Under the Storm / Yonge, Charlotte Mary, 1823-1901

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Title: Under the Storm

Author: Charlotte M. Yonge

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UNDER THE STORM

or

STEADFAST'S CHARGE

by

CHARLOTTE M YONGE

Author of "The Heir of Redclyffe," &c.




CONTENTS.

Chapter     I.--The Trust

   "       II.--The Stragglers

   "      III.--Kirk Rapine

   "       IV.--The Good Cause

   "        V.--Desolation

   "       VI.--Left to Themselves

   "      VII.--The Hermit's Gulley

   "     VIII.--Stead in Possession

   "       IX.--Wintry Times

   "        X.--A Terrible Harvest Day

   "       XI.--The Fortunes of War

   "      XII.--Farewell to the Cavaliers

   "     XIII.--Godly Venn's Troop

   "      XIV.--The Question

   "       XV.--A Table of Love in the Wilderness

   "      XVI.--A Fair Offer

   "     XVII.--The Groom in Grey

   "    XVIII.--Jeph's Good Fortune

   "      XIX.--Patience

   "       XX.--Emlyn's Service

   "      XXI.--The Assault of the Cavern

   "     XXII.--Emlyn's Troth

   "    XXIII.--Fulfilment





UNDER THE STORM:

OR

STEADFAST'S CHARGE.




CHAPTER I.

THE TRUST.



"I brought them here as to a sanctuary."
                                   SOUTHEY.


Most of us have heard of the sad times in the middle of the
seventeenth century, when Englishmen were at war with one another and
quiet villages became battlefields.

We hear a great deal about King and Parliament, great lords and able
generals, Cavaliers and Roundheads, but this story is to help us to
think how it must have gone in those times with quiet folk in
cottages and farmhouses.

There had been peace in England for a great many years, ever since
the end of the wars of the Roses.  So the towns did not want
fortifications to keep out the enemy, and their houses spread out
beyond the old walls; and the country houses had windows and doors
large and wide open, with no thought of keeping out foes, and farms
and cottages were freely spread about everywhere, with their fields
round them.

The farms were very small, mostly held by men who did all the work
themselves with the help of their families.

Such a farm belonged to John Kenton of Elmwood.  It lay at the head
of a long green lane, where the bushes overhead almost touched one
another in the summer, and the mud and mire were very deep in winter;
but that mattered the less as nothing on wheels went up or down it
but the hay or harvest carts, creaking under their load, and drawn by
the old mare, with a cow to help her.

Beyond lay a few small fields, and then a bit of open ground
scattered with gorse and thorn bushes, and much broken by ups and
downs.  There, one afternoon on a big stone was seated Steadfast
Kenton, a boy of fourteen, sturdy, perhaps loutish, with an honest
ruddy face under his leathern cap, a coarse smock frock and stout
gaiters.  He was watching the fifteen sheep and lambs, the old goose
and gander and their nine children, the three cows, eight pigs, and
the old donkey which got their living there.

From the top of the hill, beyond the cleft of the river Avon, he
could see the smoke and the church towers of the town of Bristol, and
beyond it, the slime of the water of the Bristol Channel; and nearer,
on one side, the spire of Elmwood Church looked up, and, on the
other, the woods round Elmwood House, and these ran out as it were,
lengthening and narrowing into a wooded cleft or gulley, Hermit's
Gulley, which broke the side of the hill just below where Steadfast
stood, and had a little clear stream running along the bottom.

Steadfast's little herd knew the time of day as well as if they all
had watches in their pockets, and they never failed to go down and
have a drink at the brook before going back to the farmyard.

They did not need to be driven, but gathered into the rude steep path
that they and their kind had worn in the side of the ravine.
Steadfast followed, looking about him to judge how soon the nuts
would be ripe, while his little rough stiff-haired dog Toby poked
about in search of rabbits or hedgehogs, or the like sport.

Steadfast liked that pathway home beside the stream, as boys do love
running water.  Good stones could be got there, water rats might be
chased, there were strawberries on the banks which he gathered and
threaded on stalks of grass for his sisters, Patience and Jerusha.
They used to come with him and have pleasant games, but it was a long
time since Patience had been able to come out, for in the winter, a
grievous trouble had come on the family.  The good mother had died,
leaving a little baby of six weeks old, and Patience, who was only
thirteen, had to attend to everything at home, and take care of poor
little sickly Benoni with no one to help her but her little seven
years old sister.

The children's lives had been much less bright since that sad day;
and Steadfast seldom had much time for play.  He knew he must get
home as fast as he could to help Patience in milking the cows,
feeding the pigs and poultry, and getting the supper, or some of the
other things that his elder brother Jephthah called wench-work and
would not do.

