CHAPTER I.

Immediately succeeding the execution of Charles I., General Walton was in command of a fortress, then standing not far from Plymouth. One of his officers was his brother, Colonel George Walton. This man loved his brother’s daughter, as many an unmarried uncle will love nephews and nieces, and with an affection almost equal to that of the best of fathers!

And it is also true that this daughter, Elvira, loved her uncle even more than she loved her own father, the general. This young lady was promised in marriage, to a puritan officer, Captain Richard Forth, but it may be stated that she herself had favored the pretentions of Lord Arthur Talbot, a strong, unyielding royalist.

Just after the death of Charles the First, a lady arrived at the fortress, and was received by General Walton as the friend of his daughter--the friend of his daughter only in this, that a dear friend had recommended the unknown lady to his care.

She called herself Madame Henrietta, and no more. They thought her a French lady--and indeed her slightly imperfect English proved her to be a foreigner. But they asked no questions. She was franked by the dear friend, and so she was made welcome.

She soon became the companion of Elvira, who, young and light-headed, would kiss, torment, and delight this unknown lady, all within a minute. And thus things were when the General gave way to the united entreaties of his brother and Madame Henrietta, and recalled the promise of his daughter’s hand to the Puritan Colonel.

Imagine the curtain of our story drawn up, and what do you see? A platform of the fortress, the solemn sentries walking to and fro. The sun rises, and then these honest, straightforward religious puritans, sing their usual morning hymn.

This service over, the gates of the fortress are opened to the market girls, with their fresh, demure faces, and their neat, almost sombre, garments.

There is much talking about the young lady Elvira, the governor’s daughter, and how she was going to be married, and who to, and what he was like--but all this little tittle-tattle was carried on gravely, and with a demure air.

But pacing apart is Captain Richard Forth--his puritan heart strongly beating against the governor’s injustice in recalling his promise, and the shame that a puritan leader should marry his daughter to one of the godless cavaliers.

Nay--he speaks his complaints out aloud--whereon Robertson, a fellow officer, tells him to wear a fair face--there are his country and his soul to live for yet. “Open thy heart to me.”

“‘Tis not a righteous act, I say. He hath promised me the maiden--and now I have returned, he doth recall his word.”

“Heaven is a bride who never turneth away from the true lover.”

“Death were welcome.”

“I would fain death passed over thee if thou art in that frame, Richard Forth.”

“I have lost her--I have lost her!”

“And thereby perchance thou hast gained much. Heaven is merciful and all-seeing. Hark! dost hear the good march--embrace thy good sword--’twill not fail thee.”

“But my weak arm may, my friend.”

“Shame on thee, Richard Forth--methinks thou art a coward.”

“No, friend, no! not a coward, but weak.”

And the two friends turned towards the castle.