Chapter XII

To-day is ours! why do we fear?
To-day is ours! we have it here.
Let's banish business, banish sorrow;
To the gods belongs to-morrow.--Cowley.

I have dreamed
Of bloody turbulence.--Shakspere.

In profound silence will we pass over Sir Osborne's farther entertainment at the abbey; as well as how Longpole contrived to make himself merry, even in the heart of a monastery; together with sundry other circumstances, which might be highly interesting to that class of pains-taking readers who love everything that is particular and orderly, and would fain make an historian not only tell the truth, but the whole truth, even to the colour of his heroine's garters. For such curious points, however, we refer them to the scrupulously exact Vonderbrugius, who expends the greater part of the next chapter upon the description of a flea-hunt, which Longpole got up in his truckle-bed in the monastery; and who describes the various hops of the minute vampire, together with all that Longpole said on the occasion, as well as the running down, the taking, and the manner of the death, with laudable industry and perseverance. But for the sake of that foolish multitude who interest themselves in the fate and adventures of the hero, rather than in the minor details, we will pass over the whole of the next night much in the same manner as Sir Osborne, who, sound asleep, let it fleet by in silence undisturbed.

His horses, however, were scarcely saddled, and his four attendants prepared, the next morning, than he was informed that the Lady Katrine Bulmer was ready to depart; and proceeding on foot to the great gates of the abbey, which fronted the high road, on the other side from that on which he had entered, he found her already mounted on a beautiful Spanish jennet, with her two women and a man, also on horseback. By her side stood the abbot, with whom she had now made her peace, and who, kindly welcoming Sir Osborne, led him to the young lady.

"Sir knight," said he, "I give you a precious charge in this my dead sister's child; and I give her wholly to your charge, with the most perfect confidence, sure that you will guide her kindly and safely to her journey's end. And now, God bless you and speed you, my child!" he continued, turning to the young lady; "and believe me, Kate, there is no one in the wide world more anxious for your happiness than your poor uncle."

"I know it, I know it, dear uncle!" answered the lady; "and though I be whimsical and capricious, do not think your Katrine does not love you too." A bright drop rose in her eye, and crying "Farewell! farewell!" she made her jennet dart forward, to conceal the emotion she could not repress.

The knight sprang on his horse, bade farewell to the abbot, and galloped after Lady Katrine, who drew in her rein for no one, but rode on as fast as her steed would go. However, notwithstanding her jennet's speed, Sir Osborne was soon by her side; but seeing a tear upon her cheek, he made no remark, and turning round, held up his hand for the rest to come up, and busied himself in giving orders for the arrangement of their march, directing the two women, with Lady Katrine's man, and Longpole, to keep immediately behind, while the three attendants given him by the duke concluded the array. The young lady's tears were soon dispersed, and she turned laughing to her women, who came up out of breath with the rapidity of their course.

"Well, Geraldine," she cried, "shall I go on as quick? Should I not make an excellent knight at a just, Sir Osborne? Oh! I could furnish my course with the best of you. I mind me to try the very next justs that are given."

"Where would you find the man," said Sir Osborne, "to point a lance at so fair a breast, unless it be Cupid's shaft?"

"Ah, Sir Osborne Maurice!" answered the lady, "you men jest when you say such things; but you know not sometimes what women feel. But trust me that same Cupid's shaft that you scoff at, because it never wounds you deeply, sometimes lodges in a woman's breast, and rankling there will pale her cheek, and drain her heart of every better hope."

The lady spoke so earnestly that Sir Osborne was surprised, and perhaps looked it; for instantly catching the expression of his eye, Lady Katrine coloured, and then breaking out into one of her own gay laughs, she answered his glance as if it had been expressed in speech, "You are mistaken! quite mistaken!" said she, "I never thought of myself. Nay, my knight, do not look incredulous; my heart is too light a one to be so touched. It skims like a swallow o'er the surface of all it sees, and the boy archer spends his shafts in vain; its swift flight mocks his slow aim. But to convince you, when I spoke," she proceeded in a lower voice, "I alluded to that poor girl, Geraldine, who rides behind. Her lover was a soldier, who, when Tournay was delivered to the French, was left without employment; and after having won the simple wench's heart, and promised her a world of fine things, he went as an adventurer to Flanders, vowing that he would get some scribe to write to her of his welfare, and that as soon as he had made sufficient, what with pay and booty they would be married; but eighteen months have gone, and never a word."

