“Duelling, in this country at least, is no longer legal, and we believe that war, which has been aptly styled international duelling, is alike doomed.. . . It is certain that the time must assuredly come (for is not this the darkness before the dawn?), and it will be probably sooner than we can conceive, when there will be a tremendous upheaval and revulsion of feeling with regard to it.” —J. J. Green.

For some little time Gabriel lay back in perfect silence against the grassy bank, and, spite of the acute pain he was in, he nevertheless felt ready to echo the children’s chorus which floated to them from beneath the apple trees—For it is now a holiday.

Hilary sat on the grass beside him, and from time to time he opened his eyes to watch the tender womanly hand as it ministered to his needs, or to look into the sweet face, as it bent over him. He realised, too, with a happy sense of homecoming, that he was indeed in his native county every time he caught sight of the lovely Malvern Hills which, in the morning light, seemed to take all the hues to be seen on a pigeon’s neck, and formed a fitting background for Hilary’s rare beauty.

“Ought I to let you do all this for a ‘friendly foe’?” he said, looking up at her with a hint of the old mirth in his eyes.

“Forget what I said yesterday, Gabriel. I did not mean half of it,” she said, blushing.

“I knew you meant to keep your promise—that was my sole comfort last night at Ledbury,” he replied, with a sigh.

Hilary continued nervously, but yet with no little force: “I went that very afternoon to see Dame Elizabeth, and you were right, it was just as you said. Oh! I hope I may never again see the false face that deceived me.”

“God grant you never may!” said Gabriel. And then a silence fell between them, and the merry talk of the children could be heard.

Hilary mused sadly over her shortcomings, but presently, noticing a change in her lover’s face, gave an exclamation of dismay.

“Gabriel! how white your lips are growing! Is the pain so great?”

“’Tis very bearable while you are near,” he said, his eyes resting on her with indescribable tenderness. “I was thinking how love can lift one out of all that is worst in the world.”

She instantly responded to his thought as in the first days of their betrothal. “’Tis stronger than war, or differing views,” she said, gently.

“Ay, or death,” he replied.

“Don’t talk of death!” she cried, shuddering. “Oh! when we heard of the battle this morning, and I remembered the cruel words I had spoken to you, I thought my heart would break.”

“My beloved,” he said. And in the strong emphasis of the word there seemed to lurk all the pent-up passion of the long years of separation.

For the first time since that September morning when they had talked in the garden at Hereford, before hearing of Powick fight, their lips met in a kiss that was like a sacrament, and each knew that nothing could ever again part them.

But their happiness was short-lived, for the children ran through the gap in the hedge, and Little Meg said, breathlessly, “Mistress Hilary! there be someone coming into the orchard.”

“It looks like one of the officers from Canon Frome,” said Nan, uneasily, her mind dwelling on cattle-lifting and plundering.

“What if it should be Norton!” said Gabriel, trying to get up.

“You must not show yourself,” said Hilary, earnestly.

“All will be ruined if you are seen. Dear love, promise me, and then I shall have no fear.”

“’Tis true I should be worse than no defence,” said Gabriel, reluctantly.

Hilary hastily placed her cloak so as to screen him a little better from view, and made the children sit in the gap to block the way.

“Nan and Meg, you will not betray him, I know,” she said.

“Sit there and weave daisy chains.”

Glancing at the approaching figure, she saw that it was indeed Norton, and, anxious to prevent him from drawing too near to the hedge, she went forward to meet him. She wondered now how she could ever have been deceived by him, and hated herself for having allowed him for a moment to make her distrust Gabriel’s love.

Norton’s greeting was eager and full of charm.

“This is clearly a red-letter day in my calendar, Mistress Hilary. First, I have news of Prince Rupert’s success at Ledbury, and then I have the crowning happiness of meeting you.”

“’Tis indeed a fair morning,” said Hilary. “You are doubtless going by the field-path to Ledbury to gain further tidings. I will not detain you. Good day, sir,” and she curtseyed, hoping to dismiss him.

“Oh! I am in no haste; my horse has cast a shoe, and I have sent it on to Diggory, the smith. Prince Rupert is sure to pursue Massey most of the way to Gloucester, ’tis ever his failing to press the chase too far. I will rest awhile in this pleasant orchard.”

Poor Hilary, only longing for him to go, felt that she was indeed being punished for having allowed him in former times to be too much with her.

