One loving howre

For many years of sorrow can dispence;

A dram of sweete is worth a pound of sowre.

. . . true is, that true love hath no powre,

To looken backe; his eyes be fixt before.

—Spenser.

Meanwhile Massey, with great coolness and ability, retreated in good order with the remainder of his men to Gloucester, but many had been made prisoners, and about a hundred and twenty had been killed in the street and in the hot pursuit.

Had it not been for Waghorn’s words to the Royalists, Gabriel might have made his escape as easily as the Governor of Gloucester had anticipated. But, learning that important despatches were so nearly within their reach, some four or five troopers gave chase to him with a heat and determination that only increased with each mile traversed. Bullets whistled about his ears, but on he sped, every nerve strained in the wild excitement of the ride, all pain for the time overcome by the intense desire to carry out his task.

A second ball struck the already injured arm, making a ghastly flesh wound. Still he galloped on, but, alas! with the horrible consciousness that his pursuers were gaining on him.

His strength was fast failing when the sound of church bells fell on his ear; surely they were the bells of Bosbury? Hardly conscious of the direction he had taken, only galloping madly across country to baffle his pursuers, he had indeed approached within a short distance of the village, which lay in the valley below embosomed in trees.

For the time being he was out of sight of the Royalist troopers, and, with a word to Harkaway, he put the horse at a hedge which seemed a little off the course he had ridden.

The horse did his part gallantly, and alighted in a field which sloped steeply down to a tiny brook, but the agony of the leap was too much for the rider. With a stifled groan he fell to the ground, and Harkaway, not understanding his grievous plight, but thankful to find the desperate gallop at an end, unconsciously served his master by going quietly down to drink at the brook.

The pursuers were puzzled at suddenly losing all trace of the despatch-bearer. They paused to listen, but no sound of distant horse-hoofs fell upon their ear, only somewhat further on they could hear children’s voices. Riding forward, they came into sight of an orchard in which two little girls with their skipping-ropes were playing on the daisy-flecked grass. As they skipped they sang an old May-pole song, their childish voices rising high and clear in the country quiet:


Come, ye young men, come along,

With your music, dance and song;

Bring your lasses in your hands,

For ’tis that which love commands.


Then to the May-pole haste away,

For ’tis now a holiday.


It is the choice time of the year,

For the violets now appear;

Now the rose receives its birth,

And pretty primrose decks the earth.


Then to the May-pole haste away,

For ’tis now a holiday.


Suddenly they broke off, and the elder child cried out: “Look! Look, Meg. There be soldiers yonder.”

“Three, four, five of them!” said the little one, counting with keen interest.

“And two of them have left their horses and be coming this way,” said Nan. “See their red ribbons; they be King’s soldiers.”

“Oh, Nan, I’m frightened! They said they would hang the boys and drown the girls!” cried Meg, clinging to her sister.

“That was because the children of Broxash sang


If you offer to plunder, or take our cattle,

Be assured we will bid you battle.’”


said Nan, reassuringly. “We were only singing the May-pole song.”

Nevertheless her eyes grew large with fright as the soldier approached.

“Here, you brats!” he shouted. “Have you seen a Puritan officer gallop by this way?”

“No, we have been skipping,” she replied, sturdily.

“A wounded man on a bay horse.”

“We have not seen him—he hath not been here,” said Nan.

“Curse him! What a dance he hath led us! How a man that’s been twice hit can ride across country that fashion, beats me. The devil must be in him. Come, mate, we must to horse again, and push on—the plaguey fellow shan’t give us the slip.”

They hastened back to rejoin their comrades, and Nan looked wistfully after them.

“I hope they won’t find him,” she said, shivering. “If they do they’ll kill him.”

“I’m glad we’re not men,” said Meg, picking up her skipping-rope. “We shall never have to kill folk.”

By this time Gabriel had recovered his senses, and the sight of the Malvern Hills roused him to the remembrance that he was near Bosbury; with a vague idea of getting Hilary to bind up his wounds for him, and then of somehow reaching his father, he staggered to his feet, hoping to find Harkaway at no great distance. The horse, however, was nowhere to be seen, and, with faltering steps, he made his way with great difficulty across the field to a gap which he saw in the hedge. The children’s voices reached him, and helped him to persevere.

“Here each bachelor may choose

One that will not faith abuse,

Nor repay with coy disdain

Love that should be loved again.”


It was the same maypole song that he had listened to years ago at Bosbury just after their betrothal.

Utterly spent with pain and loss of blood, the effort of making his way through the gap in the hedge proved more than flesh could bear.

“’Tis no use—no use!” he thought, despairingly as he entered the orchard. “I can’t go another step! My God! Must I be so near to Hilary, and yet die like a dog in a ditch?” He reeled back, and, with a groan, fell senseless to the ground, to the horror and dismay of the children, who dropped their skipping-ropes and fled in terror.

“The Puritan!” they screamed; “he has fallen down dead!” But before very long curiosity conquered terror; they stole back hand-in-hand, and gazed at him with awe-struck faces.

“He looks as if he were asleep,” said little Meg.

“That’s how folks do look,” explained Nan, “just asleep, you know. But all the time they’re really awake up in the sky.”

“Wondering, perhaps, why we don’t understand,” said Meg, dreamily.

“Oh, see!” cried Nan, in great excitement, “he’s down here still, he’s not dead. His hand is moving!”

Gabriel tried to get up, but fell back again.

“Oh! what hellish pain!” he moaned.

“What can we do for you, sir?” said Nan.

“Who is it?” he asked, looking up in a dazed way. “Where?”

“We be Farmer Chadd’s children, sir, and this is our orchard nigh to Bosbury,” replied the little girl.

“How far from Bosbury?”

“’Tis but a little way across the hop-yards, sir.”

“If I could see Hilary before I die!” he muttered. “I will see her! I will see her! What became of Harkaway? Children, do you see a riderless horse near?”

They ran off and soon returned with beaming faces.

“There be a strange horse down by the brook,” said Nan. “A bay with two white feet.”

“He is gentle enough; could you bring him here for me? I am sorely hurt.”

They gladly promised and ran down the sloping field, leaving Gabriel in a curious borderland of semi-consciousness.

“I shall remember it all if I try,” he reflected. “My head is getting clearer. There was something I had to do! What on earth was it? Massey trusted me with something. If the Prince overpowered him I was to go—where? This agony makes all else a blank! I shall be no better than that daft vagabond who woke me last night. Ha! the despatches! I remember all now!”

With intense anxiety he felt for them. They were bloodstained but safe, and exhausted with the effort of concealing them once more, he sank back in a dead faint.

Now it chanced that on this Wednesday morning the Litany being ended, Dr. Coke and Hilary left the church and went to see Farmer Chadd, who was in great distress because his horses had been seized by the Canon Frome garrison. They were talking to him in the farmyard when his two little daughters came running up to beg his help.

“There’s a horse, father, down by the brook,” they explained breathlessly, “and the wounded Puritan officer in the orchard asked us to fetch it, but it won’t let us come near.”

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