"What was his name?" asked the knight; "I would wish much to hear."

"Hal Williamson, I think she calls him," said the lady: "but it matters little; the poor girl has nigh broke her heart for the unfaithful traitor."

"You do him wrong," said the knight; "indeed, lady, you do him wrong. The poor fellow you speak of joined himself to my company at Lisle, and died in the very last skirmish before the death of the late emperor. With some money and arms, that I expect transmitted by the first Flemish ship, there is also a packet, I fancy, for your maid, for I forget the address. From it she will learn that he was not faithless to her, together with the worse news of his death."

"Better! a thousand times better!" cried Lady Katrine, energetically. "If I had a lover, I would a thousand times rather know that he was dead, than that he was unfaithful. For the first, I could but weep all my life, and mourn him with the mourning of the heart; but for the last, there would be still bitterer drops in the cup of my sorrow. I would mourn him as dead to me. I would mourn him as dead to honour; and I should reproach myself for having believed a traitor, almost as much as for being one."

"So!" said the knight, with a smile, "this is the heart that defies Cupid's shaft: that is too light and volatile to be hit by his purblind aim!"

"Now you are stupid!" said she, pettishly. "Now you are just what I always fancied a man in armour. Why, I should have thought, that while your custrel carries your steel cap, you might have comprehended better, and seen that the very reason why my heart is so giddy and so light is because it is resolved not to be so wounded by the shaft it fears."

"Then it does fear?" said Sir Osborne.

"Pshaw!" cried Lady Katrine. "Geraldine, come up, and deliver me from him: he is worse than the Rochester rioters."

In such light talk passed they their journey, Sir Osborne Maurice sometimes pleased, sometimes vexed with his gay companion, but upon the whole, amused, and in some degree dazzled. For her part, whatever might be her more serious feelings, the lady found the knight quite handsome and agreeable enough to be worthy a little coquetry. Perhaps it might be nothing but those little flirting airs by which many a fair lady thinks herself fully justified in exciting attention, with that sort of thirst for admiration which is not content unless it be continually fresh and active. Now, with her glove drawn off her fair graceful hand, she would push back the thick curls from her face; now adjust the long folds of her riding-dress; now pat the glossy neck of her pampered jennet, which, bending down its head and shaking the bit, would seem proud of her caresses; and then she would smile, and ask Sir Osborne if he did not think a horse the most beautiful creature in nature.

At length they approached the little town of Sittenbourne, famous even then for a good inn, where, had the party not been plagued with that unromantic thing called hunger, they must have stopped to refresh their horses, amongst which the one that carried the baggage of Lady Katrine, being heavily laden, required at least two hours' repose.

The inn was built by the side of the road, though sunk two or three feet below it, with a row of eight old elms shadowing its respectable-looking front, which, with its small windows and red brick complexion, resembled a good deal the face of a well-doing citizen, with his minute dark eyes half swallowed up by his rosy cheeks. From its position, the steps by which entrance was obtained, so far from ascending, according to modern usage, descended into a little passage, from which a door swinging by means of a pulley, a string, and a large stone, conducted into the inn parlour.

Here, when Lady Katrine had entered, while the knight gave orders for preparing a noon meal in some degree suitable to the lady's rank, she amused herself in examining all the quaint carving of the old oak panelling; and having studied every rose in the borders, and every head upon the corbels, she dropped into a chair, crying out--"Oh dear! oh dear! what shall I do in the mean while? Bridget, girl, bring me my broidery out of the horse-basket. I feel industrious; but make haste, for fear the fit should leave me."

"Bless your ladyship!" replied the servant, "the broidery is at the bottom of all the things in the pannier. It will take an hour or more to get at it; that it will."

