Part 8

"Fane!" muttered Coram, with a thoughtful stroking of his beard. "Fane! That sounds familiar. Where did I hear it, now? Ah, I have it! 'Twas yesternight, as I kept guard in yonder street, I heard two fellows muttering round a corner. Their voices were so low that I could make little of the conversation, but more than once I caught the words 'Black Box' and 'Fane'. I tried to creep a little closer, but they heard me, and, coming out, slunk off."

"Ha! so? And could you see them? Didst make out who they were?" I asked, scarce able to prevent my hands from clutching him.

"Nay, for the moon was hid, the night full dark, and they passed by upon the other side. But they were friends--not foes--of that I am assured, for when I challenged them they gave the password of the night."

"You could make nothing of them, then?"

"Nay, naught; save that both were tall, and one--him nearest to me--wore a long black cloak."

"And did you mark which road they went?"

"Aye, verily, I followed them a little way, and saw them hurrying off towards the sea. But, say, why show you so much interest in this matter? Truly, they used thy name, but that doth count for little, being friends. Stay, though," he added quickly, "hast lost anything--a box, for instance?"

"No," I answered slowly. "I have lost my father."

John Coram eyed me for a moment in a startled fashion.

"Not killed?" said he at last.

"No; but lost no less for that," I answered.

"Aye, lad, I see--I know--I understand, for I, too, lost mine when I was young like thee. Yea, 'tis a grievous thing, indeed, to lose a father."

The bloodshot eyes that gazed into my own were sad; the voice, though rough and thick, yet rang with kindness. The things about me seemed to fade away, and I saw nothing save that waxen, upturned face at home. John Coram's voice recalled me. "Say, friend," said he, laying a hand upon my arm, "what secret lies behind this matter? Go you in fear of anyone?"

For a moment I was tempted to trust the fellow and tell everything, but wisdom pointed otherwise.

"In fear of anyone!" I echoed with a mocking laugh. "Nay, save me that, I pray you. 'Twas but an idle fancy, nothing else. I only wondered (foolishly enough) if Stark could have been one of them."

"Stark!" cried Coram, springing back. "Now, by my life, how came you to think that?"

"An idle fancy, as I said before, and nothing else. These fellows gave the password of the night, and so were friends. They used my name; and, pray, why not, when it is free to all? Enough, let's say no more about it." I stopped and looked at him, then put a last, most daring question, saying: "I wonder if our godly chaplain knows Israel Stark or Tubal Ammon (to give him both his names). Think you he does?"

On hearing this, John Coram drew away, and stared at me as though I had gone daft; then, throwing back his head, laughed loud and long.

"Ho! ho! if that be not a merry jest, then show me one," cried he. "Doth Master Ferguson know Israel Stark? Oh, by my life, 'tis good--'tis passing good. But, look you, friend, I'll answer it by asking thee a question. Doth Satan mix with angels?"

"It seems to me it may be so," I answered darkly.

John Coram started back, and cast a swift, uneasy glance at me.

"What mean you by such words as those?" he asked.

"Naught," I answered quickly; "nor must I tarry longer. Remember, five gold pieces if you bring me certain news of Tubal Ammon's whereabouts; and here, by way of token, is a crown-piece on account."

"Thou art a rare good fellow, friend," he murmured, staring at the coin; "strange, indeed, but passing good. Nor will I fail thee. True, there is much mystery in the matter, yet I ask no questions. We both want Israel Stark--that's quite enough for me. Yea, 'tis a handsome bargain, friend, and I, John Coram, will stick unto it like glue."

He held a big rough hand out, and I grasped it tightly, for, notwithstanding too much ale and a rather muddled pate, I looked upon him as a kind of brother.

"Yes," said I, "'tis true there is some mystery in this affair; but, as we have one end in view, that matters nothing. Let us not fail each other, that is all."

"Aye, true," said he; "but, look you, friend, 'tis said the Duke rides out of Lyme within a day or two from now. What then?"

"Ah! what then?"

"Well, go you with us?"

"I know not where I go," I answered, turning with my hand upon the door-latch; "but much may happen ere the Duke rides forth. In the meantime I will not lose sight of you; rely on that."

