St. George and St. Michael

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From the darkness, and the cautious rate at which he had to proceed,
holding back the dog who tugged hard at the whip, Richard could not
even hazard a conjecture as to the distance they had advanced, when
he heard the noise of a small runnel of water, which seemed from the
sound to make abrupt descent from some little height. He had gone
but a few paces further when the handle of the whip received a great
upward pull and was left loose in his grasp: the dog was away,
leaving his handkerchief at the end of the thong. So now he had to
guide himself, and began to feel about him. He seemed at first to
have come to the end of the passage, for he could touch both sides
of it by stretching out his arms, and in front a tiny stream of
water came down the face of the rough rock; but what then had become
of Marquis? The answer seemed plain: the water must come from
somewhere, and doubtless its channel had spare room enough for the
dog to pass thither. He felt up the rock, and found that, at about
the height of his head, the water came over an obtuse angle.
Climbing a foot or two, he discovered that the opening whence it
issued was large enough for him to enter.

Only one who has at some time passed where lengthened creeping was
necessary, will know how Richard felt, with water under him,
pitch-darkness about him, and the rock within an inch or two of his
body all round. By and by the slope became steeper and the ascent
more difficult. The air grew very close, and he began to fear he
should be stifled. Then came a hot breath, and a pair of eyes
gleamed a foot or two from his face. Had he then followed into the
den of the animal by which poor Marquis had been so frightfully
torn? But no: it was Marquis himself waiting for him!

'Go on, Marquis,' he said, with a sigh of relief.

The dog obeyed, and in another moment a waft of cool air came in.
Presently a glimmer of light appeared. The opening through which it
entered was a little higher than his horizontally posed head, and
looked alarmingly narrow.

But as he crept nearer it grew wider, and when he came under it he
found it large enough to let him through. When cautiously he poked
up his head, there was the huge mass of the keep towering blank
above him! On a level with his eyes, the broad, lilied waters of the
moat lay betwixt him and the citadel.

Marquis had brought him to the one neglected, therefore forgotten,
and thence undefended spot of the whole building. Before the well
was sunk in the keep, the supply of water to the moat had been far
more bountiful, and provision for a free overflow was necessary. For
some reason, probably for the mere sake of facility in the
construction, the passage for the superfluous water had been made
larger than needful at the end next the moat. About midway to its
outlet, however--a mere drain-mouth in a swampy hollow in the middle
of a field--it had narrowed to a third of the compass. But the
quarriers had cut across it above the point of contraction; and no
danger of access occurring to lord Herbert or Mr. Salisbury, while
they found a certain service in the tiny waterfall, they had left it
as it was.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

RAGLAN STABLES.

The passage for the overflow of the water of the moat was under the
sunk walk which, reaching from the gate of the stone court round to
the gate of the fountain court, enclosed the keep and its moat,
looping them on as it were to the side of the double quadrangle of
the castle. The only way out of this passage, at whose entrance
Richard now found himself, was into the moat. As quietly therefore
as he could, he got through the opening and into the water, amongst
the lilies, where, much impeded by their tangling roots, which
caused him many a submergence, but with a moon in her second quarter
over his head to light him, he swam gently along. As he looked up
from the water, however, to the huge crag-like tower over his head,
the soft moonlight smoothing the rigour but bringing out all the
wasteness of the grim blank, it seemed a hopeless attempt he had
undertaken. Not the less did he keep his eye on the tower-side of
the moat, and had not swum far before he caught sight of the little
stair, which, enclosed in one of the six small round bastions
encircling it, led up from the moat to the walk immediately around
the citadel. The foot of this stair was, strangely enough, one of
the only two points in the defence of the moat not absolutely
commanded from either one or the other of the two gates of the
castle. The top of the stair, however, was visible from one extreme
point over the western gate, and the moment Richard, finding the
small thick iron-studded door open, put his head out of the bastion,
he caught sight of a warder far away, against the moonlit sky. All
of the castle except the spot where that man stood, was hidden by
the near bulk of the keep. He drew back, and sat down on the top of
the stair--to think and let the water run from his clothes. When he
issued, it was again on all-fours. He had, however, only to creep an
inch or two to the right to be covered by one of the angles of the
tower.