"Then give me what is at the top, whatever it is," said the lady; "quick! quick! quick! or I shall be asleep."

Bridget ran out, according to her lady's command, and returned in a moment with a cithern or mandolin, which was a favourite instrument among the ladies of the day, and placing it in Lady Katrine's hand, she cried, "Oh, dear lady, do sing that song about the knight and the damsel!"

"No, I won't," answered her mistress; "it will make the man in armour yawn. Sir knight," she continued, holding up the instrument, "do you know what that is?"

"It seems to me no very great problem," replied Sir Osborne, turning from some orders he was giving to Longpole; "it is a cithern, is it not?"

"He would fain have said, 'A thing that some fools play upon, and other fools listen to,'" cried Lady Katrine: "make no excuse, Sir Osborne; I saw it in your face. I'm sure you meant it."

"Nay, indeed, fair lady," replied the knight, "it is an instrument much used at the court of Burgundy, where my days have lately been spent. We were wont to hold it as a shame not to play on some instrument, and I know not a sweeter aid to the voice than the cithern."

"Oh, then you play and sing! I am sure you do," cried the giddy girl. "Sir Osborne Maurice, good knight and true, come into court, pull off your gauntlets, and sing me a song."

"I will truly," answered the knight, "after I have heard your ladyship, though I am but a poor singer.'"

"Well, well!" cried Lady Katrine, "I'll lead the way; and if you are a true knight, you will follow."

So saying, she ran her fingers lightly over the strings, and sang.

LADY KATRINE'S SONG.

Quick, quick, ye lazy hours,
Plume your laggard wings;
Sure the path is strew'd with flowers
That love to true love brings.
From morning bright,
To fading light,
Speed, oh, speed, your drowsy flight!

If Venus' courier be a dove,
As ancient poet sings,
Oh! why not give to absent love
At least the swallow's wings,
To speed his way,
The live-long day,
Till meeting all his pain repay?

Thus sang Lady Katrine; and it may well be supposed that the music, the words, and the execution, all met with their full share of praise, although Bridget declared that she liked better the song about the knight and the damsel.

"Now, your promise, your promise, sir knight!" cried the lady, putting the instrument in Sir Osborne's hands; "keep your promise as a true and loyal knight."

"That I will do, to my best power," said Sir Osborne, "though my voice will be but rough after the sweet sounds we have just heard: however, to please Mistress Bridget here, my song shall be of a knight and a damsel, though it be somewhat a long one."

THE KNIGHT'S SONG.

The night was dark, and the way was lone,
But a knight was riding there;
And on his breast the red-cross shone,
Though his helmet's haughty crest upon
Was a lock of a lady's hair.

His beaver was up, and his cheek was pale
His beard was of auburn brown;
And as night was his suit of darksome mail,
And his eye was as keen as the wintry gale,
And as cold was his wintry frown.

Oh! sad were the tidings thy brow to shade,
Sad to hear and sad to tell;
That thy love was false to the vows she had made,
That her truth was gone, and thy trust betray'd
By her thou lovest so well.

Now fast, good knight, on thy coal-black steed,
That knows his lord's command,
For the hour is coming with fearful speed
When her soul the lady shall stain with the deed,
And give to another her hand.

In the chapel of yon proud towers 'tis bright,
'Tis bright at the altar there;
For around in the blaze of the tapers' light
Stand many a glittering, courtly knight,
And many a lady fair.

But why are there tears in the bride's bright eyes?
And why does the bridegroom frown?
And why to the priest are there no replies?
For the bitter drops, and the struggling sighs,
The lady's voice have drown'd.

That clang! that clang of an armed heel!
And what stately form is here?
His warlike limbs are clothed in steel,
And back the carpet heroes reel,
And the ladies shrink for fear.

And he caught the bride in his mailed arms,
And he raised his beaver high;
"Oh! thy tears, dear girl, are full of charms,
But hush thy bosom's vain alarms,
For thy own true knight is nigh!"

And he pull'd the gauntlet from his hand,
While he frown'd on the crowd around,
And he cast it down, and drew his brand,
"Now any who dare my right withstand,
Let him raise it from the ground."

