of my poor Lady Hamilton if she knew my situation?"

Fifteen minutes elapsed before Captain Hardy returned. On doing so, hewarmly grasped Nelson's hand, and in tones of joy congratulated him onthe victory which he had come to announce. 

"How many of the enemy are taken, I cannot say, " he remarked; "thesmoke hides them; but we have not less than fourteen or fifteen. "

"That's well, " cried Nelson, "but I bargained for twenty. Anchor, Hardy, anchor!" he commanded, in a stronger voice. 

"Will not Admiral Collingwood take charge of the fleet?" hinted Hardy. 

"Not while I live, Hardy, " answered Nelson, with an effort to lifthimself in his bed. "Do you anchor. "

Hardy started to obey this last order of his beloved commander. In a lowtone Nelson called him back. 

"Don't throw me overboard, Hardy, " he pleaded. "Take me home that I maybe buried by my parents, unless the king shall order otherwise. And takecare of my dear Lady Hamilton, Hardy; take care of poor Lady Hamilton. Kiss me, Hardy. "

The weeping captain knelt and kissed him. 

"Now I am satisfied, " said the dying hero. "Thank God, I have done myduty. "

Hardy stood and looked down, in sad silence upon him, then again kneltand kissed him on the forehead. 

"Who is that?" asked Nelson. 

"It is I, Hardy, " was the reply. 

"God bless you, Hardy, " came in tones just above a whisper. 

Hardy turned and left. He could bear no more. He had looked his last onhis old commander. 

"I wish I had not left the deck, " said Nelson; "for I see I shall soonbe gone. "

It was true; life was fast ebbing. 

"Doctor, " he said to the chaplain, "I have not been a _great_ sinner. "He was silent a moment, and then continued, "Remember that I leave LadyHamilton and my daughter Horatia as a legacy to my country. "

Words now came with difficulty. 

"Thank God, I have done my duty, " he said, repeating these words againand again. They were his last words. He died at half-past four, threeand a quarter hours after he had been wounded. 

Meanwhile, Nelson's prediction had been realized: twenty French shipshad struck their flags. The victory of Trafalgar was complete;Napoleon's hope of invading England was at an end. Nelson, dying, hadsaved his country by destroying the fleet of her foes. Never had a sunset in greater glory than did the life of this hero of the navy of GreatBritain, the ruler of the waves. 

_THE MASSACRE OF AN ARMY. _

The sentinels on the ramparts of Jelalabad, a fortified post held by theBritish in Afghanistan, looking out over the plain that extendednorthward and westward from the town, saw a singular-looking personapproaching. He rode a pony that seemed so jaded with travel that itcould scarcely lift a foot to continue, its head drooping low as itdragged slowly onward. The traveller seemed in as evil plight as hishorse. His head was bent forward upon his breast, the rein had fallenfrom his nerveless grasp, and he swayed in the saddle as if he couldbarely retain his seat. As he came nearer, and lifted his face for amoment, he was seen to be frightfully pale and haggard, with the horrorof an untold tragedy in his bloodshot eyes. Who was he? An Englishman, evidently, perhaps a messenger from the army at Cabul. The officers ofthe fort, notified of his approach, ordered that the gates should beopened. In a short time man and horse were within the walls of the town. 

So pitiable and woe-begone a spectacle none there had ever beheld. Theman seemed almost a corpse on horseback. He had fairly to be lifted fromhis saddle, and borne inward to a place of shelter and repose, while theanimal was scarcely able to make its way to the stable to which it wasled. As the traveller rested, eager questions ran through the garrison. Who was he? How came he in such a condition? What had he to tell of thearmy in the field? Did his coming in this sad plight portend some darkdisaster?

This curiosity was shared by the officer in command of the fort. Givinghis worn-out guest no long time to recover, he plied him with inquiries. 

"You are exhausted, " he said. "I dislike to disturb you, but I beg leaveto ask you a few questions. "

"Go on sir; I can answer, " said the traveller, in a weary tone. 

"Do you bring a message from General Elphinstone, --from the army?"

"I bring no message. There is no army, --or, rather, I am the army, " wasthe enigmatical reply. 

