Part 7

"What saved thee, friend?" asked Ratlaw with a puzzled look.

"Nothing," I answered quickly; then added, "or rather, you did, surely."

"Mebbe I did," said he; "you'm right agen, I reckon. Another minute--and----"

"Yes, yes," I put in eagerly; "pray, tell me all about it"--for indeed it seemed astonishing that Tubal Ammon had not finished me while yet he had the power to do so.

"Well, 'twere like this," quoth Ratlaw. "As I were a-cooming 'long oop over from--well, from minding that as needs the minding, I saw what looked like one great whopping man a-swaying in the moonlight. 'Twere a terror of a thing, I tell 'ee, and I were just a bit afeard; but on I coome, and then may I be drownded if that whopping man did not break clean in two, and one half of it (that's you) went flop. I heard your head go crack upon yon stump, then t'other half jumped on you, and I saw the flashing of a knife. I were close by then--a dozen yards away, not more--so I whips out my hanger here and cooms on roarin' like a lion. Joost in toime and only joost. The knife wor raised to stroike, when, hearing me, he joomps oop, snarls at me loike any dog, and flies off cursing. And oh, the face of en! Zur, if 'twere not the Evil One hisself, who wor it?"

"The Evil One himself," I answered slowly.

"Aye, sure, or you had killed a dozen such as he wi' that." He pointed to my sword.

I nodded, then asked:

"How long have I been here?"

"Mebbe the quarter of an hour."

"Ah! so long? And which way ran this villain?"

"Ran? 'Twere no running, zur," replied Dan Ratlaw. "He flew! Yea, as I live, he sailed above yon bushes like a bat. And may I be clean drownded, zur," he added in an awful whisper, "if blazing fire did not drop from en as he flew."

I understood. Ammon had shed gold in flight.

"But which way did he go?" I asked again.

"Straight for The Havering yonder," answered Rat, "and like enough he'll be a-perching on the roof of it."

Then, for the second time that night, a clammy sweat broke out upon my face. Ammon! The Havering! My father!

"Rat," said I, "I must for home at once."

"Whoy, zur, what's wrong?" he asked.

"Naught, but I must away at once."

"I be afeard thou canst not walk," said he. "Take one more pull at this fust."

He held the bottle to my lips.

"No, not a drop. Give me a hand up, man, that's all," said I.

He did it, and, staggering to my feet, I stood there swaying for a moment, giddy and bewildered. Then, when I had mastered this unsteadiness, I took Dan's hand and said: "You've saved my life, and I shall not forget it."

The trusty fellow rubbed a sleeve across his mouth but answered nothing; then his hand went down into his pocket and came forth glittering with gold.

"See here," said he, with something of a shame-faced look, "I found this on the grass beside thee. Doubtless he meant to take it with him, but----"

"Nay," I put in quickly, "'tis not mine. 'Twas his, and now is yours by right. Therefore keep it."

"What, his?--the--the devil's?"

"Yes; and, look you, if you search the way he fled you will, methinks, find more of it. That was the falling fire you saw. His pockets bulged with gold."

So saying, I picked my sword up from the ground, and, leaving Ratlaw gaping with amazement, sped for home.

How I ran I know not, for my head was singing like a sea-shell, and my thoughts (if thoughts they could be called) were such a seething medley as it beats me to describe aright. And thus it came about that, scarce knowing how (as one but half-awake, that is), I reached The Havering gates. There I stopped a moment; then, passing through, crept like a thief into the house, and, having gently closed the door behind me, listened. All was silent, save for the mournful ticking of the great hall clock, which in such awful stillness broke on me like a death-knell.

Pressing both hands upon my throbbing head, I tried to think. My father might perhaps yet be up there wrestling with his trouble. If so, I must be ready with that great surprise which could not fail to put his care to flight.

Filled with this hopeful thought, I lit a candle, brought the Black Box forth, untied the binding cord, and opened it. Then, with a throttled cry, I staggered back, as though a blow had struck me. The box was empty! Ferguson had put the papers in his pocket--not in this; and, in his hurried flight, had left behind what was to me of no more value than a stone!