“I wonder whether you have thought over what I said to you the day before yesterday,” observed Norton, eagerly watching her.

“The day before yesterday,” she said, with a puzzled look. “What happened then?”

“You are not complimentary,” he replied, laughing. “Perhaps you have forgotten all about it. But I remember very well that I had the happiness of walking with you from the Hill Farm to the Vicarage, and of offering you——”

“Was that only the day before yesterday? To me it seems half a lifetime ago,” said Hilary.

“You were not altogether kind to me; in fact, when we got to the Vicarage you followed Colonel Massey’s example, and beat a hasty retreat.”

She made a brave effort to divert him from the subject, observing with a smile: “And I am going to beg you, sir, not to follow the example of Prince Rupert; pray do not push the pursuit any further.”

“Pardon me,” said Norton more gravely, “but I have every intention of carrying it to a successful end. Don’t you understand that I love you?”

“Sir, it is of no use,” she replied. “I cannot listen to your suit. Pray, pray leave me.”

“I will not leave you,” he said, fiercely, “till I clearly understand why you are thus cold and indifferent.”

“Sir, I have no love to give you,” she said, with quiet dignity.

“Never mind that, my love is hot enough to serve for both.”

“I do not want your love,” she said, emphatically.

His eyes gleamed with an anger that made him look devilish.

“The meaning of which is, that you love another. Rumour spoke truly, and the young Parliamentary captain who spared Bosbury Cross—:—”

Hilary started, and a wave of colour suffused her face.

“You see I know all about it.”

She remained quite silent, with drooped head.

“Do you love this Captain Harford? Speak—for I will know the truth!” he said, savagely.

Hilary raised her head. There was such suffering and pathos in her face that any man not the thrall of passion would have been touched. “Sir, all our lives we have loved each other. Oh! if you understood, you would be generous,” she said.

“Why did you not tell me the truth on Monday?”

“Our betrothal had ended at the beginning of the war. I vowed I would not love a rebel. But yesterday, when we met again, I found that war was weaker than love, that it could not really part us.”

“So you became disloyal to your King?”

“No, no; I shall always honour His Majesty; but in truth I can think of only one man in all the world, and that”—her face lighted up—“that is Gabriel Harford, for he is all the world to me. I have told you the whole truth, sir, and now, by your honour as a gentleman, I ask you to leave me.”

“Shall I tell you what you have done?” said Norton, speaking low and rapidly. “You have made me all the more in love with you—all the more determined to win you. What is this Captain Harford? A mere boy, your old playmate, perchance a pleasant comrade, but wholly unfit to be your lord and master.”

“Sir,” she said, with a new dignity in her manner, “he is the man I love.”

Norton muttered an impatient oath.

“Had he been of our party I might have left you to him with a good grace. But nothing shall make me yield to a miserable Roundhead, a strait-laced Puritan, who glories in self-control, and keeps a conscience on his premises. Much good may his conscience do him! I have him like a rat in a trap!”

The words almost paralysed her with terror. What did he know? What did he mean? Had he caught sight of Gabriel?

“And you!” cried Norton, passionately. “You are in my power. Do you understand that?”

Beside himself with wrath, Gabriel dragged himself up on to his knees and drew his sword from the scabbard. Meg and Nan glanced round at him uneasily; and Hilary, conscious of the movement though her back was turned to the hedge, grew desperate in her anxiety.

“No, no!” she panted. “You are too brave a man to take so base an advantage.”

“Pshaw!” said Norton, sneeringly. “The man’s a fool who neglects to use his advantages. You think only of the dear Puritan. You only fear what I may do to him. Well, I will confide in you. I have sent a trusty ambassador to Ledbury, and he is sure to make Captain Harford prisoner. Then, when he is in my power—well, there are many ways of exterminating rats—and rebels.”

Hilary choked back a sob, and moved a few steps from the hedge.

“I am told,” said Norton with a cruel smile, “that Sir Francis Doddington hung fourteen rebels at Andover t’other day. And elsewhere twelve of them were strung up to one apple-tree. We might hang Captain Harford from one of those apple-trees yonder; it would be a fitting death for a Herefordshire man.”

With a wild hope of getting him out of the orchard she moved as though to go, trusting that he might follow’. But Norton was too quick for her.

“Come! cheer up and don’t be so silent,” he said, ............