With that I would have gone, but Coram stopped me.

"Stay! one moment, friend," said he, raising his blinking eyes no higher than my waist-belt. "That small affair about thy horse last night. Is it forgiven me?"

"Forgiven and forgotten," I replied.

He heaved a mighty sigh; and I went forth to seek the "godly chaplain".

*CHAPTER XII*

*How I was Saved from Rashness*

Turning down a stone-flagged passage, I made for a small, snug parlour, where I had oft held private converse with the landlord and his daughter Miriam, especially the latter. I found the door wide open and the room deserted, but that did not prevent my entering, for indeed the house had ever been a sort of second home to me; and, as things were just then, I did not crave for any company, and silence seemed a blessed thing.

So, standing with my hands behind me, and back towards the empty fire-place, I took swift thought, if thought it could be called--for what a medley filled my brain! John Coram's words had let in such a blinding light upon the question nearest to my heart that I was fairly dazzled and bewildered by it. Thus, there was the mischief-working demon with two names; his meeting on the previous night with Ferguson, not a stone-throw from the spot where I was standing; their slinking by the very man who was as zealous to kill Ammon as I was myself; and, finally, the mocking thought that, in his ignorance, John Coram looked on the murderous chaplain as a thing of spotless righteousness--fit company for angels.

A bitter laugh escaped me when I thought of that, and what the ale-soaked trooper would have said and looked like if I had told him all I knew about his saintly reverence.

This led me to consider whether I could trust myself so far as to look on Ferguson just then--supposing Coram had been right in stating he was with the Duke. For might I not, in spite of cooler, better judgment, be constrained to fire a pistol at him, and thereby bring swift death upon me? Yes, in my then fierce, desperate state, it seemed most likely that I should thus lose myself. What then? Why, to begin with, Tubal Ammon would live on, unless John Coram found and settled with him--which I doubted, for indeed there seemed in him no sort of match for Ammon's wriggling craftiness. Thus, in attempting to kill Ferguson (and such a wild excited shot might easily miss its mark!) I should be foiled of doing that which lay still nearer to my heart's desire. Again, my father must be buried on the morrow, and that he should be laid to rest without his son to mourn him was unthinkable.

No, my life, barren and blighted though it was, must not be risked that night, too much depended on it. For a time, at least, I must restrain myself, meet craftiness with craft and guile with guile.

These thoughts, which were so strange a mixture of cold reckoning and burning hate, left me where I had been. A hot and overmastering desire was on me to watch Ferguson, gloat over him, and see how one who had so vilely bargained for my father's death could play the part of holiness before Duke Monmouth and his followers. The very words with which he had thus bartered life for gold rang in my ears; and once again the vision of my father's white set face rose up before me. And then I muttered something, loosed my sword within its sheath, and cast a hungering glance down at the pistols in my belt.

From close at hand there came the heavy tramp of those who went to join the "Cause", while from the street beyond the cries of "Liberty and pure religion!" rose and fell unceasingly.

With curling lip I listened for a space to what, for me, was now a bitter mockery, by reason of one Ferguson the Plotter; then with tight-clenched teeth I strode across the room, bent on I scarce know what, though if ever man had thought of murder in his heart that had I just then. But ere I reached the door there came the rustle of a dress, and Miriam, the landlord's daughter, stood before me.

It may have been the altered look upon my face, or simply great surprise at seeing me, which was the cause of it, I know not; but with a little cry she clasped her hands and started back, while I stood dumb as Lucifer before an angel.

I tried to murmur something, but I could not; nor was there any need; for now she came to me, took both my hands in hers, and looking up with big sad eyes, said softly:

"Oh, Michael, I am very, very sorry for thee."

Her sweet voice trembled, and her pretty head was bowed.

Those were the gentlest, truest words that I had heard throughout that awful day, and so there is no shame in saying that I could not answer her. Instead I drew her close, and for a moment there was silence in that little room. The setting sun shone in upon us; and, for a time at least, I knew what power a woman has to save man from himself.

This is no tale of love, nor, if it were, would this be any place in which to prate of it; but yet I should be something of a thankless coward were I not to state that Miriam Hope was very dear to me. We had been friends from childhood, and looking backward through the long, long years I know how much I owe to her. And speaking of that night, she saved me from I know not what mad act.