I could have cursed, or wept, or both, at such a bitter mockery as that; but I did neither. For a moment I stood staring blankly at the gaping box; then, having taken off my shoes, I seized the faithless thing, and, stealing silently upstairs, knocked at the study door. No answer came. I tried the latch. The door was locked. Strange! I had never known my father lock his door by night, though, to be sure, he sometimes did so in the day-time when he did not wish to be disturbed. I knocked again--much louder. Still no answer; then, listening, I heard a stealthy, creeping noise within. I did not wait a moment longer; hurling myself upon the door, I drove it crashing inwards.

Even as I thus burst in, the figure of a man shot past me, and, springing through the open casement, disappeared. Running to the window I looked forth, and saw the black, satanic form of Tubal Ammon fleeing down the moonlit garden. I watched him till he vanished like an evil shadow in the darkness of the trees; then, turning slowly, cast a fearful glance about the room.

At first I could make nothing out, for the candle had burned down into its socket, and all was dark; but, as I left the window, a straggling moonbeam, struggling through the chestnut tree (that fatal chestnut tree!), fell on a silvery patch above a high-backed chair. Slowly, with feet of lead, I moved towards it for a step or two, then stopped. My father sat there, with bowed head, as though he slumbered. What!--had he slept through such a turmoil?

Shaking from head to foot, I went close up and laid a trembling hand upon his shoulder--spoke to him. He neither stirred nor answered. Nay, he would speak no more, for when I took him in my arms I found that he was dead!

*CHAPTER X*

*I Make a Solemn Vow*

It may be that I am of a different make from other men--I know not; but in that awful moment, when heaven and earth alike were crashing round me, and my very life itself seemed rent asunder, I neither grieved nor wept. It was, indeed, as though a band of steel had forged itself about my heart and turned me into stone.

If it be hard to have no softened feelings at a time like that, then am I hard as granite; if it be wicked to be filled with vengeful thoughts in face of death, then am I wicked as the Evil One himself: for as I stood there with my father's icy hand in mine (the hand of him who had been everything to me), one thought, and only one, possessed my mind--the fierce resolve to be avenged on those who were his murderers, as truly as was Cain the murderer of Abel.

There was no mark of violence on him, save that his vest had been ripped open, and the key (that proof which was to win the price of blood!) torn from its ribbon. He had been dead some time--the brave, albeit weakened heart had given way at last beneath the strain of threatening danger, and Tubal Ammon, coming to give death, had found it there before him.

So much I noted, swiftly, clearly, as I stood there in that moonlit room of death; then, with the sense of having added years, in moments, to my life, I drew my sword, and holding it above the poor, bowed head, took one deliberate vow of vengeance.

Even as I did so, heavy hurrying footsteps sounded on the stairs, and glancing round, I saw a bunch of wondering, awestruck faces staring at me from the doorway. My crashing entrance had aroused the house, and here, half-dressed and ghost-like, were the servants.

The very sight of such a gaping, helpless throng stirred wild, unreasoning anger in a brain which hitherto had felt like lead. I must have turned upon them with a threatening fierceness, for they one and all fell backward with a fearful look.

"What now! What do you here?" I said.

"Oh, by the love o' Heaven, sir, what be wrong?" asked Tom, the groom, who held a flaring candle high above his head.

I paused a moment, then pointed to the chair, and answered:

"Your master sits there, dead!"

No cry or movement followed, but the glances cast upon me and my naked sword spoke plainly of the awful thought which filled each horror-stricken mind. Yes, for one throbbing instant it was clear to me that I was counted my father's slayer.

"Dead!" gasped Tom at last. "How, sir? Not--not killed?"

The hand which held the candle shook.

"No, not killed;" I answered slowly, for even in that blank, bewildering moment it flashed upon me that the truth could not be told to anyone without great danger. "No, not killed; he died as he had always wished to die--swiftly. Come now," I added, in a voice that sounded strange and far-off to my ears, "help me to bear him to his chamber."

No more was spoken.