"You the army? I do not understand you. "

"I represent the army. The others are gone, --dead, massacred, prisoners, --man, woman, and child. I, Doctor Brydon, am the army, --allthat remains of it. "

The commander heard him in astonishment and horror. General Elphinstonehad seventeen thousand soldiers and camp-followers in his camp at Cabul. "Did Dr. Brydon mean to say----"

"They are all gone, " was the feeble reply. "I am left; all the othersare slain. You may well look frightened, sir; you would be heart-sickwith horror had you gone through my experience. I have seen an armyslaughtered before my eyes, and am here alone to tell it. "

It was true; the army had vanished; an event had happened almost withoutprecedent in the history of the world, unless we instance the burying ofthe army of Cambyses in the African desert. When Dr. Brydon wassufficiently rested and refreshed he told his story. It is the story wehave here to repeat. 

In the summer of 1841 the British army under General Elphinstone lay incantonments near the city of Cabul, the capital of Afghanistan, in aposition far from safe or well chosen. They were a mile and a half fromthe citadel, --the Bala Hissar, --with a river between. Every corner oftheir cantonments was commanded by hills or Afghan forts. Even theirprovisions were beyond their reach, in case of attack, being stored in afort at some distance from the cantonments. They were in the heart of ahostile population. General Elphinstone, trusting too fully in thepuppet of a khan who had been set up by British bayonets, had carelesslykept his command in a weak and untenable position. 

The general was old and in bad health; by no means the man for theemergency. He was controlled by bad advisers, who thought only ofreturning to India, and discouraged the strengthening of the fortress. The officers lost heart on seeing the supineness of their leader. Themen were weary of incessant watching, annoyed by the insults of thenatives, discouraged by frequent reports of the death of comrades, whohad been picked off by roving enemies. The ladies alone retainedconfidence, occupying themselves in the culture of their gardens, which, in the delightful summer climate of that situation, rewarded theirlabors with an abundance of flowers. 

As time went on the situation grew rapidly worse. Akbar Khan, theleading spirit among the hostile Afghans, came down from the north andoccupied the Khoord Cabul Pass, --the only way back to Hindustan. Ammunition was failing, food was decreasing, the enemy were growingdaily stronger and more aggressive. Affairs had come to such a pass thatbut one of two things remained to do, --to leave the cantonments and seekshelter in the citadel till help should arrive, or to endeavor to marchback to India. 

On the 23d of December the garrison was alarmed by a frightful exampleof boldness and ferocity in the enemy. Sir William Macnaughten, theEnglish envoy, who had left the works to treat with the Afghan chiefs, was seized by Akbar Khan and murdered on the spot, his head, with itsgreen spectacles, being held up in derision to the soldiers within theworks. 

The British were now "advised" by the Afghans to go back to India. Therewas, in truth, nothing else to do. They were starving where they were. If they should fight their way to the citadel, they would be besiegedthere without food. They must go, whatever the risk or hardships. Onthe 6th of January the fatal march began, --a march of four thousand fivehundred soldiers and twelve thousand camp-followers, besides women andchildren, through a mountainous country, filled with savage foes, and insevere winter weather. 

The first day's march took them but five miles from the works, theevacuation taking place so slowly that it was two o'clock in the morningbefore the last of the force came up. It had been a march of frightfulconditions. Attacked by the Afghans on every side, hundreds of thefugitives perished in those first five dreadful miles. As the advancebody waited in the snow for those in the rear to join them, the glare offlames from the burning cantonments told that the evacuation had beencompleted, and that the whole multitude was now at the mercy of itssavage foes. It was evident that they had a frightful gantlet to runthrough the fire of the enemy and the winters chilling winds. The snowthrough which they had slowly toiled was reddened with blood all the wayback to Cabul. Baggage was abandoned, and men and women alike pushedforward for their lives, some of them, in the haste of flight, buthalf-clad, few sufficiently protected from the severe cold. 

The succeeding days were days of massacre and horror. The fiercehill-tribes swarmed around the troops, attacking them in front, flank, and rear, pouring in their fire from every point of vantage, slayingthem in hundreds, in thousands, as they moved hopelessly on. Thedespairing men fought bravely. Many of the foe suffered for theirtemerity. But they were like prairie-wolves around the dying bison; theretreating force lay helpless in their hands; two new foes took theplace of every one that fell. 