He could not, however, help looking up at the hole in the side of the
steep cliff, where one might climb up to such a delightful cave, in
which he and Patience had so often played on hot days.  It had been
their secret, and a kind of palace to them.  They had sat there as
king and queen, had paved it with stones from the brook, and had had
many plans for the sports they would have there this summer, little
thinking that Patience would have been turned into a grave, busy
little housewife, instead of a merry, playful child.

Toby looked up too, and began to bark.  There was a rustling in the
bushes below the cave, and Steadfast, at first in dismay to see his
secret delight invaded, beheld between the mountain ash boughs and
ivy, to his great surprise, a square cap and black cassock tucked up,
and then a bit of brown leathern coat, which he knew full well.  It
was the Vicar, Master Holworth, and his father John Kenton was
Churchwarden, so it was no wonder to see him and the Parson together,
but what could bring them here--into Steadfast's cave? and with a
dark lantern too!  They seemed as surprised, perhaps as vexed as he
was, at the sight of him, but his father said, "'Tis my lad,
Steadfast, I'll answer for him."

"And so will I," returned the clergyman.  "Is anyone with you, my
boy?"

"No, your reverence, no one save the beasts."

"Then come up here," said his father.  "Someone has been playing
here, I see."

"Patience and I, father, last summer."

"No one else?"

"No, no one.  We put those stones and those sticks when we made a
fire there last year, and no one has meddled with them since."

"Thou and Patience," said Mr. Holworth thoughtfully.  "Not Jephthah
nor the little maid?"

"No, sir," replied Steadfast, "we would not let them know, because we
wanted a place to ourselves."

For in truth the quiet ways and little arrangements of these two had
often been much disturbed by the rough elder brother who teased and
laughed at them, and by the troublesome little sister, who put her
fingers into everything.

The Vicar and the Churchwarden looked at one another, and John Kenton
muttered, "True as steel."

"Your father answers for you, my boy," said the Vicar.  "So we will
e'en let you know what we are about.  I was told this morn by a sure
hand that the Parliament men, who now hold Bristol Castle, are coming
to deal with the village churches even as they have dealt with the
minster and with St. Mary's, Redcliffe."

"A murrain on them!" muttered Kenton.

"I wot that in their ignorance they do it," gently quoted the Vicar.
"But we would fain save from their hands the holy Chalice and paten
which came down to our Church from the ancient times--and which
bearing on them, as they do, the figure of the Crucifixion of our
blessed Lord, would assuredly provoke the zeal of the destroyers.
Therefore have we placed them in this casket, and your father devised
hiding them within this cave, which he thought was unknown to any
save himself--"

"Yea," said John, "my poor brother Will and I were wont to play there
when we herded the cattle on the hill.  It was climbing yon ash tree
that stands out above that he got the fall that was the death of him
at last.  I've never gone nigh the place with mine own good will
since that day--nor knew the children had done so--but methought
'twas a lonesome place and on mine own land, where we might safest
store the holy things till better times come round."

"And so I hope they will," said Mr. Holworth.

"I hear good news of the King's cause in the north."

Then they began to consult where to place the precious casket.  They
had brought tinder and matches, and Steadfast, who knew the secrets
of the cave even better than his father, showed them a little hollow,
far back, which would just hold the chest, and being closed in front
with a big stone, fast wedged in, was never likely to be discovered
readily.

***the hiding of the casket***

"This has been a hiding place already."

"Methinks this has once been a chapel," said the clergyman presently,
pointing to some rude carvings--one something like a cross, and a
large stone that might have served as an altar.

"Belike," said Kenton, "there's an old stone pile, a mere hovel, down
below, where my grandfather said he remembered an old monk, a hermit,
or some such gear--a Papist--as lived in hiding.  He did no hurt, and
was a man from these parts, so none meddled with him, or gave notice
to the Queen's officers, and our folk at the farm sold his baskets at
the town, and brought him a barley loaf twice a week till he died,
all alone in his hut.  Very like he said his mass here."

John wondered to find that the minister thought this made the place
more suitable.  The whole cavern was so low that the two men could
hardly stand upright in it, though it ran about twelve yards back.
There were white limestone drops like icicles hanging above from the
roof; and bats, disturbed by the light, came flying about the heads
of their visitors, while streamers of ivy and old man's beard hung
over the mouth, and were displaced by the heads of the men.

"None is like to find the spot," said John Kenton, as he tried to
replace the tangled branches that had been pushed aside.

"God grant us happier days for bringing it forth," said the
clergyman.