But the knights drew back in fear and dread,
And the bride clung to his side;
And her father, lowly bending, said,
In the Holy Land they had deem'd him dead,
But by none was his right denied.

"Then now read on, sir priest," he cried,
"For this is my wedding-day;
Here stands my train on either side,
And here is a willing and lovely bride,
And none shall say me nay.

"For I'll make her the lady of goodly lands,
And of many a princely tower;
And of dames a train, and of squires a band,
Shall wait at their lady's high command,
In the Knight of de Morton's bower."

"Alack! alack!" cried Lady Katrine, as Sir Osborne concluded, "you are not a knight, but a nightingale. Well, never did I hear a man in armour chirrup so before! Nay, what a court must be that court of Burgundy! Why, an aviary would be nothing to it! But if the master sings so well," she continued, as Longpole entered, bearing in Sir Osborne's casque and shield, "the man must sing too. Bid him sing, fair knight, bid him sing; he will not refuse to pleasure a lady."

"Oh, no! I am always ready to pleasure a lady," answered Longpole; who, as he went along, though he had found it impossible to help making a little love to Mistress Geraldine, had, notwithstanding, noted with all his own shrewd wit the little coquettish ways of her mistress. "But give me no instrument, my lady, but my own whistle; for mine must not be pryck-song, but plain song."

THE CUSTREL'S SONG.

Young Harry went out to look for a wife,
Hey, Harry Dally!
He said he would have her in virtues rife,
As soft as a pillow, yet keen as a knife,
With a hey ho, Harry!

The first that he met with was quiet and glum,
Hey, Harry Dally!
But she'd got a bad trick of sucking her thumb,
And when he cried "Mary!" the never would come,
With a hey ho, Harry!

The next that he came to was flighty and gay,
Hey, Harry Dally!
But she would not be play'd with, although she would play,
And good-humour was lost if she'd not her own way,
With a hey ho, Harry!

The next that he tried then was gentle and sweet,
Hey, Harry Dally!
But he found that all people alike she would treat,
And loved him as well as the next she should meet,
With a hey ho, Harry!

The next that he thought of was saucy and bold,
Hey, Harry Dally!
But he found that he had not the patience sevenfold
That could bear in one person a jade and a scold,
With a hey ho, Harry!

So, weary with searching for wedlock enow,
Hey, Harry Dally!
He thank'd his good stars he had made no rash vow,
And, like the old woman, went kissing his cow,
With a hey ho, Harry!

"The saucy knave!" cried Lady Katrine, laughing. "Out upon him! Bridget, Geraldine, if ye have the spirit of women, I am sure ye will not exchange a word with the fellow the rest of the journey? What! could he not make his hero find one perfect woman? But here comes our host with dinner, for which I thank heaven! for had it been later, my indignation would have cost me my appetite."

As soon as the horses were refreshed, Sir Osborne, with his fair charge, once more set out on the longer stage, which he proposed to take ere they paused for the night. The news which he had received at Sittenbourne leading him to imagine that the tumults at Rochester, having been suffered, by some inexplicable negligence, to remain unrepressed, had become much more serious than he at first supposed, he determined to take a by-way, and, avoiding the town, pass the river by a ferry, which Longpole assured him he would find higher up; but still this was longer, and would make them later on the road; for which reason he hurried their pace as much as possible, till they arrived at the spot where the smaller road turned off, at about two miles' distance from Rochester.

It was a shady lane, with, on each side, high banks and hedges, wherein the tender hand of April was beginning to bring forth the young green shrubs and flowers; and as the knight and lady went along, Nature offered them a thousand objects of descant which they did not fail to use. Their conversation, however, was interrupted after a while by the noise of a distant drum, and a variety of shouts and halloos came floating upon the gale, like the breakings-forth of an excited multitude.

As they advanced, the sounds seemed also to approach.

"My casque and lance," said Sir Osborne, turning to Longpole. "Lady, you had perhaps better let your jennet drop back to a line with your women."

"Nay, I will dare the front," said Lady Katrine; "a woman's presence will often tame a crowd."

