“What thing is love, which nought can countervail?

Nought save itself, e’en such a thing is love.

All worldly wealth in worth as far doth fail,

As lowest earth doth yield to heaven above.

Divine is love, and scorneth worldly pelf,

And can be bought with nothing, but with self.”

—From “England’s Helicon,” 1600.


As they passed the farm in which he had hoped to leave the Major, he saw the master of the house standing at the gate, and, though they could not speak, an understanding glance passed between them, and Gabriel saw the eyes that had looked so hard and stern on the previous night soften in a marvellous fashion. He understood the strong bracing sympathy of the rugged old farmer, and went on his way with renewed courage.

The heat of the July day soon grew intense, and several times the cavalcade was forced to halt and rest. The Major could only just keep in the saddle, and Gabriel watched him anxiously, dreading every minute that he would succumb.

Once when they rested for a short time at West Kennet, Captain Tarverfield approached him, looking with not unkindly curiosity at the young lieutenant—his face burnt ruddy-brown by the sun, and great drops of perspiration falling on his forehead from his rough brown hair. His hazel eyes were extraordinarily clear and bright, and something in his straight, fearless glance attracted the Royalist Captain.

“You have had a hot march,” he said.

“I have a good pair of legs, sir,” said Gabriel; “but my arm is cramped and numb.”

The Captain then noticed that to save his wounded friend he had all these hours had his wrist roped up above his head in a posture that must have long since become torturing.

With a muttered imprecation, the Royalist proceeded to unloose the rope.

“Give me your parole not to escape, and for this hour, at any rate, you can go free,” he said.

Gabriel readily gave the promise, thanking the Captain warmly, and between them they then helped the Major from his horse and laid him on the grass by the roadside. The soldiers had contented themselves with stripping the younger prisoner, and had let the wounded man retain his helmet. Gabriel unfastened it now, and carried it down to the bank of the stream close by; then, returning with the water the Major was eagerly longing for, found Captain Tarverfield still in conversation with him.

“Had I known that Colonel Norton had a grudge against you both, I would have let you pass this morning,” he said. “For Norton is the very devil when once he has a quarrel with any man. ’Tis of no use to ask him for a surgeon’s aid, it would only make him the more brutal. We shall lie this night at Marlborough, however, and I will do what I can for you when Lord Wilmot and my Lord Falkland arrive with the next detachment.”

“Did Lord Falkland come with the Oxford contingent?” asked Gabriel, sudden interest lighting up his face. “I owe my life to his kindly help at Edgehill.”

And he told the young officer what had passed.

“He is greatly changed since then,” said Captain Tarverfield. “They say His Majesty fears and dislikes him, while he is like a fish out of water among the courtiers and fine ladies at Oxford, who spitefully invent evil tales as to his friendship with Mistress Moray. He should never have meddled with statecraft, his conscience is over-tender for the work he is expected to do.”

With that he went off to dine at the village inn, and the Major, reviving a little, began to think of the future.

“We may not again have such a chance as this,” he said, “and there is a matter I would fain broach with you. I know that I have got my deathblow and am sorely troubled as to Helena. I am leaving her well-nigh alone in the world, and have arranged no marriage for her.”

“But Madam Harford will have her in safe keeping, and when once she is in London you may surely rest content,” said Gabriel, suddenly becoming conscious of his friend’s desire.

“I would fain have had you as Lord of the Manor and husband to my child,” said the Major. “The estate hath like enough suffered from Prince Maurice’s troops, no details have yet reached me, but Helena’s dowry is large, and I would gladly see her wedded to you and safe from Squire Norton.”

“Sir,” said Gabriel, looking troubled, “I will do all that I can to shield and help your daughter. But I am not free to wed her; for though ’tis true my betrothal was ended by the war, yet my love remains where it was first given.”

The Major, accustomed to regard marriage chiefly as a matter of business, scarcely understood such an argument, and having found the very man he could trust—one, moreover, who shared most of his views—was very loth to relinquish hope.

“You will see what time brings forth,” he said. “I should rest better in my grave could I think that Nell would be your wife.”

But Gabriel, though moved by his friend’s eagerness, could not be false to himself.

“I will promise, sir, to be her friend and protector,” he said, “when I am out of prison. But to promise more than that would be no true kindness to her.”

“The bugle sounds,” said the Major. “Come, help me to mount for the last time. Most truly did the Psalmist sing, ‘A horse is a vain thing to save a man.’ We owe our capture to poor Harkaway’s friendly greeting of the enemy’s steeds.” Gabriel tried to smile at the jest.

“We must take the fortune of war,” he replied, cheerfully. But as the weary journey continued in the hot afternoon sun, the Major’s strength waned perceptibly, and when at last they reached Marlborough, and were halted in its wide street, he seemed scarcely conscious, though he still kept in the saddle.

A kindly-looking woman came out from one of the houses with a large earthenware mug of home-brewed ale, which she offered to him. He revived a little, thanked her courteously, and made one of his usual little jokes, but with so piteous an effort that Gabriel felt a choking sensation in his throat. He was glad that they were at that moment ordered to march to St. Peter’s Church, in which the prisoners were to be sheltered for the night.

The soldiers untied Major Locke and carried him into the building, putting him down on the chancel floor that he might be a little removed from the noise and confusion in the nave, into which the soldiers were driving the weary prisoners roped together in pairs.

Gabriel, relieved to find his right arm available again, dragged down an old moth-eaten cushion from the pulpit and placed it under the Major’s head, removed his helmet and chafed his cold, clammy hands. But the lack of all comforts baffled his efforts, and he knew that after the long, hot ride the mere chill of the flagstones was the very worst thing for one in his state. He raised him a little, propping up the grey head on his own shoulder.

“You will send the news to Nell,” said the dying man, faintly.

“Yes; but good news I hope,” said Gabriel. “Captain Tarverfield will, I think, remember his promise of help, and a surgeon may do much for you. I hear steps drawing near, maybe he hath already sent. No, ’tis but the sentry.”

The soldier approached them and looked down silently at the wounded man. He was a tall, powerful Irishman who had come over to England as one of Strafford’s grooms, and the Major would have shrunk from him in horror had he known his nationality or guessed him to be a devout Roman Catholic. His face bore an expression which gave Gabriel hope.

“Can you not fetch a surgeon?” he asked. “Surely you may do that much for a prisoner.”

“I would do it, sir,” replied the man, “but I am on sentry duty, and bound not to leave the church. But sure, then, before dark one of the officers will go the rounds, and it will be him you can be asking.”

He moved on, but returned presently with a garment which he had found in the vestry.

“Wrap it about the feet of him, sir,” he said. “That’s the best chance for him, for sure this place be as cold as any vault.”

Gabriel thanked him.

“Was popish vestment ever before of such use?” said the Major, smiling faintly. “Yet, beshrew me! there’s something that tickles my fancy not a little in the thought of quitting this world wrapped in a cope!”

“Talk not yet of quitting the world, sir,” said Gabriel. “I have seen worse wounded men recover.” But he argued against his own fears.

The church was now very quiet, the prisoners, hungry and depressed, were trying to forget their wretchedness in sleep, and only the steps of the sentry could be heard echoing at the west end of t............