"You can't hang him yet; let him have a proper trial. There has been naught proved against him as yet," eagerly interrupted the baron, upon whom the lesson of his own trouble had not been lost.

"He shall have a proper trial, my lord," exclaimed the landlord, "and to-morrow we shall have him in the pillory. The proprietor of the c.o.c.k Tavern is no hangman; I only wanted to bind him. Fetch me a piece of cord, you knave, and be quick, or I'll lay it about your back when it does come. Nay, you don't do that," he added, turning to Edmund, who was struggling to free himself; "not yet, my fine fellow. I have not done with thee yet," and by Sir Nicholas' timely help the prisoner was laid upon his back and then firmly secured with the cords which the ostler brought up a minute later.

Leaving Edmund to bemoan his fate to himself, the party drew nigh to the window to witness the play afresh. They were just in time to witness the advent of another "silent scene."

"Let me explain it to you," proffered the once more equable Boniface.

"I know all about these things, they oft-times visit us here. I know every bit of this play as well as I know my creed."

"Happen you may not be very familiar with the creed, though," laughed Sir Thomas.

"Don't I know it, though?" he replied. "Sir Nicholas, if I might be pardoned for mentioning it, knows full well that every citizen of London knows the creed by heart."

"Yes," a.s.sented the Lord Keeper, "everyone is compelled to attend some church at least once a Sabbath."

"Or else they are smartly fined for staying away, as I was," ruefully added the landlord. "Yes, my lords, I know my creed full well."

"Well, what's that fellow drinking now?" asked Sir George.

"He's fainting, poor fellow," replied Sir Thomas.

"Fainting," laughed the host, "fainting! not a bit of it. He is drinking some of my best Malmesey wine, that's what he is doing; only you must think he is taking poison. He is Gorboduc, the king."

"Well?"

"Oh, I forgot, you know naught of him as yet. Well, he, a king of Britain years ago, has just told everybody that the kingdom is to be divided between his two sons, Ferrex and Porrex. Some of his councillors advised 'Yes,' and some said 'No,' but the old king was decided upon having his own way, and the land had just been divided between them."

"Get on," said the baron impatiently, as the other paused and finally came to a dead stop. "They are beginning to act again."

"And one of the old councillors strongly advised the king to keep his realm entire," continued the man, "I remember his very words. He told the king how bad any division would be, not only for himself, but also for his sons. He says:--

But worst of all for this our native land.

Within one land one single rule is best, Divided reigns do make divided hearts, But peace preserves the country and the prince."

"As correct as the creed itself," whispered Sir Nicholas.

"It may be so," exclaimed the young knight, "but we will let the poetry go. For my part I can't understand that new-fashioned poetry, and I don't want to either. I only like it when it rhymes, like Chaucer."

"That all means," resumed the landlord, "that Queen Mary of Scotland had far better leave our gracious Queen Elizabeth (G.o.d bless her) to herself. We don't want Roman Catholic princesses here again, Sir Nicholas."

"No, indeed not. Mary was enough."

Sir George Vernon frowned heavily. He was too sincere a Papist himself to relish such remarks, but he dared not show his displeasure in the face of the Queen's minister.

"And I don't care for poetry anyhow," he gruffly said, "so finish without any more of it if you can."

"I will then. You saw those two mugs offered to the king?"

"Both made of common horn, yes."

"They both came from my bar. One was full of wine, but the other held water."

"Then when my sack comes I would prefer it without the water," Sir Thomas replied, amid a chorus of laughter.

"You exercise your wit upon me, my lord," replied the landlord with some asperity, "but I have not the means wherewith to retort. I am a man of business, not a Court fool." Here he paused, astonished at his own trepidity, and also in fear lest his aristocratic customers should be offended. As he stopped his virtuous indignation pa.s.sed away, and when he resumed again it was in a tone at once apologetic and placid.

"The water," he continued, "was offered by the good councillors, but Gorboduc took the poison, and now he has drunk it off, so----"

"Look at your prisoner," interrupted Sir Nicholas, "or very soon you will not have one to look after."

Edmund had, in fact, been thrown down just over his knife, and very soon finding this out he had, by dint of considerable trouble, succeeded in cutting the cord which bound his wrists, and was busily engaged in freeing his legs by a similar process when he unfortunately attracted the attention of the Queen's Councillor.