"You are with a band of soldiers," said Sir Osborne, hearing the clamour approaching, "and must obey command. What! horse; back, back!" and laying his hand on the lady's bridle, he reined it back to a line with her women. "Longpole, advance!" cried the knight. "Left-hand spear of the third line to the front! Archers behind, keep a wary eye on the banks: shoot not, but bend your bows. I trust there is no danger, lady, but 'tis well to be prepared. Now, on slowly."

And thus opposing what defence they could between Lady Katrine and the multitude, whose cries they now heard coming nearer and nearer, Sir Osborne and the two horsemen he had called to his side, moved forward, keeping a wary eye on the turnings of the road and the high banks by which it was overhung.

They had not proceeded far, however, before they descried the termination of the lane, opening out upon what appeared to be a village-green beyond; the farther side of which was occupied by a motley multitude, whose form and demeanour they had now full opportunity to observe.

In front of all the host was a sort of extempore drummer, who with a bunch of cocks' feathers in his cap, and a broad buff belt supporting his instrument of discord, seemed infinitely proud of his occupation, and kept beating with unceasing assiduity, but with as little regard to time on his part as his instrument had to tune. Behind him, mounted on a horse of inconceivable ruggedness, appeared the general with, a vast cutlass in his hand, which he swayed backwards and forwards in menacing attitudes; while, unheedful of the drum, he bawled forth to his followers many a pious exhortation to persevere in rebellion. On the left of this doughty hero was borne a flag of blue silk, bearing, inscribed in golden letters, _The United Shipwrights_; and on his right was seen a red banner, on which might be read the various demands of the unsatisfied crowd, such as, "Cheap Bread," "High Wages," "No Taxation," &c.

The multitude itself did indeed offer a formidable appearance, the greater part of the men who composed it being armed with bills and axes; some also having possessed themselves of halberts, and even some of hackbuts and hand-guns. Every here and there appeared an iron jack, and many a 'prentice-boy filled up the crevices with his bended bow; while half a score of loud-mouthed women screamed in the different quarters of the crowd, and, with the shrill trumpet of a scolding tongue, urged on the lords of the creation to deeds of wrath and folly.

The multitude might consist of about five thousand men: and as they marched along, a bustle, and appearance of crowding round one particular spot in their line, led the knight to imagine that they were conducting some prisoner to Rochester, in which direction they seemed to be going, traversing the green at nearly a right angle with the line in which he was himself proceeding. "Hold!" said Sir Osborne, reining in his horse. "Let them pass by. We are not enough to deal with such numbers as there are there. Keep under the bank; we must not risk the lady's safety by showing ourselves. Ah! but what should that movement mean? They have seen us, by heaven! Ride on then; we must not seem to shun them. See! they wheel! On, on! quick! Gain the mouth of the lane!"

Thus saying, Sir Osborne laid his lance in the rest, and spurred on to the spot where the road opened upon the green, followed by Lady Katrine and her women, not a little terrified and agitated by the roaring of the multitude, who, having now made a retrograde motion on their former position, occupied the same ground that they had done at first, and regarded intently the motions of Sir Osborne's party, not knowing what force might be behind.

As soon as the knight had reached the mouth of the road he halted, and seeing that the high bank ran along the side of the green guarding his flank, he still contrived to conceal the smallness of his numbers by occupying the space of the road, and paused a moment to watch the movements of the crowd, and determine its intentions.

Now, being quite near enough to hear great part of an oration which the general whom we have described was bestowing on his forces, Sir Osborne strained his ear to gather his designs, and soon found that his party was mistaken for that of Lord Thomas Howard, who had been sent to quell the mutiny of the Rochester shipwrights.

"First," said the ringleader, "hang up the priest upon that tree, then let him preach to us about submission if he will; and he shall be hanged, too, in his lord's sight, for saying that he, with his hundreds, would beat us with our thousands, and let his lord deliver him if he can. Then some of the men with bills and axes get up on the top of the bank: who says it is not Lord Thomas? I say it is Lord Thomas; I know him by his bright armour."