All three bared their heads, and Mr. Holworth uttered a few words of
prayer and blessing; then let John help him down the steep scramble
and descent, and looked up to see whether any sign of the cave could
be detected from the edge of the brook.  Kenton shook his head
reassuringly.

"Ah!" said Mr. Holworth, "it minds me that none ever found again the
holy Ark of the Covenant that King Josiah and the Prophet Jeremiah
hid in a cavern within Mount Pisgah!  and our sins be many that have
provoked this judgment!  Mayhap the boy will be the only one of us
who will see these blessed vessels restored to their Altar once more!
He may have been sent hither to that very end.  Now, look you,
Steadfast Kenton--Steadfast thou hast ever been, so far as I have
known thee, in nature as well as in name.  Give me thy word that thou
wilt never give up the secret of yonder cavern to any save a lawfully
ordained minister of the church."

"No doubt poor old Clerk North will be in distress about the loss,"
said Kenton.

"True, but he had best not be told.  His mind is fast going, and he
cannot safely be trusted with such a mighty secret."

"Patience knows the cavern," murmured Steadfast to his father.

"Best have no womenfolk, nor young maids in such a matter," said the
Vicar.

"My wench takes after her good mother," said John, "and I ever found
my secrets were safer in her breast than in mine own.  Not that I
would have her told without need.  But she might take little Rusha
there, or make the place known to others an she be not warned."

"Steadfast must do as he sees occasion, with your counsel, Master
Kenton," said the Vicar.  "It is a great trust we place in you, my
son, to be as it were in charge of the vessels of the sanctuary, and
I would have thy hand and word."

"And," said his father, "though he be slower in speech than some,
your reverence may trust him."

Steadfast gave his brown red hand, and with head bare said, "I
promise, after the minister and before God, never to give up that
which lies within the cave to any man, save a lawfully ordained
minister of the Church."




CHAPTER II.

THE STRAGGLERS.



"Trust me, I am exceedingly weary."
                            SHAKESPEARE.


John Kenton, though a Churchwarden, was, as has been said, a very
small farmer, and the homestead was no more than a substantial
cottage, built of the greystone of the country, with the upper story
projecting a little, and reached by an outside stair of stone.  The
farm yard, with the cowsheds, barn, and hay stack were close in
front, with only a narrow strip of garden between, for there was not
much heed paid to flowers, and few kitchen vegetables were grown in
those days, only a few potherbs round the door, and a sweet-brier
bush by the window.

The cows had made their way home of their own accord, and Patience
was milking one of them already, while little Rusha held the baby,
which was swaddled up as tightly as a mummy, with only his arms free.
He stretched them out with a cry of gladness as he saw his father,
and Kenton took the little creature tenderly in his arms and held him
up, while Steadfast hurried off to fetch the milking stool and begin
upon the other cow.

"Is Jeph come home?" asked the father, and Rusha answered "No, daddy,
though he went ever so long ago, and said he would bring me a cake."

Upon this Master Kenton handed little Benoni back to Rusha, not
without some sounds of fretfulness from the baby, but the pigs had to
be shut up and fed, and the other evening work of the farmyard done;
and it was not till all this was over, and Patience had disposed of
the milk in the cool cellars, that the father could take him again.

Meantime Steadfast had brought up a bucket of water from the spring,
and after washing his own hands and face, set out the table with a
very clean, though coarse cloth, five brown bowls, three horn spoons
and two wooden ones, one drinking horn, a couple of red earthen cups
and two small hooped ones of wood, a brown pitcher of small ale, a
big barley loaf, and a red crock, lined with yellow glazing, into
which Patience presently proceeded to pour from a cauldron, where it
had been simmering over the fire, a mess of broth thickened with
meal.  This does not sound like good living, but the Kentons were
fairly well-to-do smock-frock farmers, and though in some houses
there might be greater plenty, there was not much more comfort
beneath the ranks of the gentry in the country.

As for seats, the father's big wooden chair stood by the fire, and
there was a long settle, but only stools were used at the table, two
being the same that had served the milkers.  Just as Rusha, at her
father's sign, had uttered a short Grace, there stood in the doorway
a tall, stout, well-made lad of seventeen, with a high-crowned wide-
brimmed felt hat, a dark jerkin with sleeves, that, like his breeches
and gaiters, were of leather, and a belt across his shoulder with a
knife stuck in it.

"Ha!  Jeph," said Kenton, "always in time for meat, whatever else you
miss."

"I could not help it, father," said Jephthah, "the red coats were at
their exercise!"

"And thou couldst not get away from the gape-seed, eh!  Come, sit
down, boy, and have at thy supper."