Each day's horrors surpassed those of the last. The camp-followers diedin hundreds from cold and starvation, their frost-bitten feet refusingto support them. Crawling in among the rugged rocks that bordered theroad, they lay there helplessly awaiting death. The soldiers fell inhundreds. It grew worse as they entered the contracted mountain-passthrough which their road led. Here the ferocious foe swarmed among therocks, and poured death from the heights upon the helpless fugitives. Itwas impossible to dislodge them. Natural breastworks commanded everyfoot of that terrible road. The hardy Afghan mountaineers climbed withthe agility of goats over the hill-sides, occupying hundreds of pointswhich the soldiers could not reach. It was a carnival of slaughter. Nothing remained for the helpless fugitives but to push forward with allspeed through that frightful mountain-pass and gain as soon as possiblethe open ground beyond. 

Few gained it. On the fourth day from Cabul there were but two hundredand seventy soldiers left. The fifth day found the seventeen thousandfugitives reduced to five thousand. A day more, and these five thousandwere nearly all slain. Only twenty men remained of the great body offugitives which had left Cabul less than a week before. This handful ofsurvivors was still relentlessly pursued. A barrier detained them for adeadly interval under the fire of the foe, and eight of the twenty diedin seeking to cross it. The pass was traversed, but the army was gone. Adozen worn-out fugitives were all that remained alive. 

On they struggled towards Jelalabad, death following them still. Theyreached the last town on their road; but six of them had fallen. Thesesix were starving. They had not tasted food for days. Some peasantsoffered them bread. They devoured it like famished wolves. But as theydid so the inhabitants of the town seized their arms and assailed them. Two of them were cut down. The others fled, but were hotly pursued. Three of the four were overtaken and slain within four miles ofJelalabad. Dr. Brydon alone remained, and gained the fort alone, thesole survivor, as he believed and reported, of the seventeen thousandfugitives. The Afghan chiefs had boasted that they would allow only oneman to live, to warn the British to meddle no more with Afghanistan. Their boast seemed literally fulfilled. Only one man had traversed insafety that "valley of the shadow of death. "

Fortunately, there were more living than Dr. Brydon was aware of. AkbarKhan had offered to save the ladies and children if the married andwounded officers were delivered into his hands. This was done. GeneralElphinstone was among the prisoners, and died in captivity, a relief tohimself and his friends from the severe account to which the governmentwould have been obliged to call him. 

Now for the sequel to this story of suffering and slaughter. Theinvasion of Afghanistan by the English had been for the purpose ofprotecting the Indian frontier. A prince, Shah Soojah, friendly toEngland, was placed on the throne. This prince was repudiated by theAfghan tribes, and to their bitter and savage hostility was due theresult which we have briefly described. It was a result with which theBritish authorities were not likely to remain satisfied. The news of themassacre sent a thrill of horror through the civilized world. Retribution was the sole thought in British circles in India. A strongforce was at once collected to punish the Afghans and rescue theprisoners. Under General Pollock it fought its way through the KhyberPass and reached Jelalabad. Thence it advanced to Cabul, the soldiers, infuriated by the sight of the bleaching skeletons that thickly linedthe roadway, assailing the Afghans with a ferocity equal to their own. Wherever armed Afghans were met death was their portion. Nowhere couldthey stand against the maddened English troops. Filled with terror, theyfled for safety to the mountains, the invading force having terriblyrevenged their slaughtered countrymen. 

It next remained to rescue the prisoners. They had been carried aboutfrom fort to fort, suffering many hardships and discomforts, but notbeing otherwise maltreated. They were given up to the British, after therecapture of Cabul, with the hope that this would satisfy these terribleavengers. It did so. The fortifications of Cabul were destroyed, and theBritish army was withdrawn from the country. England had paid bitterlyfor the mistake of occupying it. The bones of a slaughtered army pavedthe road that led to the Afghan capital. 

