CHAPTER XX.

THE REDEEMED PLEDGE.

Ha! dost thou know me? that I am Lothario? As great a name as this proud city boasts of. Who is this mighty man, then, this Horatio, That I should basely hide me from his anger? FAIR PENITENT.

Refreshed by their halt at Ely, the soldiers of Dunbarton pushed on towards "Merry Lincoln," the merriment of whose citizens would probably be no way increased by their arrival. Marching by the most unfrequented route to avoid the highway, they pursued a devious path through fallow fields and frozen lawns, and sought the shelter of every copsewood.

The level plains of fertile England could oppose but few and feeble obstacles to the hill-climbing Scots, accustomed from infancy to the rocky glens and pathless forests of their rugged mountain home; however they found it necessary to abandon the four pieces of English cannon, which were spiked and concealed in a thicket, and thus unencumbered, they hurried on with increased speed.

Walter's heart grew buoyant and gay as the day wore apace, and the picturesque villages with their yellow thatched cottages and ivy-covered churches, the old Elizabethan halls and brick-built manors of Cambridge and Lincolnshire, were passed in rapid succession. He knew that every pace lessened the distance between Lilian and himself, and before the sober winter sun descended in the saffron west, he hailed with pleasure the old town of Crowland, with its great but ruined abbey, the walls of which were buried under masses of luxuriant ivy.

Far over the gently undulated landscape shone the purple and yellow rays of the setting sun; Crowland Abbey, its old fantastic houses and village spire, on the summit of which the vine and ivy flourished, and all the winter scenery were bathed in warm light. The Scots were descending a slope towards the town, when a shot fired by the avant guard, gave them an _alert_; then the voice of Dunbarton was heard commanding his brave musqueteers to halt, while Gavin of that ilk came galloping back from the front.

"My lord earl," said he, "we have seen the glitter of steel above the uplands yonder."

"Then we have been brought to bay at last. With 6000 horse on our flanks, it was not likely we would pass the Ridings of Yorkshire without a camisado. Strike up the Scottish point of war, and let these knaves show themselves."

The shrill fifes and brattling drums rang clear and sharp in the pure frosty air, and ere the last note had died away, a body of horse appeared on an opposite eminence. Their broad beaver hats and waving feathers, polished corslets and scarlet coats, declared them English.

"'Sdeath," said the earl, "they are Langstone's Red Dragoons, so de Ginckel's Black Riders are not far off."

"'Tis but a troop of sixty, my lord," said Walter.

"Dost think thee are within range?" asked Gavin, as his grenadiers began to open their pouches and blow their fuses.

"Scarcely, and we have no ammunition to spare; so if they molest us not, I freely bid them good speed in God's name."

A single cavalier was now seen to spur his horse to the front, and after riding along the roadway a few yards, to rein up and fire a pistol in the air. By the military etiquette of the time, this was understood to be a challenge to single encounter, or to exchange shots with any cavalier so inclined.

Full of ardour and youthful rashness, and burning to distinguish himself, Walter Fenton exclaimed,

"I accept the challenge of this bravadoer; you will permit me, my Lord Dunbarton?"

"Doubtless, my brave lad, but beware; yonder fellow appears an old rider; his harness is complete, à la Cuirassier, as we used to say in France."

"Scaled all over like an armadillo, as we used to say at Tangier," added Dr. Joram. "Speed thee, Fenton, and shew the rebel villain small mercy."

Walter galloped within a few paces of his adversary, who had now reloaded his pistol. His powerful frame which exhibited great muscular strength, was cased in a corslet of bright steel, buff coat and gloves, and enormous jack boots, fenced by plates of iron; his head was defended by an iron cap covered with black velvet (a fashion of James VII.,) and was adorned by a single feather; he carried a long carbine and still longer broadsword. His hair was cut short, and his chin shaved close in the Dutch fashion. He levelled a pistol between his horse's ears with a long and deliberate aim at Walter, whose eye was fixed in painful acuteness upon the little black muzzle and stern grey eye that glared along the barrel.

He fired!