But this shelter was merely momentary, for he must go round the
tower in search of some way to reach the courts beyond; and no
sooner had he passed the next angle than he found himself within
sight of one of the towers of the main entrance. Dropping once more
on his hands and knees he crept slowly along, as close as he could
squeeze to the root of the wall, and when he rounded the next angle,
was in the shadow of the keep, while he had but to cross the walk to
be covered by the parapet on the edge of the moat. This he did, and
having crept round the curve of the next bastion, was just beginning
to fear lest he should find only a lifted drawbridge, and have to
take to the water again, when he came to the stone bridge.

It was well for him that Dorothy and Caspar had now omitted the
setting of their water-trap, otherwise he would have entered the
fountain court in a manner unfavourable to his project. As it was,
he got over in safety, never ceasing his slow crawl until he found
himself in the archway. Here he stood up, straightened his limbs,
went through a few gymnastics, as silent as energetic, to send the
blood through his chilled veins, and the next moment was again on
the move.

Peering from the mouth of the archway, he saw to his left the
fountain court, with the gleaming head of the great horse rising out
of the sea of shadow into the moonlight, and knew where he was. Next
he discovered close to him on his right an open door into a dim
space, and knew that he was looking into the great hall. Opposite
the door glimmered the large bay window of which Mrs. Rees had
spoken.

There was now a point to be ascertained ere he could determine at
which of the two gates he should attempt his exit--a question which,
up to the said point, he had thoroughly considered on his way.

The stables opened upon the pitched court, and in that court was the
main entrance: naturally that was the one to be used. But in front
of it was a great flight of steps, the whole depth of the ditch,
with the marble gate at the foot of them; and not knowing the
carriageway, he feared both suspicion and loss of time, where a
single moment might be all that divided failure from success. Also
at this gate were a double portcullis and drawbridge, the working of
whose machinery took time, and of all things a quick execution was
essential, seeing that at any moment sleeping suspicion might awake,
and find enough to keep her so. At the other gate there was but one
portcullis and no drawbridge, while from it he perfectly knew the
way to the brick gate. Clearly this was the preferable for his
attempt. There was but one point to cast in the other scale--namely,
that, if old Eccles were still the warder of it, there would be
danger of his recognition in respect both of himself and his mare.
But, on the other hand, he thought he could turn to account his
knowledge of the fact that the marquis's room was over it. So here
the scale had settled to rebound no more--except indeed he should
now discover any difficulty in passing from the stone court in which
lay the MOUTH of the stables, to the fountain court in which stood
the preferable gate. This question he must now settle, for once on
horseback there must be no deliberation.

One way at least there must be--through the hall: the hall must be
accessible from both courts. He pulled off his shoes, and stepped
softly in. Through the high window immediately over the huge
fireplace, a little moonlight fell on the northern gable-wall,
turning the minstrels' gallery into an aerial bridge to some strange
region of loveliness, and in the shadow under it he found at once
the door he sought, standing open but dark under a deep porch.

Issuing and gliding along by the side of the hall and round the
great bay window, he came to the stair indicated by Mrs. Rees, and
descending a little way, stood and listened: plainly enough to his
practised ear, what the old woman had represented as the underground
passage to the airiest of stables, was itself full of horses. To go
down amongst these in the dark, and in ignorance of the construction
of the stable, was somewhat perilous; but he had not come there to
avoid risk. Step by step he stole softly down, and, arrived at the
bottom, seated himself on the last--to wait until his eyes should
get so far accustomed to the darkness as to distinguish the poor
difference between the faint dusk sinking down the stair and the
absolute murk. A little further on, he could descry two or three
grated openings into the fountain court, but by them nothing could
enter beyond the faintest reflection of moonlight from the windows
between the grand staircase and the bell tower.

As soon as his eyes had grown capable of using what light there was,
which however was scarcely sufficient to render him the smallest
service, Richard began to whistle, very softly, a certain tune well
known to Lady, one he always whistled when he fed or curried her
himself. He had not got more than half through it, when a low drowsy
whinny made reply from the depths of the darkness before him, and
the heart of Richard leaped in his bosom for joy. He ceased a
moment, then whistled again. Again came the response, but this time,
although still soft and low, free from all the woolliness of sleep.
Once more he whistled, and once more came the answer. Certain at
length of the direction, he dropped on his hands and knees, and
crawled carefully along for a few yards, then stopped, whistled
again, and listened. After a few more calls and responses, he found
himself at Lady's heels, which had begun to move restlessly. He
crept into the stall beside her, spoke to her in a whisper, got upon
his feet, caressed her, told her to be quiet, and, pulling her buff
shoes from his pockets, drew them over her hoofs, and tied them
securely about her pasterns. Then with one stroke of his knife he
cut her halter, hitched the end round her neck, and telling her to
follow him, walked softly through the stable and up the stair. She
followed like a cat, though not without some noise, to whose echoes
Richard's bosom seemed the beaten drum. The moment her back was
level, he flung himself upon it, and rode straight through the porch
and into the hall.