_THE ROYAL AND DIAMOND JUBILEES OF QUEEN VICTORIA. _

In the year 1887 came a great occasion in the life of England's queen, that of the fiftieth anniversary of her reign, a year of holiday andfestivity that extended to all quarters of the world, for the broadgirdle of British dominion had during her reign extended to embrace theglobe. India led the way, the rejoicing over the royal jubilee of itsempress extending throughout its vast area, from the snowy passes of theHimalayas on the north to the tropic shores of Cape Comorin on thesouth. Other colonies joined in the festivities, the loyal Canadiansvieing with the free-hearted Australians, the semi-bronzed Africandersand the planters of the West Indies, in the celebration of the joyousanniversary year. 

In the history of England there have been only four such jubilees, theearlier ones being those of Henry III. , Edward III. , and George III. Itis a curious coincidence that of these three sovereigns precedingVictoria whose reigns extended over fifty years, each of them was thethird of his name. Victoria broke the rule in this as well as in thebreadth and splendor of the jubilee display and rejoicings. To show thisa few lines must be devoted to these earlier occasions. 

The reign of Henry III. Was memorable as being that in which trial byjury was introduced and the first real English Parliament, that summonedby Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, was held. It was this thatgives eclat to the jubilee year, 1265, for it was in that year that thefirst Parliament convened. Yet sorrow rather than rejoicing marked theyear, for the horrors of civil war rent the land and the bloody battleof Evesham saddened all loyal souls. 

The jubilee of Edward III. Came in 1376, when that monarch entered thefiftieth year of his reign. This was a year fitted for rejoicing, forthe age was one of glory and prosperity. The horrors of the "blackdeath, " which had swept the land some twenty years before, wereforgotten and men were in a happy mood. We read of tournaments, processions, feasts and pageantry in which all the people participated. Yet sorrow came before the year ended, for the death of the "BlackPrince, " the most brilliant hero of chivalry, was sorely mourned by hisfather, the king, and by the subjects of the realm, while the risingclouds of civil war threw a gloom on the end of the jubilee year, asthey had on that of Henry. 

More than four centuries elapsed before another jubilee year arrived, that of George III. , the fiftieth year of whose reign came in 1810. Itwas a year of festivities that spread widely over the land, the peopleentering into it with all the Anglo-Saxon love of holiday. In additionto the grand state banquets, splendid balls, showy reviews and generalilluminations, there were open-air feasts free to all, at which bullockswere roasted whole, while army and navy deserters were pardoned, prisoners of war set free, and a great subscription was made for therelease from prison of poor debtors. 

Yet there was little in the character of the king or the state of thecountry to justify these festivities. England was then in the throes ofits struggle with Napoleon; the king had lost his reason, the Prince ofWales acting as regent; the only reason for rejoicing was that theinglorious career of George III. Seemed nearing its end. Yet he survivedfor ten years more, not dying until 1820, and surpassing allpredecessors in the length of his reign. 

When, in the year 1887, Queen Victoria reached the fiftieth year of herreign, there were none of these causes for sorrow in her realm. Englandwas in the height of prosperity, free from the results of blightingpestilence, disastrous wars, desolating famine, or any of the horrorsthat steep great nations in heart-breaking sorrow. The empire wasimmense in extent, prosperous in all its parts, and the queen wasbeloved throughout her wide dominions as no monarch of England had everbeen before. Thus it was a year in which the people could rejoicewithout a shadow to darken their joy and with warm love for their queento make their hilarity a real instead of a simulated one. 

It was in far-off India, of which Victoria had been proclaimed empressten years before, that the first note of rejoicing was heard. The 16thof February was selected as the date of the imperial festival, which wascelebrated all over the land, even in Mandalay, the capital of thenewly-conquered state of Upper Burmah. Europeans and natives alike tookpart in the ceremonies and rejoicings, which embraced banquets, plays, reviews, illuminations, the distribution of honors, the opening in honorof the empress of libraries, colleges and hospitals, and at Gwalior thecancelling of the arrears of the land-tax amounting to five milliondollars. 

