“Good-even, friend,” says I, standing before him.

“Good-even, master,” he answers, scanning me very close. “A wet night and foul ways.”

“Aye,” says I.

“Master Richard Coope, I think?” says he.

“The same, friend,” says I.

He fumbled at his reins and drew the horse nearer to him with a movement of his hand.

“The sword of the Lord,” he says in a low voice, looking full at me.

“And of Gideon!” says I.

He plunged his free hand into his breast and brought out a packet, which he presented to me without loss of time.

“That is my duty, master,” says he; “the rest you know as well as I. I will now go on my ways—there is more to be done to-night, bad as the weather is.”

He backed his horse from the door. I followed him into the still falling rain. He had one foot in the stirrup as I spoke to him.

“This is not my house,” I says, speaking low, “but I could get you food and drink if you have need.”

“None, master,” says he. “At such times as these we must take no risk for the sake of carnal delights.”

“But is there no answer to this packet?” I says. “Did not they that sent you——”

“You will answer the message in person, master, I doubt not,” he says. “Fare you well—the Lord protect you.”

The darkness swallowed him up ere he reached the open door of the courtyard, but I lingered a moment in the porch and listened to the sound of his horse’s feet on the road outside. I heard him ride to the corner. The horse broke into a quick trot: I knew by the sound that the man was making along the road to Pomfret.

I went back into the house. A stable-lad nodded his head by the kitchen fire, and Gregory was coming from the cellar with a mug of ale.

“’Tis for the man without, Master Richard,” says he. “On such a night——”

“The man is gone,” says I. “He would stay for naught—’tis but a book he has brought me—drink the ale yourself, Gregory.”

I hastened to my own chamber and broke the seal of the packet, which bore my name and address in Matthew Richardson’s hand. There was little writing within for anybody to read, but the lines signified much to my eyes.

As I finished reading this brief epistle for the second time, Gregory came tapping at my door again.

“Your uncle is asking for you, Master Richard,” says he. “Sir Jarvis has finished his supper, and they are talking of the war—Lord help us all!—though, indeed, it seems as if Sir Nicholas forgot his pains in discussing of fights and such-like. But I misdoubt that to-morrow——”

He lighted me down the stair, shaking his grey hair and muttering to himself. In the great kitchen he left me, and I went over to the hearth and placed Matthew Richardson’s letter amidst the glowing cinders. I stood there until I saw it crumble into white ashes.

III.

When I went into the hall, my uncle and Sir Jarvis sat in their chairs by the hearth, the great screen protecting them from the draught, and the fire piled up with logs, and glowing so bright that you had fancied it was a winter’s night rather than an August evening. On the table between them stood a second flask of Sir Nicholas’s Tokay, and I observed that in his excitement my good uncle had filled his own glass and sipped largely from it, which was a bad thing for his gout, and to be paid for afterwards. Sir Jarvis Cutler was smoking tobacco from a pipe—a newfangled habit which I knew my uncle could not abide, but which he evidently forgave in a guest so much after his own heart.

“Sit thee down, Dick,” says Sir Nicholas. “Od’s body, I wondered what had got thee. These boys, Sir Jarvis, will for ever be at their books—pour thyself out a glass of wine, Richard: ’tis vastly different stuff, I warrant me, to what you find in your common rooms at Oxford. Sir Jarvis, spare not—there is more where that came from—if it were not for the gout I would help you to crack more bottles than one. Nay, Dick, forget thy books and rhymes, man!—this is no time for a long face.”

“With due respect, neighbour,” says Sir Jarvis, “’tis a time that will bring long faces enow. But as for books, I agree—’tis rather a time for swords than words. Thou wilt have to lay aside the pen, lad,” he says, turning himself to me, “and take up the sword.”

“I trust not, sir,” says I. “I have no mind to see fighting ’twixt folk of one speech and blood.”

“Why,” says he, “that’s well said from one point o’ view, but neither here nor there at this present. For fighting there will be, aye, ’twixt father and son, and brother and cousin.”

“Say, rather,” chimes in Sir Nicholas, “’twixt loyal and disloyal, faithful and unfaithful. A plague on all rebels, say I!”

“I have been telling thy good uncle, Dick,” says Sir Jarvis, pressing fresh tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, “of what there is afoot in these parts amongst those of us that are true to the King’s Majesty. Now that his Highness hath necessities we must needs help him with ourselves and our substance. There’s been a meeting in York, Dick, amongst certain of us—but for his plaguey gout your good uncle had been there—and we came to a decision—no hangers back, Sir Nicholas—to do what we could, and that’s our best. Some have given a hundred pound, some three hundred, some five—’od’s body! why trouble about the amounts?—each gentleman has done what he could—it mounts up in some cases to as much as ten thousand pound. Then men are being enlisted, and are to be maintained at our charges—a costly business, Sir Nicholas, but one that must be endured. And now that His Majesty’s flag is raised in defiance of these traitors, we are forming a garrison for Pomfret Castle, and it shall go hard with us, but we’ll hold it against every rebel of them.”

“Tell the lad what names you have amongst you, Sir Jarvis,” says my uncle. “’Tis a fine list of worthy and gallant gentlemen, and any man should be proud to join their company.”

“Why, first,” says Sir Jarvis, “there’s Colonel Lowther, that will govern and command us, and with him Colonel Wheatley and Colonel Middleton. As for the gentlemen Volunteers, we have formed them into four divisions. Colonel Grey will lead the first, Sir Richard Hutton the second, Sir John Ramsden the third, and Sir George Wentworth the fourth. I myself am second in command to Sir John, and I warrant thee, Master Dick, we have some pretty fellows with us, as have all the other captains. Some hundred and thirty gallant gentlemen we are in all; but we can find room for more, and as thy worthy uncle is beyond fighting at this moment, why, we will make a place for thee, his representative.”

“Sir,” says I, “you’re very kind; but I have no mind for wars and battles. My occupations are of a peaceful nature; if I fight it must be with pens and parchment for weapons rather than pikes and swords.”

“’Slife, Dick!” exclaims my uncle, peevishly. “This is no time for peaceful acts, man.”

“’Twas but this morning you counselled me not to be led astray from my profession that is to be, sir,” says I; “and I’ve thought