No time was lost in securing him afresh. In spite of his strenuous efforts he was quickly overpowered, and after all his labour he only found himself more hopelessly a prisoner than he had been before.

"Why, the fellow must be bewitched," exclaimed Sir George, "I never saw his like before. Take him away before he does us any injury. Take him away, we don't want him here."

"He is safe enough now, my lord."

"Take him away, I say," repeated the baron. "We want him here no longer. Do you hear me, sirrah! Take him away I say, and lock him up in safety," and amid the oft-continued reiteration of the baron's order, Edmund Wynne was carried below and consigned to the care of the ostler until such time as the gaol officials could be conveniently communicated with.

CHAPTER XII.

A CONFESSION OF LOVE.

It was my fortune, common to that age, To love a lady fair, of great degree, The which was born of n.o.ble parentage.

And set in highest seat of dignity.

SPENSER.

The sun was declining, after a gorgeous display of its fiery hues; gilding with a translucent light the grey walls of Haddon, and casting weird shadows on the closely-cropped bowling green, when two figures emerged from the shades of the neighbouring wood and pa.s.sed into the meadow which lies below the Hall.

Sir George Vernon had not yet returned from London; indeed, nothing but a note from Margaret's lover had given them any information about the two travellers since they had departed, six days ago, and although news of them was now considered overdue, yet, in those days of bad roads and slow travelling, communications from distant places were never, or seldom at best, rapidly transmitted, and, bearing this in mind, no concern was felt on that account.

Haddon, usually so gay, wore for the time being a sombre aspect. Sir George was its life and soul, and now that he was away and exposed to the machinations of enemies who were hungering and thirsting after a share of his riches, a gloom settled down upon the place and enveloped it in an ill-befitting aspect of dreariness. Baits and hunting parties were alike abandoned; no one felt in the humour to partic.i.p.ate in gaieties, of whatever kind, so long as the baron was away; and the guests who had a.s.sembled to witness the tournament had, with few exceptions, returned to their homes feeling deprived, in a large measure, of that succession of festivities and enjoyments to which they had looked forward with so much expectancy.

Sir Henry was still confined to his room from the injuries which he had received in his encounter with Manners; and Cousin Benedict, who had stayed to take the baron's place during his enforced absence, had found his position so intolerably lonely that he at last took refuge in such copious libations of wine that henceforward his interest in contemporary events entirely ceased.

This air of desolation had infected Lady Vernon, too. Her temper, never of the mildest disposition, now became exceedingly irritable, and finding little consolation forthcoming from Sir Benedict, she vented her spleen with all those with whom she came into contact, and finally shut herself up within her own room and added to the misery of the household by obstinately refusing to hold any intercourse with the family.

Margaret and Dorothy were thus thrown much upon their own resources, and they managed to spend the time wearily enough at the tapestry frame until Manners and Crowleigh paid a visit to the Hall--ostensibly to inquire after the health of the wounded knight. Their arrival, as might be readily imagined, was cordially welcomed by the girls, and nothing beyond a first request was required to induce the two gentlemen to stay; and, so once again, Manners found himself, to his heart's great contentment, housed under the same roof as the lady of his love.

This time, however, he had come with the firm determination to bring matters to a crisis. He felt that his pa.s.sion for Dorothy could be no longer controlled. Her bearing towards him had fired him with hope, but her position and her surpa.s.sing beauty had brought so many suitors to worship at her shrine that he was driven to despair between the conflicting emotions of hope and fear.

For a whole day he waited a favourable opportunity to carry out his purpose, and in vain. The two sisters seemed to be inseparable in this time of trouble, and try as he might he could not get the interview for which he so ardently longed. The fates were unpropitious, and one after another his artifices were defeated until at last he was obliged to fall back upon the a.s.sistance of his friend, and ask him, as a last resource, to help him out of his difficulty.

As the shades of evening crept silently on, and the cooler air began to a.s.sert itself over the torrid atmosphere of the day, Sir Everard Crowleigh opened the campaign on behalf of his companion by suggesting that a walk would not only be refreshing to the two maidens, but also positively beneficial. "I don't pretend to know much of the skill of the leech," he added, "but I think that fresh country air is the finest physic out for young ladies, both for health and beauty too."