The fiftieth year of the queen's reign would be completed on the 20th ofJune, but in the preceding months of the year many preliminaryceremonies took place in England. Among these was a splendid receptionof the queen at Birmingham, which city she visited on the 23d of March. The streets were richly decorated with flags, festoons, triumphalarches, banks of flowers, and trophies illustrating the industries ofthat metropolis of manufacture, while the streets were thronged withhalf a million of rejoicing people. A striking feature of the occasionwas a semi-circle of fifteen thousand school-children, a mile long, theteachers standing behind each school-group, and a continuous strain of"God Save the Queen" hailing the royal progress along the line. 

On the 4th of May the queen received at Windsor Castle therepresentatives of the colonial governments, whose addresses showed thatduring her reign the colonial subjects of the empire had increased fromless than 2, 000, 000 to more than 9, 000, 000 souls, the Indian subjectsfrom 96, 000, 000 to 254, 000, 000, and those of minor dependencies from2, 000, 000 to 7, 000, 000. 

There were various other incidents connected with the Jubilee duringMay, one being a visit of the queen to the American "Wild West Show, "and another the opening of the "People's Palace" at Whitechapel, inwhich fifteen thousand troops were ranged along seven miles ofsplendidly decorated streets, while the testimony of the people to theiraffection for their queen was as enthusiastic as it had been atBirmingham. Day after day other ceremonial occasions arrived, includingbanquets, balls, assemblies and public festivities of many kinds, fromthe feeding of four thousand of the poor at Glasgow to a yacht racearound the British Islands. 

The great Jubilee celebration, however, was reserved for the 21st ofJune, the chief streets of London being given over to a host ofdecorators, who transformed them into a glowing bower of beauty. Theroute set aside for the imposing procession was one long array ofbrilliant color and shifting brightness almost impossible to describeand surpassing all former festive demonstrations. 

The line of the royal procession extended from Buckingham Palace toWestminster Abbey, along which route windows and seats had been securedat fabulous prices, while the throng of sightseers that densely crowdedthe streets was in the best of good humor. 

As the procession moved slowly along from Buckingham Palace a strangesilence fell upon the gossipping crowd as they awaited the coming of theaged queen, on her way to the old Abbey to celebrate in state thefiftieth year of her reign. When the head of the procession moved onwardand the royal carriages came within sight, the awed feeling that hadprevailed was followed by one of tumultuous enthusiasm, volley aftervolley of cheers rending the air as the carriage bearing the royal ladypassed between the two dense lines of loyal spectators. 

With a face tremulous with emotion the queen bowed from side to side ingrateful courtesy to her acclaiming subjects, as did her companions, thePrincess of Wales and the German Crown Princess, who had returned to hernative land to take part in its holiday of patriotism. 

Six cream-colored horses drew the stately carriage in which the royalparty rode, the Duke of Cambridge and an escort accompanying it, while abody-guard of princes followed, the Prince of Wales being mounted on agolden chestnut horse and sharing with his mother the cheers of thethrong. Preceding this escort and the queen's carriage was a series ofcarriages in which were seated the sumptuously appareled Indian princes, clothed in cloth of gold and wearing turbans glittering with diamondsand other precious gems. Prominent in the group of mounted princes wasthe German Crown Prince Frederick, who succeeded to the throne asEmperor Frederick III. In the following March and died in the followingJune, in less than a year from his appearance in the Jubilee. But therewas no presage of his quick-coming death in his present appearance, hiswhite uniform and plumed silver helmet attracting general admiration, while he sat his horse as proudly as a knight of old and was coveredwith medals and decorations significant of his prowess in battle. Agorgeous cavalcade of natives of India completed the procession, thanwhich none of greater brilliance had ever been seen in London streets. 

In the Abbey were gathered from nine to ten thousand spectators, of thenoblest families of the land, and dressed in their most effectiveattire, while the lights brought out the glitter of thousands ofgleaming gems. The queen herself, while dressed in rich black, wore abonnet of white Spanish lace that glittered with diamonds. 

[Illustration: WINDSOR CASTLE, NORTH FRONT. ]

As she entered the Abbey the organ pealed forth the strains of atriumphal march. There followed a Jubilee Thanksgiving Service, briefand simple, and special prayers by the Archbishop of Canterbury. As afinale to the impressive scene the queen, moved to deep emotion, embraced with warm affection the princes and princesses of her house, and, with a deep bow to her foreign guests, withdrew from the scene, toreturn to the palace over the same route and through similardemonstrations of enthusiastic loyalty. 