The dawn of that the blackest day in all my life broke with a mocking splendour. The sun rose gloriously upon a green glad earth; the joyous song of birds, the scent of many flowers, the gentle whisper of the soft June breeze, the murmur of the sea--all these, the joyous signs of one more resurrection from the things of darkness, were there in plenty; but as I stood and looked down on my father's white, set face, I took no heed of them; they were less than nothing. The present was as a thing I had no part in; the past alone seemed real. A thousand memories of bygone years came flooding over me. It was as though I lived through all my life again, within that silent room of death.

Yet, notwithstanding this, my heart was still like stone; nor grief nor tears were mine. Instead, I vowed fresh vengeance. There should be no rest for me till both Ferguson and Tubal Ammon had been made to answer for their wickedness; until, that is, they had been hunted down and killed. The sword which had been girded on me by the hands now cold and stiff should also know no rest until it had avenged its giver's death. Henceforward that should be its work and mine.

So much I swore, and felt the better for it, yet not without some vision of the perils and the pitfalls which must certainly beset me ere my vow could be fulfilled.

And first among these stumbling-blocks there came the thought that none could help me. The truth about my father's death was one with which I could not trust a living soul; the threatening danger which had hovered over him, and killed him, now just as surely hovered over me; the secret which he had confided to my keeping scarce a day before was still a secret, though now known to three instead of four. Henceforth, in fact, 'twould be a deadly, silent warfare betwixt one and two, and well I knew that God's earth did not hold a blacker pair of villains than the chaplain and his creature Tubal Ammon. But that did not dismay me; nay, rather was I heartened by the thought that now, at least, I had a real work (however desperate) in life. For the rest of it, come rack, come rope, I would not flinch or turn aside. My course was clearly marked, and I was minded to run it with a will. My father's blood flowed in my veins, and though a cruel fate had snatched him from my side, he still was mine, and this that I was bent upon seemed but a poor plain duty due to one who had done everything for me. At any rate, 'twas all I could do now for him, and I would gladly give my life for its accomplishment.

It was such feelings and such fierce resolves as these which kept me up and made me adamant (I know it now--for afterwards, long afterwards, the crash came), and, looking back through many years, I see no reason to regret it; for it was this alone which made it possible for me to go about my many pressing duties firm-jawed, silent, and clear-headed. And this, I knew, was as my father would have had it, for he had ever little tolerance or sympathy for those who wailed and whimpered in the face of sorrow.

I will not dwell upon the many happenings of that dolorous day, for, indeed, they have no business in these pages, and so may be told swiftly in fewest words.

First, then, summoned hastily, came the family physician, an old grey-headed, owl-eyed man, who, as I always felt, knew far more about me than he ought to. He asked divers questions, got, I fear, short answers; then shook his head, and murmured:

"Ah! 'tis as I feared; 'tis as I always said; the heart hath failed."

He said this with a solemn sadness, but yet, as it seemed to me, with some small pride in that his prophecy had been fulfilled.

Next, eagerly (for ill news flies apace, and many messengers had been dispatched) came kith and kin, flocking like crows into the old ancestral tree, and, for the most part, trying hard (but vainly) to hide an eager curiosity by means of sighs and tears. In truth, their plaintive caws were little to my liking; and verily they must have thought me something of a hardened monster as I moved about among them, dry-eyed, immovable, and, as it seemed, bent only on cold business.

Thus the day passed swiftly, crowded as it was with thronging duties (for, in spite of everyone and everything, I had decided that my father should be buried on the morrow), and evening came before I found a chance of going out. But when the sun had set, I left the dismal cawing of the family crows, and, slipping forth, went down by unfrequented ways into the town. Moreover, I went fully armed, for who could tell what ugly violence or treachery might be abroad?

*CHAPTER XI*

*I Live and Learn*

The little town was all agog with men both young and old (farm hands for the most part), who had come in to join a cause which ignorance persuaded them would turn the kingdom upside down and make them so much richer by the doing of it. Most of them were armed; some wore green boughs stuck in their hats, while others waved them wildly; and everyone was shouting out these words, which already I was sick of hearing:

"A Monmouth! Liberty! The Protestant religion!"

Faith, 'twas as if the countryside had gone clean mad. "If this be how they go about the changing of a king," thought I, "then Heaven have mercy on them!"

There were many in this bawling throng who knew me, and not a few showed signs of speaking to me of my loss; but I would have none of it, and so passed by with nods or scanty greetings.