"And how came you here?" she asked, when we had talked a while of other things.

"By the side door yonder," I replied.

"Ah, verily," sighed she, "the front is crowded like a fair. The fearful din hath made my head ache sorely. How, think you, Michael, will this sorry business end?"

"I fear in hanging for the most part, Miriam," was my answer.

"Ah, that is what my father says. 'Tis terrible to think of."

"And so the Duke is in the Great Room yonder?"

"Yes, and a very gracious, kindly gentleman he seems. His smile is very sweet. Aye, 'tis a thousand pities that he ever landed on so wild a business."

"Yes, ten thousand pities," I agreed, though not because I thought of Monmouth's peril.

"My father says he cannot win."

"No; there is little chance of that, methinks."

"And what if he be beaten, Michael?"

"Why, then 'twill be a case of hunt and hunted. But say, Miriam, are many of the gentry coming in to join him?"

"Nay, very few, if any. They are nearly all rough country men, more used to scythes than swords. I pity them, for verily they look like stupid boys let loose from school."

"Yes, yes," I murmured, for my mind was set on other things just then. "Is Ferguson the chaplain with the Duke?"

"Yes; but him I like not," answered Miriam with a little frown. "He may be great and clever as they say, but I go by faces, Michael, and never saw I such an ugly, evil one as his. His little eyes glint out beneath his old torn wig like those of rats, and when he walks he shuffles like a camel. Why the Duke makes so much of him, and trusts him so, 'tis past me to imagine, for verily I would not trust him with my shoes."

"Ah, then he must be bad," said I; then fearing lest my face might tell a tale, I added quickly: "Now for the Great Room, Miriam; I would go there."

She started back from me, glanced fearfully about her, then with a searching look said:

"You would not join these rebels, surely, Michael?"

"Nay, I would only see the fun," I answered carelessly.

"But even that might well be dangerous," said she. "Remember there be wicked, desperate men abroad just now."

I could have told her so much, but I only laughed and said:

"Nay, have no fear, sweet girl, for, look you, I am fully armed and care for no man. But, say, how shall I get into the room through such a press?"

"Why, if you must really go," said she, "I will take you through the antechamber, and that will bring you well into the room, not far from where the Duke is sitting."

"Most excellent!" quoth I. "I pray you lead the way at once, dear Miriam."

She turned as if to go, then stopped and gazed upon me in a sad, reproachful fashion.

"Michael," she murmured, "how can you talk of seeing fun when your poor father is thus lying----"

"Stop! stop!" I broke in swiftly. "We will not speak of that, dear girl. You do not understand. It may be that I seek to drown my thoughts. Lead on, I pray you."

And so I followed Miriam, and was ushered in.

*CHAPTER XIII*

*In the Great Room--and Afterwards*

The room was packed; and never saw I such a piteous sight as was presented by that crowd of gaping, moon-struck faces, which, as it seemed to me, stared forth like poor penned cattle into certain doom. On each was writ in fatal characters the one word--Death! Yet all were mighty eager to be signing on; in truth, by the pressing and the jostling it might have been the statutes at a fair.

On a little platform at one end of the room, and not far from where I was standing, sat Monmouth with his officers--Lord Grey, Fletcher of Saltoun, Old Dare (as he was called), the Taunton goldsmith, and others whom I knew not. The Duke, all smiles and bows, watched everything with eager, anxious eyes, and even spoke a word or two when one big strapping fellow, towering high above the rest of them, stepped up to volunteer.