"And I say you lie, Timothy Bradford!" cried Longpole, at the very pitch of his voice, much to the wonder and astonishment of Sir Osborne and his party. "Please your worship," he continued, lowering his tone, "I know that fellow; he served with me at Tournay, and was afterwards a sailor. He's a mad rogue, but as good a heart as ever lived."

"Oh, then, for God's sake! speak to him," cried Lady Katrine from behind, "and make him let us pass; for surely, sir knight, you are not mad enough, with only six men, to think of encountering six thousand?"

"Not I, in truth, fair lady," answered the knight. "If they will not molest us, I shall not meddle with them."

"Shall I on, then, and speak with him?" cried Longpole. "See! he heard me give him the lie, and he's coming out towards us. He'd do the same if we were a thousand."

"Meet him, meet him, then!" said the knight; "tell him all we wish is to pass peaceably. The right-hand man advance from the rear and fill up!" he continued, as Longpole rode on, taking care still to maintain a good face to the enemy, more especially as their generalissimo had now come within half a bow-shot of where they stood.

As the yeoman now rode forward, the ringleader of the rioters did not at all recognise his old companion in his custrel's armour, and began to brandish his weapon most fiercely; but in a moment afterwards, to the astonishment of the multitude, he was seen to let the point of the sword drop, and, seizing his antagonist's hand, shake it with every demonstration of surprise and friendship. Their conversation was quick and energetic; and a moment after, Longpole rode back to Sir Osborne, while the ringleader raised his hand to his people, exclaiming, "Keep your ranks! Friends! These are friends!"

"Our passage is safe," said Longpole, riding back; "but he would fain speak with your worship. They have taken a priest, it seems, and are going to hang him for preaching submission to them. So I told him if they did they would be hanged themselves; but he would not listen to me, saying he would talk to you about it."

"Fill up my place," said the knight; "I will go and see what can be done. We must not let them injure the good man."

So saying he raised his lance, and rode forward to the spot where the ringleader waited him; plainly discerning, as he approached nearer to the body of the rioters, the poor priest, with a rope round his neck, holding forth his hands towards him, as if praying for assistance.

"My shield-bearer," said he, "tells me that we are to pass each other without enmity; for though we are well prepared to resist attack, we have no commission to meddle with you or yours. Nevertheless, as I understand that ye have a priest in your hands, towards whom ye meditate some harm, let me warn you of the consequences of injuring an old man who cannot have injured you."

"But he has done worse than injured me, sir knight," said the ringleader; "he has preached against our cause, and against redressing our grievances."

"Most probably not against redressing your grievances," said Sir Osborne, "but against the method ye took to redress them yourselves. But listen to me. It is probable that the king, hearing of your wants and wishes, he being known both for just and merciful, may grant you such relief as only a king can grant; but if ye go to stain yourselves with the blood of this priest, which were cowardly, as he is an old man; which were base, as he is a prisoner; and which were sacrilegious, as he is a man of God, ye cut yourselves off from mercy for ever, and range all good men amongst your enemies. Think well of this!"

"By the nose of the tinker of Ashford!" said the man, "your worship is right. But how the devil to get him out of their hands? that's the job; however, I'll make 'em a 'ration. But what I was wanting to ask your worship is, do you know his grace the king?"

"Not in the least," was the laconic reply of the knight.

"Then it won't do," said the man; "only, as merry Dick Heartley said you were thick with the good Duke of Buckingham, I thought you might know the king too, and would give him our petition and remonstrance. However, I'll go and make them fellows a 'ration: they're wonderful soon led by a 'ration." And turning his horse, he rode up to the front of the body of rioters, and made them a speech, wherein nonsense and sense, bombast and vulgarity, were all most intimately mingled. Sir Osborne did not catch the whole, but the sounds which reached his ears were somewhat to the following effect:

"Most noble shipwrights and devout cannon-founders, joined together in the great cause of crying down taxation and raising your wages! To you I speak, as well as to the tinkers, tailors, and 'prentices who have united themselves to you. The noble knight that you see standing there, or rather riding, because he is on horseback: he in the glittering armour, with a long spear in his hand, is the dearly beloved friend of the great and good Duke of Buckingham, who is the friend of the commons and an enemy to taxation."