All over England and Ireland and in the colonies the day was celebratedby joyous celebrations, and in foreign lands, especially in the UnitedStates, the British residents fittingly honored the festive occasion. 

On the following day, in Hyde Park, London, the queen drove in statedown a long and happy line of twenty-seven thousand school-children, whohad been made happy by a banquet and various amusements, besides beinggiven a multitude of toys. The special feature of the occasion was thepresentation by the queen of a specially manufactured jubilee-ring, which she gave with a kind speech to a very happy twelve-year-old girlwho had attended school for several years without missing a session. 

There was also a review of fifty-six thousand volunteers at Aldershot, agrand review of one hundred and thirty-five warships at Spithead, andother ceremonies, one of the chief of which was the laying by the queen, on the 4th of July, of the foundation stone of the Imperial Institute inthe Albert Hall, this Institute being intended to stand as a sign of theessential unity of the British Empire. 

The well-loved queen of the British nation was to live to celebrate inhealth and strength another jubilee year, that of the sixtiethanniversary of her reign, a distinction in which she stands alone inthe history of the island kingdom. George III. , who came nearest, died afew months before the completion of his sixty years' period. Had helived to fulfil it there would have been no celebration, for he hadbecome a broken wreck, blind and hopelessly insane, a man who liveddespised and died unmourned. 

But Victoria, though nearly eighty years of age, had still several yearsto live and was fully capable of performing the duties of her position. No monarch of England had reigned so long, none had enjoyed to so greatan extent the love and respect of the people, in no previous reign hadthere been an equal progress in all that conduces to happiness andprosperity, in none had the dominion of the throne of Great Britain sowidely extended, and it was felt for many reasons desirable to make theDiamond Jubilee, as it was termed, the occasion for the most magnificentdemonstration that either England or the world had ever yet seen. 

In all its features the observance lasted a month. It was not confinedto the British Isles, but extended to the dominions of the queenthroughout the world, in all of which some form of festive celebrationtook place. But the chief and great event of the occasion was theunrivalled procession in London on the 22d of June, 1897, an affair inwhich all the world took part, not only representatives of thewide-sweeping possessions of the British crown, but dignitaries frommost of the other nations of the world being present to add grandeurand completeness to the splendid display. 

To describe it in full would need far more space than we have atcommand, and we must confine ourselves to its salient features. It beganat midnight of the 21st, at which hour, under a clear, star-lit sky, thestreets were already thronged with people in patient waiting and thebells of all London in tumultuous peal announced the advent of thejubilee day, while from the vast throng ringing cheers and the singingof "God Save the Queen" hailed the happy occasion. 

When the new day dawned and the auspicious sunlight brightened thescene, the streets devoted to the procession, more than six miles inlength, appeared one vast blaze of color and display of decorations, thejubilee colors, red, white and blue, being everywhere seen, while themedley of wreaths, festoons, banners, colored globes and balloons, pennons, shields, fir and laurel evergreens, and other emblems offestivity, were innumerable and bewildering in their variety. 

The march began at 9. 45, and came as a welcome relief to the vast throngthat for hours had been wearily waiting. Its first contingent was thecolonial military procession, in which representatives of the wholeworld seemed present in distinctive attire. It was a moving picture ofsoldiers from every continent and many of the great isles of the sea, massed in a complex and extraordinary display. 

Chief in command, following a squadron of the Royal Horse Guards, rodeLord Roberts, the famed and popular general, who was hailed with anuproar of shouts of "Hurrah for Bobs!" Close behind him came a troop ofthe Canadian Hussars and the Northwest mounted police, escorting SirWilfred Laurier, the premier of Canada. Premier Reid, of New SouthWales, followed, escorted by the New South Wales Lancers and the MountedRifles, with their gray sombreros and black cocks' plumes. 

