We wait beneath the furnace-blast

The pangs of transformation,

Not painlessly doth God re-cast

And mould anew the nation.

Hot burns the fire

Where wrongs expire;

Nor spares the hand

That from the land

Uproots the ancient evil.

—Whittier.


On returning to Ledbury, Gabriel seized the opportunity of writing to his father, begging that, if possible, he might see him before he left the neighbourhood; and by the time he had found a messenger to despatch to Hereford, Massey had returned from reconnoitring the surrounding country. The Governor of Gloucester was in excellent spirits, for he had reason to believe that Prince Rupert, having learnt of his arrival at Ledbury, had halted in his march to join the King, and would probably return and give him battle.

“I only wish it were possible to fortify this town,” he remarked as he and his officers supped at the ‘Feathers,’ “but it is out of the question.”

“Do you think we shall have a night attack, sir?” asked Gabriel.

“’Tis possible, for Prince Rupert ever loves that device. Yet he could scarce be here to-night. Some of the men had best, however, bivouac in the High Street: your detachment has had light work to-day, Captain Harford, and shall be told off for this under Captain Bayly; I may need you anon for the work of which we spoke.”

“In truth the men have had lighter work than we thought for, sir,” said Gabriel, “for the desire to pull down Bosbury Cross seemed to be only on the part of that fanatic Waghorn, and the Vicar pleaded for it with such excellent good arguments that, under certain conditions, I gave leave that it should be spared. I think, had you been there you would have done the same, sir, and I trust you don’t disapprove of what I did.”

Massey laughed good-humouredly. “If you choose to incur the wrath of that mad fellow ’tis no affair of mine,” he said. “And now I think of it, the Vicar of Bosbury was a sensible and kindly man.”

“Ay, and hospitable,” said Captain Bayly. “He gave us a good supper when we halted last winter at Bosbury. There was a pretty niece, too, I remember.”

This remark brought upon Gabriel much laughter and raillery, which he took in good part.

“Were you not there with one of the Hoptons?” he asked.

“Ay, to be sure, the younger one, that tried to defend Castle, Ditch near Eastnor. He was worsted, and thrown into gaol at Hereford, but managed to escape by leaping a wall, and rejoined us at Gloucester. I don’t know where he is serving now.”

Supper being ended Massey retired to finish his despatches, and Gabriel had orders to supervise the barricading of the streets with carts, which kept the men hard at work throughout the evening.

The moon had risen, and the picturesque High Street with its gabled black and white houses would have looked like a place in fairyland had it not been for the grim preparations for defence and for the busy soldiers moving to and fro, some carrying torches which threw a fitful glare over the scene and made the bright helmets and gorgets glitter. Everyone was far too hard at work to notice the silent spectator who, wrapped in a long cloak and a hood of the sort much worn by aged men, noiselessly shadowed Captain Harford wherever he went.

Waghorn’s hatred only increased when he saw how remarkably active in the cause Gabriel could be, how swiftly the orders he shouted were carried out, and what an excellent officer he made. It was impossible to conceive one more in touch with his men, and the fanatic gnashed his teeth when he reflected that one authoritative word from this young fellow of two or three and twenty would have been sufficient to level the cross with the ground.

By the time all was in readiness it was growing late, and Gabriel and his successor, Captain Bayly, walked down the High Street to the “Feathers,” at the door of which Massey lounged smoking his pipe.

“Bid them sound the bugle for the evening psalm,” he said, as the two officers joined him. “The men had best sleep while they may.”

As the bugle rang through the little town and the men assembled in front of the market-house, Waghorn, stepping forward like a bent and aged man, stealthily approached Gabriel.

“Now will this sparer of crosses join in a psalm with the godly,” he reflected, wrathfully. “Let his days be few! Even in the midst of his sin shall he be stricken!”

Little dreaming that one of his worst foes stood close behind him, Gabriel joined with rather a heavy heart in the psalm which seemed to haunt him at every crisis in his life. Standing now in the street at Ledbury with the manly voices of the soldiers ringing out into the night, he remembered how the same words


In trouble and adversity

The Lord God hear thee still


had strengthened him as he stood waiting for the first attack at Edgehill; how in the Cathedral long ago with his eyes on Hilary’s pale face, the same words had fallen on his ears, and how in the porch at Bosbury the psalm had on this very day been to them a bond of union. No thought of personal danger came to him now, though Waghorn’s cloak brushed his sleeve. It was of Hilary he thought, and of the peril that threatened her.

At the close of the psalm the bugle sounded the “Last post,” and such of the men as had quarters marched off; those who were to bivouac in the street scattering into groups about the market-house, and a detachment moving torch in hand to the upper end of the town where four ways met.

Massey invited Gabriel and Captain Bayly to have a cup of mulled claret with him at the “Feathers.”

“Well, sir, if you will pardon me,” said Gabriel, who longed to be alone, “I will ask to be excused. Truth to tell, I am dog-tired, and would fain sleep.”

Massey slapped him on the shoulder with a laugh.

“Art sick, or in love? Eh? Beshrew me, but I believe you did leave your heart at Bosbury to-day. I’ll be with you anon, Bayly.”

Then, drawing Gabriel aside, he moved with him to the further end of the market-house just at the corner of the narrow alley which led steeply up to the church. Against the pale moonlit sky they could see the dark outline of the spire betwixt the gables of the houses.

“I have written both despatches,” he said, in a low voice, “and as we can’t tell what the next four-and-twenty hours will bring forth I will give them now into your keeping, yet do not start until you can bear tidings of Prince Rupert’s doings.”

“I may take part in the battle, sir?” asked Gabriel.

“Yes, if you are minded to volunteer. I will give you word when you had best go. And remember this: a despatch-bearer needs something more than mere courage. He needs dexterity, diplomacy and caution. If I cannot get speech with you, and the fighting goes against us, lose no time in escaping and make whatever circuit you deem best to reach Windsor in safety. I’ faith, I think we have no eyes upon us now in the dark alley, and at the ‘Feathers’ we are over-tightly packed for privacy. Stow these safely away, and give the Commander-in-Chief all the details I am unable to set down. But at all costs see that both despatches are delivered. More hangs on it than you wot of.”

Under the shelter of their military cloaks the transfer of the despatches was easily effected, and Gabriel thrust them into the inner pocket of his coat.

“I will guard them with my life, sir,” he said, in a low voice. “And I thank you for trusting me with the work.”

Massey laughed.

“Small matter for thanks! ’Tis ever a risky and troublesome business. Well, good-night to you, Captain. May your affair of love prosper!”

“Good-night, sir,” said Gabriel, forcing a laugh, as he paced slowly up the narrow alley.

Alas! was it not a very one-sided affair of love? he thought to himself, with a sigh. If for a moment he ventured to hope that Hilary still cared for him, the next he remembered with a pang the way in which she had permitted Norton to dangle about her. He wondered, uneasily, what the Vicar could be dreaming of to allow it. Dr. Coke had seemed a shrewd as well as a generous man, yet had evidently no notion that the Governor of Canon Frome was playing the mischief in his very household. And then he remembered how plausible and fascinating Norton could be, recollected, too, that strange glimpse of a noble nature which he had now and then............