“But, dear young friend, you will not use it if I give up all? You will not seek my life? that already is worthless, as you see.”
“Why, ’tis what you deserve. But Delia shall say when I find her—as I shall go straight to seek her. If she be lost, I shall use it—never fear: if she be found, it shall be hers to say what mercy she can discover in her heart; but I promise you I shall advise none.”
The tears by this were coursing down his shrunken cheeks, but I observ’d him watch me narrowly, as though to find out how much I knew. So I pull’d out my pistol, and setting pen and paper before him, obtained at the end of an hour a very pretty confession of his sins, which lies among my papers to this day. When ’twas written and sign’d, in a weak, rambling hand, I read it through, folded it, placed it inside my coat, and prepared to take my leave.
But he called out an order to the old servant to saddle my mare, and stood softly praying and beseeching me in the courtyard till the last moment. Nor when I was mounted would anything serve but he must follow at my stirrup to the gate. But when I had briefly taken leave, and the heavy doors had creaked behind me, I heard a voice calling after me down the road—
“Dear young sir! Dear friend!—I had forgotten somewhat.”
Returning, I found the gate fastened, and the iron shutter slipp’d back.
“Well?” I asked, leaning toward it.
“Dear young friend, I pity thee, for thy paper is worthless. Today, by my advices, the army of our most Christian Parliament, more than twenty thousand strong, under the Earl of Stamford, have overtaken thy friends, the malignant gentry, near Stratton Heath, in the northeast. They are more than two to one. By this hour tomorrow, the Papists all will be running like conies to their burrows, and little chance wilt thou have to seek Delia Killigrew, much less to find her. And remember, I know enough of thy late services to hang thee: mercy then will lie in my friends’ hands; but be sure I shall advise none.”
And with a mocking laugh he clapp’d—to the grating in my face.
XV
I Leave Joan and Ride to the Wars
You may guess how I felt at being thus properly fooled. And the worst was I could see no way to mend it; for against the barricade between us I might have beat myself for hours, yet only hurt my fists: and the wall was so smooth and high, that even by standing on Molly’s back I could not—by a foot or more—reach the top to pull myself over.
There was nothing for it but to turn homewards, down the hill: which I did, chewing the cud of my folly, and finding it bitter as gall. What consoled me somewhat was the reflection that his threats were, likely enough, mere vaporing: for of any breach of the late compact between the parties I had heard nothing, and never seem’d a country more wholly given up to peace than that through which I had ridden in the morning. So recalling Master Tingcomb’s late face of terror, and the confession in my pocket, I felt more cheerful. “England has grown a strange place, if I cannot get justice on this villain,” thought I; and rode forward, planning a return-match and a sweet revenge.
There is no more soothing game, I believe, in the world than this of holding imaginary triumphant discourse with your enemy. Yet (oddly) it brought me but cold comfort on this occasion, my wound being too recent and galling. The sky, so long clouded, was bright’ning now, and growing serener every minute: the hills were thick with foxgloves, the vales white with hawthorn, smelling very sweetly in the cool of the day: but I, with the bridle flung on Molly’s neck, pass’d them by, thinking only of my discomfiture, and barely rousing myself to give back a “Good day” to those that met me on the road. Nor, till we were on the downs and Joan’s cottage came in sight, did I shake the brooding off.
Joan was not in the kitchen when I arrived, nor about the buildings; nor yet could I spy her anywhere moving on the hills. So, after calling to her once or twice, I stabled the mare, and set off up the tor side to seek her.
Now I must tell you that since the day of my coming I had made many attempts to find the place where Joan had then hidden me, and always fruitlessly: though I knew well whereabouts it must be. Indeed, I had thought at first I had only to walk straight to the hole: yet found after repeated trials but solid earth and boulders for my pains.
But today as I climb’d past the spot, something very bright flashed in my eyes and dazzled me, and rubbing them and looking, I saw a great hole in the hill—facing to the sou’-west—in the very place I had search’d for it; and out of this a beam of light glancing.
Creeping near on tiptoe, I found one huge block of granite that before had seemed bedded, among a dozen fellow-boulders, against the turf—the base resting on another well-nigh as big—was now rolled back; having been fixed to work smoothly on a pivot, yet so like nature that no eye, but by chance, could detect it. Now, who in the beginning designed this hiding place I leave you to consider; and whether it was the Jews or Phoenicians—nations, I am told, that once work’d the hills around for tin. But inside ’twas curiously paved and lined with slabs of granite, the specks of ore in which, I noted, were the points of light that had once puzzled me. And here was Joan’s bower, and Joan herself inside it.
She was sitting with her