In rapid succession, escorting the premiers of the several colonies, came other contingents of troops, each wearing some distinctive uniform, including those of Victoria, New Zealand, Queensland, Cape Colony, SouthAustralia, Newfoundland, Tasmania, Natal and West Australia. Then camemounted troops from many other localities of the British empire, reaching from Hong Kong in the East to Jamaica in the West, and fairlygirdling the globe in their wide variety. 

Among the oddities of this complex multitude we may name the Zaptiehsfrom Cyprus, wearing the Turkish fez and bonnet; the olive-faced BorneoDyaks; the Chinese police from Hong Kong, with saucepan-like hatsshading their yellow faces; the Royal Niger Hausses, with their shavedheads and shining black skins; and other picturesquely attired examplesof the men of varied climes. 

Such was the colonial parade, a marvellous display from the "far-thrown"British realm. It was followed by the home military parade, whichformed a carnival of gorgeous costume and color; scarlet and blue, gold, white and yellow; shining cuirasses and polished helmets, waving plumesand glittering tassels; splendid trappings for horses and more splendidones for men; horse and foot and batteries of artillery; death-dealingweapons of every kind; all marching to the stirring music of richlyaccoutred bands and under treasured banners for which the men in theranks were ready to die. 

Led by Captain Ames, the tallest man in the British army, followed byfour of the tallest troopers of the Life Guards, --a regiment of verytall men--the soldierly procession, as it wound onward under thepropitious sun, seemed like nothing so much as some bright stream ofburnished gold flowing between dark banks of human beings. 

The colonial and military parade having passed, there followed that partof the display to which all this was preliminary, the royal procession, in which her Majesty the Queen was once more to show her venerable formto her assembled people. Preceding the gorgeous chariot of the queen, with its famous eight cream-colored Hanoverian horses, appeared itsmilitary escort, a glittering cavalcade of splendidly uniformedofficers, its chief figures being Lord Wolseley, Commander-in-chief ofthe Army, the Prince of Wales, the Duke of Cambridge, the Duke ofConnaught, the Duke of Westminster, and the Lord Lieutenant of London. 

In the escort were also included foreign military and naval dignitaries, in alphabetical order, beginning with Austria and ending with the UnitedStates, the latter represented by General Nelson A. Miles, in fulluniform and riding a splendid horse. The whole was bewildering in itsvariety. From Germany came a deputation of the First Prussian DragoonGuards, splendid looking soldiers, sent as a special compliment from theKaiser. But most brilliant of all was a group of officers of theImperial Service Troops of India, in the most gorgeous of uniforms. Behind these came in two-horse landaus the special envoys from thevarious American and European nations. 

The escort of princes included the Marquis of Lorne, son-in-law of thequeen, the Duke of York, the Duke of Fife, and among notable foreignprinces, the Grand Duke Servius of Russia, the Crown Prince Dando ofMontenegro, and Mohammed Ali Khan, brother of the Khedive of Egypt, whorode a pure white Arabian charger. 

The hour of eleven had passed when Queen Victoria descended the steps ofthe palace and entered the awaiting carriage, each of whose horses wasled by a "walking man" in the royal livery and a huntsman's black-velvetcap, while the postilions were dressed in scarlet and gold coats, whitetrousers and riding boots, each livery having cost $600. 

Through miles of wildly enthusiastic people the carriage wound, thechief feature of its progress being the formal crossing of the boundaryof ancient London at Temple Bar, where the old ceremony of thesubmission of the city to the sovereign was performed, the Lord Mayorpresenting the hilt of the city sword--"Queen Elizabeth's pearlsword, "--presented by the queen to the corporation during a ceremony in1570. The touching of the hilt by the queen, in acceptance ofsubmission, completed this ceremony, and the carriage rolled on to St. Paul's Cathedral, where a brief service was performed. 

The next stop was at the Mansion House, where the Lord Mayor presentedthe Lord Mayoress and the attendant maids of honor handed the queen abeautiful silver basket filled with gorgeous orchids. The palace wasfinally reached at 1. 45, when a gun in Hyde Park announced that theprocession was over, and the great event had passed into history. Anoutburst of cheers followed this final salute and the vast throng, millions in number, broke and vanished, carrying to their homes vividmemories of the most brilliant affair the great metropolis of London hadever seen. 

THE END.