But for me there was small interest either in Monmouth or those who flocked to serve him. My eyes were fixed upon a wry-wigged gentleman who sat before a little table taking down the names. Yes, there, in all his blotch-faced ugliness--a hulking, bony, ill-dressed heap of perfidy--sat Robert Ferguson, the Plotter. His pen was whirling like a windmill; he seemed to catch a name up with the feather of his quill and run it down on paper wellnigh as soon as it was spoken; and all the time he never ceased to jerk forth jests and mock encouragement to those who, in their ignorance, were little more than clay within his hands. Thus, as I entered, he was saying:

"Come on, my friends, come on! Ah, what amazing, lovely zeal is this which moves your hearts! Fear not, the Lord of Hosts is with us, as the Scripture hath it, and verily we must prevail. The next--the next! ... Now, by my life, if such a fine upstanding man as thou shouldst not be captain in a month or so! Yes ... yes ... or more, perchance. Come on! the next! Oh, who shall stand against such zeal as this upon the day of battle? Ah, who, indeed? Not those, I trow, whose hands are stained with blood! Not those who have forsworn the Lord of Hosts and set up their abominations in high places. Not those, I say, not those! The next, the next! Come on, I pray you, speedily, or we shall hear the cock crow ere we've finished. What's that you say, friend? Yes, yes, I have you down quite clearly to the very letter: Uriah Smite--and may you smite full lustily! That is a merry jest, but something to the point, I vow. Back, friend, I pray you, and make room for him who stands behind.... Ah, what's that? You fought with Cromwell, say you? Truly, a handsome warrant for your zeal; and may you fight as well for us. Grey hairs, when mixed with zeal and wisdom, count for much. And as for that sword-cut on your face, well, what adornment could outvie it in true loveliness? ...

"Next, next! Remember that there is something for you all. Here a little--there a little--everywhere a little, and much for those as are right valiant. The Duke is not one to forget, I tell you. No, no, the sowers shall indeed reap heavily! What now, there, you who hold back, muttering? Hath Satan put a craven fear within your hearts? If so, take courage from my case. Look on me! I'm that man, that Ferguson, for whose unworthy life five hundred pounds were offered. Yea, I am he who years ago was driven forth from England, as a thing accurst, by those whose wickedness rose up to heaven like foul black smoke. I say again, I am that man, that Ferguson, who was accounted carrion for the evil-doers, a thing to be cast out and trodden underfoot like Jezebel of old. Yet here am I this day among you, called forth to be the scourge of them who would have slain me. What then! will you, whose road to victory is as broad and easy as the king's highway--will you, I say, hold back like frightened sheep when such a work is calling? Nay, nay, methinks I read a better tale than that upon your faces! Again, I say the Lord of Hosts is on our side, and your enemies shall crumple up before you like a scroll of parchment. Hark to the shouts of them who press behind you in the street! 'A Monmouth! True religion! Liberty! Down with the Scarlet Woman!' Ah, friends, what sweet, melodious, heavenly music! It sounds like Miriam's song of victory in mine ears! Come on, come boldly on, and let there be no Didymus among us!"

I will not weary you with more of the amazing wretch's sayings; but for me, who watched and listened, and knew him for the foul, cold-blooded murderer he was, his every word and movement were alive with grim suggestiveness. In very truth he held me spellbound as a thing scarce human. It seemed as though the Evil One himself sat there taking toll for Hades.

Nor was it less astonishing to note the swaying power he exercised upon a crowd of stalwart, sinewy fellows, who, had they known him rightly, might have torn him limb from limb. His strength in this respect made Monmouth and the rest of them appear like grinning images, whose fate this wicked, frowsy villain juggled with like dice. And as I watched him the desire to put a bullet through his wicked head grew stronger every moment. His ugly, working mouth was what I would have aimed for, and more than once my fingers crept towards a pistol-stock; but, verily, the crowd which was for ever moving straight in front of me would have made shooting something of a risky business even had the power of self-restraint been lacking; and so I stood there with my back against the wall and feasted greedily on Ferguson's each word and movement.

When he had filled a sheet 'twas handed to a messenger, who took it to the town hall, followed by the men whose names it bore, who there received their arms and so passed on to drill.

It was during one of these short breaks that the Duke held up his hand and said:

"Remember, we have arms for all who join--that is, for any number."

"Yes, yes," cried Ferguson, "for thousands! Muskets, pistols, armour plates, and swords for all! And will ye not look fine, my bonnie men? Arms for thousands, arms for thousands, as His Grace the Duke hath said!"

Now this was very far from being true, as those who had to fight with scythes and sickles, bound on staves, were soon to prove; but now the statement was received with shouts of joy, and as the news passed out into the street a deafening babel rent the air.