The Duke, I learned, had taken up his quarters at the "George", and thither, though scarce knowing why, I went; and what a sight and babel greeted me on drawing near the inn-yard! That of the previous night had been as nothing to it.

The yard, and half the narrow street besides, were packed with men whose one desire in life appeared to be to get inside the inn itself as speedily as possible; and, to that end, they elbowed, pushed, and wellnigh fought each other. They shouted, waved green boughs, sang hymns and psalms; while ever and anon an oath or curse rang strangely out as some poor wretch was crushed beyond endurance.

I watched them from a distance for a while in wondering silence, then going up I touched a burly, pushing yokel on the arm, and asked what was the meaning of so great a pother.

"Whoy, dost not know?" says he, regarding me with pity. "They be a-takin' down the na-ams i'soide thur, and we be all a-goin' to sign on."

"For Monmouth, eh?" said I.

"Aye, sure," says he. "Who else?"

"Have many joined?"

"Aye, hun'reds--thoosands! And you'm be just the sort o' man they be a-wantin', zurr," he added, looking me up and down admiringly. "Coom on! Coom! We be a-moovin' now. Kape tha' close behoind me, zurr."

And spreading out his arms he booed and barked as though the crowd before him were a flock of sheep intended for the slaughter--as, alas! full many of them were.

But although his words had made me quite as keen as he to get inside the "George", methought I knew an easier, swifter way of doing it than his, which, as it seemed to me, must surely take some hours.

So I forsook the crowd, which was far too busy to take heed of me, and slipping round into that quiet street from which I had escaped the night before, went up a narrow passage to the private side door of the inn. 'Twas fast, as had I imagined it would be, but when I knocked the bolts were hastily withdrawn, the door was opened cautiously, and there before me stood one of the thieving rascals who had tried to rob me of my horse.

He started back and stared. I frowned upon him boldly.

"What now?" said he when we had taken our fill of one another. "What is thy business, friend?"

His speech was thick, his face deep red, while as he stood there with a hand upon the door, he swayed a little.

"The same as yesternight," I answered.

"Ah--our--our--godly--chaplain, eh?" jerked he.

I nodded sternly.

"Ah, and what then?" he mumbled, stroking his beard as though unable to collect his thoughts. "Look you, friend, my orders are to keep the door 'gainst all intruders. Yet an your business be in truth with---- Ah, by my soul, friend, yes--that's it--the password of the night; what is it? Give it quickly, and pass on."

At first I felt inclined to turn and flee for it while yet there was a chance, not knowing whom the drunken lout might bring about my ears; but second thoughts constrained me to go boldly through with it, for verily I was in that state which cares not what may happen. Therefore I said:

"I do not know the password of the night."

"What's that?" roared he. "Business with godly chaplain and don't know password? Ho! ho! now, if that be not pretty!"

With that he put his arms akimbo and burst into a roaring laugh, so that for a moment I had half a mind to knock him down and stride across his barrel of a body. But cautiousness prevailed.

"Pretty enough, but true," said I. "For, look you, I have been away on very urgent business of the chaplain's since yesternight, and have but just returned here. Prithee, what is the password, friend?" I added quickly.

Perhaps it was the very brazenness of such a question that threw the muddled fellow off his guard; at any rate, he lurched towards me, and whispered underneath his ale-soaked breath:

"'Tis Zion, friend--Zion--mark you, Zion. Make sure on't, for it may serve thee well enough ere night be ended."

Little knowing how prophetic were those latter words, he drew aside; then, as I would have passed him by, he plucked me by the sleeve, and, with a knowing wink, said:

"A favour, friend, a favour. Speak well of one John Coram to his reverence, for verily my zeal is most abounding. Hark!" he added, raising a shaking hand as a great shout reached us from the street. "Doth not the Lord's cause prosper mightily? Yea, I trow it doth indeed. And what am I, John Coram, to be spoken well of to his reverence? Friend, it might seem to thee that I am overfull of ale, but 'tis not so; nay, I vow I never touch the stuff. 'Tis burning zeal which fills me, nothing else. Zeal, I say, zeal! zeal!"

