The years that followed were wild and turbulent, but during their passage Phil chanced upon one reminder1 and another of his earlier days of adventuring. He saw once again the long, ranting2 madman who had carried the great book. He might not have known the fellow, who was in a company of Brownists or Anabaptists, or some such people, had he not heard him crying out in his voice like a cracked trumpet3, to the great wonder and admiration4 of his fellows, "Never was a man beset5 with such diversity of thoughts." There was Jacob, too, who had sneaked6 away like a rat on the eve of the day when Tom Jordan's schemes fell about his ears: Phil once came upon him face to face, but when their eyes met Jacob slipped round a corner and was gone. He was a subtle man and wise, and of no intention to be reminded of his days as a pirate.
Philip Marsham went to the war with Sir John Bristol, and fought for the King, and rose to be a captain; and with the story of Philip Marsham is interwoven inseparably the story of Anne Bristol and of her father, Sir John. For Sir John Bristol died at the second battle of Newbury with his head on Philip Marsham's knees; and in his grief at losing the brave knight7 who had befriended him, the lad prayed God for vengeance8 on the Roundhead armies.
And yet, though his grief was bitter, he had too just a mind to see only one side of a great war. Once, when they sent him from the King's camp on a secret mission, the enemy ran him to cover, and he escaped them only by doubling back and hiding in the garret of a cottage where he lay high under the thatch9 and watched through a dusty little window the street from the Red Boar Inn down the hill to the distant meadows, without being himself seen. He heard far away a murmur10 as of droning bees. Minutes passed and he heard the drone settle into a hollow rumble11, from which there emerged after a time the remote sound of rattling12 drums and the occasional voices of shouting men. Then, of a sudden, there broke on the air a sound as of distant thunder, in which he made out a chorus:—
"His staff and rod shall comfort me,
His mantle13 e'er shall be my shield;
My brimming cup I hold in fee
Of him who rules the battlefield."
The voices of the singing men came booming over the meadows. They were deep, strong voices and there was that in their volume and fierce earnestness which made a man shiver.
Phil heard a dog barking; he saw a woman standing14 in the door of a cottage; he saw a cloud of dust rise above the meadow; then they came.
First a band of men on foot in steel caps, with their firelocks shouldered, swinging out in long, firm strides. Then a little group of kettledrums, hammering away in a fierce rhythm. Then a number of horsemen, with never a glint of gold on their bridles15 and never a curl from under their iron helms. Then, rank behind rank, a solid column of foot that flowed along the dusty road over hillock and hollow, dark and sombre, undulating like a torpid16 stream of something thick and slow that mightily17 forces a passage over every obstacle in its way.
They came up the hill, turning neither to right nor to left, up the hill and over it, and away to the north, where King Charles and all his armies lay.
It was a fearful sight, for they were stern, determined18 men. There was no gallant19 flippancy20 in their carriage; there was no lordly show of ribbands and linen21 and gold and silver lace. They frowned as they marched, and looked about them little. They bore so steadily22 on, they made one feel they were men of tempered metal, men of no blood and no flesh, men with no love for the brave adventures of life, but with a
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