Here loud cries of "Long live the Duke of Buckingham!" "God bless the duke!" interrupted the speaker; but after a moment he proceeded. "He, the noble knight, is not Lord Thomas Howard; and so far from wishing to attack you, he would wish to do you good. Therefore he setteth forth and showeth--praise be to God for all things, especially that we did not hang the priest!--that if we were to hang the priest, it would be blasphemous, because he is an old man; and rascally, because he is a man of God; and moreover, that whereas, if we do not, the king will grant us our petition. He will infallibly come down, if we do, with an army of fifty thousand men, and hang us all with his own hands, and the Duke of Buckingham will be against us. Now understand! I am not speaking for myself, for I know well enough that, having been elected your captain, and ridden on horseback while ye marched on foot, I am sure to be hanged anyhow; but that is no reason that ye should all be hanged too; and, therefore, I give my vote that Simon the cannon-founder, Tom the shipwright, and long-chinned Billy the tinker, do take the priest by the rope that is round his neck, and deliver him into the hands of the knight and his men, to do with as they shall think fit. And that after this glorious achievement we march straightway back to Rochester. Do you all agree?"

Loud shouts proclaimed the assent of the multitude; and with various formalities the three deputies led forth the unhappy priest, more dead than alive, and delivered him into the hands of Longpole: after which the generalissimo of the rioters drew up his men with some military skill upon the right of the green, leaving the road free to Sir Osborne. The knight then marshalled his little party as best he might, to guard against any sudden change in the minds of the fickle multitude; and having mounted the poor exhausted priest behind one of the horsemen, he drew out from the lane, and passed unmolested across the green into the opposite road, returning nothing but silence to the cheers with which the rioters thought fit to honour them.

Their farther journey to Gravesend passed without any interruption, and indeed without any occurrence worthy of notice. Lady Katrine and Sir Osborne, Geraldine and Longpole, mutually congratulated each other on the favourable termination of an adventure which had commenced under such threatening auspices; and every one of the party poured forth upon his neighbour the usual quantity of wonder and amazement which always follows any event of the kind. The poor priest, who had so nearly fallen a victim to the excited passions of the crowd, was the last that sufficiently recovered from the strong impressions of the moment to babble thereupon.

When, however, his loquacious faculties were once brought into play, he contrived to compensate for his temporary taciturnity, shouting forth his thanks to Sir Osborne Maurice from the rear to the front, declaring that the preservation of his life was entirely owing to his valour and conduct; that it was wonderful the influence which his sole word possessed with the multitude, and that he should never cease to be grateful till the end of his worldly existence.

Sir Osborne assured him that he was very welcome; and remarked, with a smile, to Lady Katrine, who was laughing at the priest's superfluity of gratitude, that in all probability it was this sort of exuberance of zeal that had brought him into the perilous circumstances in which they had at first found him.

"But can zeal ever be exuberant?" demanded Lady Katrine, suddenly changing her tone; and then fixing the full light of her beautiful dark eyes upon the knight, she added, "I mean in a friend."

"It can," said Sir Osborne, "when not guided by prudence. But I do not think a fool can be a friend."

"Come, sir knight, come!" said the lady; "let us hear your idea of a friend."

"A friend," replied the knight, smiling at her earnestness, "must be both a wise man and a good man. He must love his friend with sufficient zeal to see his faults and endeavour to counteract them, and with sufficient prudence to perceive his true interests and to strive for them. But he must put aside vanity; for there is many a man who pretends a great friendship for another merely for the vain purpose of advising and guiding him, when, in truth, he is not capable of advising and guiding himself. The man who aspires to such a name must be to his friend what every man would be to himself, if he could see his own faults undazzled by self-love and his own interests unblinded by passion. He must be zealous and kind, steady and persevering, without being curious or interfering, troublesome or obstinate."

"Would I had such a friend!" said Lady Katrine, with a sigh, and for the rest of the way she was grave and pensive.