The ball grazed the cheek plate of Walter's morion. He never winced, but felt his heart tingle with rage and exultation, as in turn he levelled his long horse pistol at the Williamite trooper, who was reloading with the utmost coolness. Walter fired, and with a loud snort, a strange cry, and terrific bound, the strong Flemish horse of his adversary sank to the earth, and tore up the turf with its hoofs. Its brain had been pierced. The rider lost his pistol by the plunge, but adroitly disengaging himself from the twisted stirrups, high saddle, and convulsed legs of the fallen steed, he unsheathed his long sword, and brandished it, crying--

"Vive le Roi Guillaume! come on young coistrel!"

While the cheers of his comrades and a brisk ruffle on their drums made his heart leap within him, Walter sprang from his horse, and throwing the reins to Hab Elshender, drew his slender, cavalier rapier, and rushed to encounter his strong antagonist, but a glance sufficed to stay his forward step and upraised hand, and to lull the excitement of his spirit.

"Captain Napier!" he exclaimed, on recognizing beneath the dark head piece, the stern, unmoved, but not unhandsome features of Lilian's kinsman, and his rival.

"I told thee, Fenton, we would meet again," said Napier, coldly and sternly, "and I swore when that hour came to spare thee not. It hath come, so do unto me, as thou wilt be done by."

"For the sake of her whose name and blood you inherit in common, I would rather shun than encounter you. Your life--I spared it once."

"Why remind me of that?" said Napier, furiously, while his cheek reddened. "'Tis better to die than remember that the boldest heart of the Scots Brigade owes its existence to the favour of a beardless moppet like thee! bethink thee, man," continued Napier, sneeringly, "the entail--your sword can break it in a moment; Quentin Napier is the last of his race, and then Lilian becomes an heiress."

"Away, sir," replied Walter, sadly and calmly, as he dropped the point of his sword, "you have mentioned the only thing that in an hour like this, unnerves my hand to encounter you."

At that moment a drum of Dunbarton's beat a charge.

"Hark! your comrades are impatient," said Napier scornfully; "fall on, you nameless loon, for here shall I redeem the pledge I gave or die," and swaying his sword with both hands, he attacked Walter with great fury and undisguised ferocity.

His courage was well met by Walter's address, but his bodily strength and weight of weapon were far superior, and he pressed on pell mell, until a deep gash in the right cheek reminded him of the necessity of coolness. The wound which would undoubtedly have roused another man to additional fury, had the effect of giving Napier a caution, that enabled him to parry Walter's successive cuts and thrusts with great success. Without the least advantage being gained on either side, the combat continued for three or four minutes, during which the greatest skill in swordsmanship was exhibited by both cavaliers, in their attempts to pass each other's points, until a stone in the frozen turf caught Walter's heel and he was thrown to the earth with great force. Ere he could draw breath, the captain sprang upon him like a tiger, and with his sword shortened in his hand, and a knee pressed upon his breast, he exclaimed in a fierce whisper through his clenched teeth,

"Now I have thee! now your life is in my hand, but even now will I spare it, if here before the God that is above us, ye swear for the future to renounce all hope and thought of Lilian Napier--now, yea, and for ever!"

"Never!" gasped Walter, panting with rage and shame, for an exulting shout from the Red dragoons stung him to the soul; "never; by what title dare you impose such terms on me?"

"By the right of a kinsman and betrothed lover who would save her from contamination, by becoming the wife of an unknown foundling, a beggarly varlet, a soldier's wallet boy--ha!" and he ground his teeth.

Walter felt stifled as his corslet was compressed beneath the heavy knee of his conqueror, and he made many ineffectual struggles to grasp his poniard, but it lay below him.

"Renounce--renounce! swear--swear!" hissed Napier through his teeth.

"Never, never," groaned Walter.

"Then die!" shouted Napier; and raised his shortened sword which he grasped by the blade; but endued with new energy at the prospect of instant death, Walter by a vigorous effort of strength, with one hand flung his adversary from him and pinning him to the earth in turn, unsheathed his long dagger, and while labouring under a storm of wrath and fury, drove it twice through the joints of his shining gorget, but unable to withdraw it after the second blow, sank upon his enemy, and they lay weltering together in blood.

"My bitter and my heavy curse be on thee, Walter Fenton!" hissed the dying Napier through his chattering teeth; "and if thou gettest her, may the curse of Heaven, and the curse that fell on Jeroboam be thine! mayest thou die childless, and be the _last_ as thou art the _first_ of thy race!" He fell back and expired.