Nodding heavily, he staggered over to a bench, and crashing down thereon, sat staring in amazement at his jack boots.

But having got thus far I craved some information.

"Where is the Duke?" I asked.

The fellow waved his hand and said:

"He sits in yon great room receiving followers."

"And is the chaplain with him?"

"Aye, verily, why not? Our godly chaplain is the friend of kings, and nigh as full of zeal as me, John Coram. Ho! ho! methinks that's good; ah, passing good be that. Ho! ho!"

I waited till his roaring laugh had sunk into a rumble, then fired a random shot.

"Did'st ever meet a man called Tubal Ammon?"

John Coram tapped his steel-cap, shook his head, and answered:

"Never heard that name; but say, what be he like?"

"A tall, thin, bony fellow; legs like broomsticks; face like parchment; eyes like slits; and short-cropped hair that grows straight up like grass. Moreover, he----"

"Stop!" broke in Coram, who had been following me with wondering eyes and gaping mouth. "What did you call him?"

"Tubal Ammon."

"Ah, then, it cannot be the same, and yet 'tis very like the man I met five years agone. His name was Israel Stark. 'Twas said that he had been a preacher of the Word, though when I knew him he was more a breaker of it, though, to be sure, he had some store of Latin ever ready on his tongue. Yet, for all that, he was the swiftest runner that I ever came across. Moreover, he could climb a tree like any squirrel. Aye, right well I mind me how I once did see him go clean up a----"

"Stay," I put in eagerly, "'tis the same man sure enough, in spite of names."

"What! hast thou met him too, then, friend?" asked Coram.

"Yes, I have met him too," I answered grimly.

"When?"

"Not many hours ago."

"And where?"

"Not very far from here."

John Coram rose up slowly from his seat, and so stood staring at me for a moment in a hungry fashion; then said he:

"I would with all my heart it had been me instead of you, friend; for with these hands of mine I would have wrung his wicked skinny neck."

"Ah, so you have a grudge against him, eh?" I asked, as carelessly as wellnigh throttling eagerness would let me.

"A grudge!" growled Coram. "Aye, friend, that doth not name the tithe of it. I would account it heaven itself to kill the fellow; for, verily, there's not a blacker villain on God's earth than Israel Stark, and well I know it."

"Ah, and how so?"

"Why, hearken. He came to me in sore distress--half-starved--a thing of skin and bones. He told me tales of savages and shipwrecks. I listened to those tales, had pity on him, took him in, fed, clothed him. And in the end he robbed me vilely; moreover, would have murdered me had not a friend come in the nick of time and saved my life. That friend he slew, and so escaped."

"Ah, then, we are one," said I.

"What mean you?" asked John Coram wonderingly. "Hath he injured thee as well, then?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"No matter. We are one, I say, and this our meeting may be fortunate for both of us. Listen! I would give you five gold pieces if you could find this Stark or Ammon for me so that I might kill him."

"What!" gasped Coram. "Five--gold--pieces--to do that which I would gladly do for nothing! But say, friend, if you met this fellow but a few hours back, hast now no sort of knowledge where he is?"

"No, none."

"Nor is that any cause for marvel," rejoined Coram; "for verily the fellow is a thing of darkness, passing like a shadow--well I know 'tis so. But count on me, friend, count on me; for if this mischief-worker still be in these parts, and catchable, he shall be caught. But stay, how shall I let thee know? Where shall I find thee, friend, in case of news?"

I paused a moment, looking fixedly at Coram. Could I trust the fellow? Yes, methought I could. "You will find me at The Havering," I said, "a house out yonder on the Uplime road. 'Tis a well-known place, and anyone will guide you thither."

"The Havering, The Havering," murmured Coram slowly, like one who conned a lesson. "Yes, methinks I've got that. And now for thy name, friend?"

Again I paused to scan his face; for verily the whole thing struck me as a most uncanny echo of that fateful meeting by the roadside less than a week before. But now, for all his bloodshot eyes and ale-marked face, it seemed as though I stood before a lusty, honest fellow. Moreover, when I came to think on it, a risk the more or less was of but small account, for who could suffer now except myself? Therefore:

"Fane--Michael Fane," I answered.