When Charles the First Was King

looked like the sort that order and command other men naturally. His greatness was not of the sort that I was familiar with, for he was not like my father⁠—tall and broad and big in every way, but rather slender and elegantly fashioned, and more like a willow-wand than an oak-tree. Nevertheless, there was that in his face which gave an impression of power; and I could not help noticing that his hands, which were very white and shapely, were also tense as bands of steel when he grasped anything. Looking at him I no longer wondered that Rose was dark, for Philip Lisle’s hair and moustachios were like jet, and the eyes were black as the delicate eyebrows above them. He was dressed very much finer than most in our parts, and looked, in fact, like one of the gay Cavaliers that sometimes rode by our gates along the Great North Road. His horse, too, was finely caparisoned, and there were two pistols peeping out of the holsters on each side of the saddle, which shone so in the sunlight that I was sure they were fashioned of silver.

“And who is this bonny lad?” said Philip Lisle, turning to me, with Rose still perched on his shoulder.

“It is William Dale, father, and he lives over the bend of the hill yonder,” said Rose, while I stood and stared at the man’s handsome face and fine clothes, and clean lost my tongue for admiration; “and he has shown me where the primroses grow best, and where the birds’-nests are, and where he fell down the crags from the jackdaw’s nest.”

“Ah, a Dale? Lad, I should have known thee. The Dales were always big men, as I have heard, though I never saw but two⁠—thy grandfather and thy father. Thou wilt be a big man like them, Will.”

“Does my father know you then, sir?” I asked, being surprised to hear him speak thus familiarly of my family.

He laughed and stroked his horse’s neck, the creature having come up to him and pushed his nose under Philip Lisle’s arm.

“There are few, lad, that do not know me. Howeever⁠—But what thinkest thou of my horse, Will? Is’t not a beauty? Ye have no horse in all the three Ridings like this. Caesar his name is, for he is the emperor of the horse race, as Caesar was of the human. However, he, too, like Caesar, may fall a victim to treachery. But thy master will be there, old friend, will not he? Yea, whenever death comes, let it be red death, or black death, in bed or afield, it will find thee and me together.”

The horse lifted its head and whinnied, and pushed its nose against the man’s face, and I stood dumb to see the marvellous understanding between them. For it seemed to comprehend exactly what he said, which was what I had never seen in a horse before, save that they learn and obey the few words of command by which men make known their desires.

“But what talk I of death,” said Philip Lisle, “with two such rosy faces before me? Children, would ye like a ride on horse Caesar’s back? Will, climb into my saddle, and I will put Rose behind thee. So, put thy feet in the stirrup-leathers. Thy legs are too short yet to reach the stirrups, though thou wilt quickly mend that matter. And now have no fear, but hold thy bridle tight; and Rose, my princess, cling firm to Will’s waist; and thou, Caesar, remember what thou carriest, and be on thy best behaviour. And now, off!”

And away we went over the ground on Caesar’s back at a swift canter, and yet travelling as safely as if we had been in an easy-chair. For I had but to keep my knees well pressed to the saddle, as my father had taught me, and Rose had but to circle my waist with her dainty arms, and beyond that we had no trouble to take. But never before or since have I crossed a horse which went over the ground as that did. For it was like the motion of a greyhound, which runs straight and smooth and swift, and makes never a sound as the soft feet touch the ground and fly onward. And so we circled down the bank and turned, and came round again to where Philip Lisle stood. And he lifted us down and patted Caesar’s neck.

“Thou hast never ridden horse like that, Will, eh?” said he. “Ah, this horse hath soul in him, and mind. Well, we must hence. Rose, I am going to take thee home. We shall sleep at Retford tonight, and so say goodbye to Will Dale.”

She came up to me where I stood silent and sad, and lifted up her little red rosebud of a mouth to kiss me. And, why I know not, I was so moved, that I put my arm about her neck and kissed her again and again, and then turned and cast down my eyes, and, I dare say, blushed as red as any June rose.

“Nay, lad,” said Philip Lisle, “be not ashamed. Alack, I wonder if ye will kiss next time ye meet? Who knows?”

“Oh, father,” cried Rose, “bring me again to see Will.”

“Wouldst like to see Rose again, Will?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, very much,” said I.

“Then thou shalt, but when I cannot say. Nevertheless, thou shalt. And now farewell, Will. Stay, there is a guinea for thee. Put it in thy breeches pocket, lad.”

He swung into the saddle, and, stooping down, lifted Rose before him and put one arm round her. And again he cried, “Farewell, Will Dale,” and again Rose kissed the tips of her fingers to me, and he called to Caesar, and the horse started forward like an arrow out of a bow, and away they went along the valley, and Rose’s voice came to me on the wind, crying, “Goodbye, dear Will, goodbye!” And then they were out