The Duke smiled glowingly; the chaplain waved his pen; while those in front, whose heads had spoilt my view, moved quickly to the table. At the same time Monmouth raised his eyes in my direction, looked at me enquiringly a moment, then, seeing that I did not move, held up a beckoning hand and said:

"What now, young man? You are the very kind we need. Why, then, hold back? Are you not for us?"

The chaplain's pen stopped writing, and all eyes were turned upon me. Uncovering, I stepped up to the table.

"No, my lord," I answered with a sweeping bow. "I am for neither side at present."

"Ah, that is badly put, young man," said Monmouth smiling. "For, look you, friend, the middle of the road is empty in this matter."

"Aye, verily," snapped Ferguson, casting a swift glance at me from beneath his ragged wig. "His Grace speaks truly. 'Choose ye this day whom ye will serve'--friend--as the Scripture hath it."

"Methinks we sometimes twist the Scriptures to our use," I answered, staring at him fixedly. "Even a murderer might find some text to serve him if he searched for it," I added in a lower voice.

"How now, friend?" put in Monmouth smilingly. "You come here fully armed, the very picture of the man we need, and yet you say you are for neither side! What, then, brings you hither?"

"Mere curiosity, my lord; a wish to see, that is," I answered.

"Or a wish to spy--which?" sneered Ferguson, stabbing his pen into the ink-horn.

I was hard put to it to keep my fingers off his throat, and, indeed, I only saved myself by locking them behind me. Bending over him I answered slowly:

"No, sir, I am no spy. I leave such dirty work for those whose nature suits them to it."

The chaplain strove to hide a start by dipping savagely into the horn again, then cast a swift, uneasy glance at me, and said:

"We are not here to deal in parables, but men, nor have we time to waste on empty words. If you be not for joining us, make way for those that are. Next! Next!"

He waved his quill as though dismissing me.

"Stay! one moment, friend!" cried Monmouth. "I pray you give your name, and say how 'tis that one so likely---- Aye, I would promise you a cornetcy--is that so, my lord?--(he turned to Grey, who nodded)--ah, yes, a cornetcy--if not a captaincy. How is it then, I say, that one so likely hesitates to join our righteous cause?"

"My lord, my name is Michael Fane," I answered, dwelling on the latter words.

The chaplain's pen, which had set out to write my name, stopped with a spluttering squeak and made an ugly blot instead. Its owner started, and though he did not raise his face, it seemed to me as if the blotch thereon lost something of its bloodlike redness. I cast a searching glance at him and then went on again: "As for your other question, my lord, I deal not with a cause that sets up murderous villains in high places."

The crowd behind me buzzed with startled wonder; I saw Lord Grey and Fletcher whisper eagerly together; while Old Dare scratched his short-cropped head in great perplexity. As for the Duke, he coloured somewhat, and, leaning forward in his chair, regarded me with marked uneasiness. It may be that my words had brought back to his memory a lawless deed of his wild early days, when, in some drunken prank, he killed a beadle up in London. I know not; but at any rate his look was something of a guilty one, and he was fain to run a hand across his face ere he could regain his easy self-composure.

"Murderous villains in high places!" echoed he at last. "Those are strong words, young man. What mean you by them?"

"Alas! my lord, I mean exactly what I say," I answered firmly. "I mean that you have one about your person, holding high estate, who is not fit to sit with honest men, much less to be a counsellor in great affairs."

"Ah, then, I pray you name the murderous villain," quoth the Duke, with mocking emphasis upon the last two words, and also, as it seemed, with some relief at finding that it was not he.

I paused a moment, thinking swiftly, and, while I did so, Ferguson sat there below me in an agony of guilty fear. I knew it by the way he gnawed the feather of his pen and hooked his long thin legs together.

What, then? If I denounced him on the spot, who would believe me? No one; for what proof had I to offer? None. Again, if I drew a pistol suddenly and shot him (as I could have done), I knew my fate was sealed. The wild, benighted crowd behind, who looked upon him as a miracle of strength and godliness, would kill me in a twinkling. Therefore:

"No, by your leave, my lord," I said, "I will not name him now. This is no place for doing so, nor would it serve my purpose just at present. Time and other things will surely name him quick enough."