But here at length he was overtaken by the consequences of having an
ally unequal to the emergency. Marquis, who had doubtless been
occupied with his friends in the stable yard, came bounding up into
the court just as Richard threw himself on the back of his mare. At
the sight of Lady, whom he knew so well, with her master on her
back, a vision of older and happier times, the poor animal forgot
himself utterly, rushed through the hall like a whirlwind, and burst
into a tempest of barking in the middle of the fountain
court--whether to rouse his mistress, or but to relieve his own
heart, matters little to my tale. There was not a moment to lose,
and Richard rode out of the hall and made for the gate.

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE APPARITION.

The voice of her lost Marquis, which even in her dreams she could
attribute to none but him, roused Dorothy at once. She sprang from
her bed, flew to the window, and flung it wide. That same moment,
from the shadows about the hall-door, came forth a man on horseback,
and rode along the tiled path to the fountain, where never had hoof
of horse before trod. Stranger still, the tramp sounded far away,
and woke no echo in the echo-haunted place. A phantom surely--horse
and man! As they drew nearer where she stared with wide eyes, the
head of the rider rose out of the shadow into the moonlight, and she
recognised the face of Richard--very white and still, though not, as
she supposed, with the whiteness and stillness of a spectre, but
with the concentration of eagerness and watchful resolution. The
same moment she recognised Lady. She trembled from head to foot.
What could it mean but that beyond a doubt they were both dead,
slain in battle, and that Richard had come to pay her a last visit
ere he left the world. On they came. Her heart swelled up into her
throat, and the effort to queen it over herself, and neither shriek
nor drop on the floor, was like struggling to support a falling
wall. When the spectre reached the marble fountain, he gave a little
start, drew bridle, and seemed to become aware that he had taken a
wrong path, looked keenly around him, and instead of continuing his
advance towards her window, turned in the direction of the gate. One
thing was clear, that whether ghostly or mortal, whether already
dead or only on the way to death, the apparition was regardless of
her presence. A pang of disappointment shot through her bosom, and
for the moment quenched her sense of relief from terror. With it
sank the typhoon of her emotion, and she became able to note how
draggled and soiled his garments were, how his hair clung about his
temples, and that for all accoutrement his mare had but a halter.
Yet Richard sat erect and proud, and Lady stepped like a mare full
of life and vigour. And there was Marquis, not cowering or howling
as dogs do in spectral presence, but madly bounding and barking as
if in uncontrollable jubilation!

The acme of her bewilderment was reached when the phantom came under
the marquis's study-window, and she heard it call aloud, in a voice
which undoubtedly came from corporeal throat, and that throat
Richard's, ringing of the morning and the sunrise and the wind that
shakes the wheat--anything rather than of the tomb:

'Ho, master Eccles!' it cried; 'when? when? Must my lord's business
cool while thou rubbest thy sleepy eyes awake? What, I say! When?
--Yes, my lord, I will punctually attend to your lordship's orders.
Expect me back within the hour.'

The last words were uttered in a much lower tone, with the respect
due to him he seemed addressing, but quite loud enough to be
distinctly heard by Eccles or any one else in the court.

Dorothy leaned from her window, and looked sideways to the gate,
expecting to see the marquis bending over his window-sill, and
talking to Richard. But his window was close shut, nor was there any
light behind it.

A minute or two passed, during which she heard the combined discords
of the rising portcullis. Then out came Eccles, slow and sleepy.

'By St. George and St. Patrick!' cried Richard, 'why keep'st thou
six legs here standing idle? Is thy master's business nothing to
thee?'

Eccles looked up at him. He was coming to his senses.

'Thou rides in strange graith on my lord's business,' he said, as he
put the key in the lock.

'What is that to thee? Open the gate. And make haste. If it please
my lord that I ride thus to escape eyes that else might see further
than thine, keen as they are, master Eccles, it is nothing to thee.'

The lock clanged, the gate swung open, and Richard rode through.

By this time a process of doubt and reasoning, rapid as only thought
can be, had produced in the mind of Dorothy the conviction that
there was something wrong. By what authority was Richard riding from
Raglan with muffled hoofs between midnight and morning? His speech
to the marquis was plainly a pretence, and doubtless that to Eccles
was equally false. To allow him to pass unchallenged would be
treason against both her host and her king.

'Eccles! Eccles!' she cried, her voice ringing clear through the
court, 'let not that man pass.'

'He gave the word, mistress,' said Eccles, in dull response.

'Stop him, I say,' cried Dorothy again, with energy almost frantic,
as she heard the gate swing to heavily. 'Thou shalt be held to
account.'

'He gave the word.'

'He's a true man, mistress,' returned Eccles, in tone of
self-justification. 'Heard you not my lord marquis give him his last
orders from his window?'

'There was no marquis at the window. Stop him, I say.'

'He's gone,' said Eccles quietly, but with waking uneasiness.

'Run after him,' Dorothy almost screamed.

'Stop him at the gate. It is young Heywood of Redware, one of the
busiest of the round-heads.'

Eccles was already running and shouting and whistling. She heard his
feet resounding from the bridge. With trembling hands she flung a
cloak about her, and sped bare-footed down the grand staircase and
along the north side of the court to the bell-tower, where she
seized the rope of the alarm-bell, and pulled with all her strength.
A horrid clangour tore the stillness of the night, re-echoed with
yelping response from the multitudinous buildings around. Window
after window flew open, head after head was popped out--amongst the
first that of the marquis, shouting to know what was amiss. But the
question found no answer. The courts began to fill. Some said the
castle was on fire; others, that the wild beasts were all out;
others, that Waller and Cromwell had scaled the rampart, and were
now storming the gates; others, that Eccles had turned traitor and
admitted the enemy. In a few moments all was outcry and confusion.
Both courts and the great hall were swarming with men and women and
children, in every possible stage of attire. The main entrance was
crowded with a tumult of soldiery, and scouts were rushing to
different stations of outlook, when the cry reached them that the
western gate was open, the portcullis up, and the guard gone.

The moment Richard was clear of the portcullis, he set off at a
sharp trot for the brick gate, and had almost reached it when he
became aware that he was pursued. He had heard the voice of Dorothy
as he rode out, and knew to whom he owed it. But yet there was a
chance. Rousing the porter with such a noisy reveillee as drowned in
his sleepy ears the cries of the warder and those that followed him,
he gave the watch-word, and the huge key was just turning in the
wards when the clang of the alarm-bell suddenly racked the air. The
porter stayed his hand, and stood listening.

'Open the gate,' said Richard in authoritative tone.

'I will know first, master,--' began the man.

'Dost not hear the bell?' cried Richard. 'How long wilt thou
endanger the castle by thy dulness?'

'I shall know first,' repeated the man deliberately, 'what that
bell--'

Ere he could finish the sentence, the butt of Richard's whip had
laid him along the threshold of the gate. Richard flung himself from
his horse, and turned the key. But his enemies were now close at
hand--Eccles and the men of his guard. If the porter had but fallen
the other way! Ere he could drag aside his senseless body and open
the gate, they were upon him with blows and curses. But the
puritan's blood was up, and with the heavy handle of his whip he had
felled one and wounded another ere he was himself stretched on the
ground with a sword-cut in the head.

CHAPTER XXX.

RICHARD AND THE MARQUIS.

A very few strokes of the brazen-tongued clamourer had been enough
to wake the whole castle. Dorothy flew back to her chamber, and
hurrying on her clothes, descended again to the court. It was
already in full commotion. The western gate stood open, with the
portcullis beyond it high in the wall, and there she took her stand,
waiting the return of Eccles and his men.

Presently lord Charles came through the hall from the stone court,
and seeing the gate open, called aloud in anger to know what it
meant. Receiving no reply, he ran with an oath to drop the
portcullis.

'Is there a mutiny amongst the rascals?' he cried.

'There is no cause for dread, my lord,' said Dorothy from the shadow
of the gateway.

'How know you that, fair mistress?' returned lord Charles, who knew
her voice. 'You must not inspire us with too much of your spare
courage. That would be to make us fool-hardy.'

'Indeed, there is nothing to fear, my lord,' persisted Dorothy. 'The
warder and his men have but this moment rushed out after one on
horseback, whom they had let pass with too little question. They are
ten to one,' added Dorothy with a shudder, as the sounds of the fray
came up from below.

'If there is then no cause of fear, cousin, why look you so pale?'
asked lord Charles, for the gleam of a torch had fallen on Dorothy's
face.

'I think I hear them returning, doubtless with a prisoner,' said
Dorothy, and stood with her face turned aside, looking anxiously
through the gateway and along the bridge. She had obeyed her
conscience, and had now to fight her heart, which unreasonable
member of the community would insist on hoping that her efforts had
been foiled. But in a minute more came the gathering noise of
returning footsteps, and presently Lady's head appeared over the
crown of the bridge; then rose Eccles, leading her in grim silence;
and next came Richard, pale and bleeding, betwixt two men, each
holding him by an arm; the rest of the guard crowded behind. As they
entered the court, Richard caught sight of Dorothy, and his face
shone into a wan smile, to which her rebellious heart responded with
a terrible pang.

The voice of lord Charles reached them from the other side of the
court.

'Bring the prisoner to the hall,' it cried.

Eccles led the mare away, and the rest took Richard to the hall,
which now began to be lighted up, and was soon in a blaze of candles
all about the dais. When Dorothy entered, it was crowded with
household and garrison, but the marquis, who was tardy at dressing,
had not yet appeared. Presently, however, he walked slowly in from
the door at the back of the dais, breathing hard, and seated himself
heavily in the great chair. Dorothy placed herself near the door,
where she could see the prisoner.

Lady Mary entered and seated herself beside her father.

'What meaneth all this tumult?' the marquis began. 'Who rang the
alarum-bell?'

'I did, my lord,' answered Dorothy in a trembling voice.

'Thou, mistress Dorothy!' exclaimed the marquis. 'Then I doubt not
thou hadst good reason for so doing. Prithee what was the reason?
Verily it seems thou wast sent hither to be the guardian of my
house!'

'It was not I, my lord, gave the first alarm, but--' She hesitated,
then added, 'my poor Marquis.'

'Not so poor for a marquis, cousin Dorothy, as to be called the poor
Marquis. Why dost thou call me poor?'

'My lord, I mean my dog.'

'The truth will still lie--between me and thy dog,' said the
marquis. 'But come now, instruct me. Who is this prisoner, and how
comes he here?'

'He be young Mr. Heywood of Redware, my lord, and a pestilent
roundhead,' answered one of his captors.

'Who knows him?'

A moment's silence followed. Then came Dorothy's voice again.

'I do, my lord.'

'Tell me, then, all thou knowest from the beginning, cousin,' said
the marquis.

'I was roused by the barking of my dog,' Dorothy began.

'How came HE hither again?'

'My lord, I know not.'

''Tis passing strange. See to it, lord Charles. Go on, mistress
Dorothy.'

'I heard my dog bark in the court, my lord, and looking from my
window saw Mr. Heywood riding through on horseback. Ere I could
recover from my astonishment, he had passed the gate, and then I
rang the alarm-bell,' said Dorothy briefly.

'Who opened the gate for him?'

'I did, my lord,' said Eccles. 'He made me believe he was talking to
your lordship at the study window.'

'Ha! a cunning fox!' said the marquis. 'And then?'

'And then mistress Dorothy fell out upon me--'

'Let thy tongue wag civilly, Eccles.'

'He speaks true, my lord,' said Dorothy. 'I did fall out upon him,
for he was but half awake, and I knew not what mischief might be at
hand.'

'Eccles is obliged to you, cousin. And so the lady brought you to
your senses in time to catch him?'

'Yes, my lord.'

'How comes he wounded? He was but one to a score.'

'My lord, he would else have killed us all.'

'He was armed then?'

Eccles was silent.

'Was he armed?' repeated the marquis.

'He had a heavy whip, my lord.'

'H'm!' said the marquis, and turned to the prisoner.

'Is thy name Heywood, sirrah?' he asked.

'My lord, if you treat me as a clown, you shall have but clown's
manners of me; I will not answer.'

''Fore heaven!' exclaimed the marquis, 'our squires would rule the
roast.'

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