"I wish I was one of them," said Jeph as he sat down.

"And thou'dst soon wish thyself back again!" returned his father.

"How much did you get for the fowls and eggs?" demanded Patience.

Jephthah replied by producing a leathern bag, while Rusha cried out
for her cake, and from another pocket came, wrapped in his
handkerchief, two or three saffron buns which were greeted with such
joy that his father had not the heart to say much about wasting
pence, though it appeared that the baker woman had given them as part
of her bargain for a couple of dozen of eggs, which Patience declared
ought to have brought two pence instead of only three halfpence.

Jephthah, however, had far too much news to tell to heed her
disappointment as she counted the money.  He declared that the price
of eggs and butter would go up gallantly, for more soldiers were
daily expected to defend Bristol, and he had further to tell of one
of the captains preaching in the Minster, and the market people
flocking in to hear him.  Jeph had been outside, for there was no
room within, but he had scrambled upon an old tombstone with a couple
of other lads, and through the broken window had seen the gentleman
holding forth in his hat and feather, buff coat and crimson scarf,
and heard him call on all around to be strong and hew down all their
enemies, even dragging the false and treacherous woman and her idols
out to the horse gate and there smiting them even to the death.

"Who was the false woman?" asked Steadfast.

"I wot not!  There was something about Aholah, or some such name, but
just then a mischievous little jackanapes pulled me down by the leg,
and I had to thrash him for it, and by the time I had done, Dick, the
butcher's lad, had got my place and I heard no more."

Whether the Captain meant Aholah or Athaliah, or alluded to Queen
Henrietta Maria, or to the English Church, Jeph's auditors never
knew.  The baby began to cry, and Patience to feed him with the milk
and water that had been warmed at the fire; his father and the boys
went out to finish the work for the night, little Rusha running after
them.

Presently, she gave a cry and darted up to her father "The soldiers!
the soldiers!" and in fact three men with steel caps, buff coats, and
musquets slung by broad belts were coming into the yard.

Kenton took up his little girl in his arms and went forward to meet
them, but he soon saw they did not look dangerous, they were dragging
along as if very tired and footsore and as if their weapons were a
heavy weight.

"It's the goodman," said the foremost, a red-faced, good-natured
looking fellow more like a hostler than a soldier, "have you seen
Captain Lundy's men pass this way?"

"Not I!" said Kenton, "we lie out of the high road, you see."

"But I saw them, a couple of hours agone, marching into Bristol,"
said Jephthah coming forward.

"There now," said the man, "we did but stop at the sign of the 'Crab'
the drinking of a pottle, and to bathe Jack's foot near there, and we
have never been able to catch them up again!  How far off be
Bristol?"

"A matter of four mile across the ferry.  You may see it from the
hill above."

He looked stout enough though he gave a heavy sigh of weariness, and
the other two, who were mere youths, not much older than Jeph, seemed
quite spent, and heard of the additional four miles with dismay.

"Heart alive, lads," said their comrade, "ye'll soon be in good
quarters, and mayhap the goodman here will give you a drink to carry
ye on a bit further for the Cause."

"You are welcome to a draught for civility's sake," said Kenton,
making a sign to his sons, who ran off to the house, "but I'm a plain
man, and know nought about the Cause."

"Well, Master," said the straggler, as he leant his back against the
barn, and his two companions sat down on the ground in the shelter,
"I have heard a lot about the Cause, but all I know is that my Lord
of Essex sent to call out five-and-twenty men from our parish, and
the squire, he was in a proper rage with being rated to pay ship
money, so--as I had fallen out with my master, mine host of the
'Griffin,' more fool I--I went with the young gentleman, and a proper
ass I was to do so."

"Father said 'twas rank popery railing in the Communion table, when
it was so handy to sit on or to put one's hat on," added one of the
youths looking up.  "So he was willing for me to go, and I thought
I'd like to see the world, but I'd fain be at home again."

"So would not I," muttered the other lad.

"No," said the ex-tapster humorously, "for thou knowst the stocks be
gaping for thee, Dick."

By this time Jeph and Stead had returned with a jug of small beer, a
horn cup, and three hunches of the barley loaf.  The men ate and
drank, and then the tapster returning hearty thanks, called the
others on, observing that if they did not make the best speed, they
might miss their billet, and have to sleep in the streets, if not
become acquainted with the lash.

On then unwillingly they dragged, as if one foot would hardly come
after the other.

"Poor lads!" said Kenton, as he looked after them, "methinks that's
enough to take the taste for soldiering out of thy mouth, son Jeph."

"A set of poor-spirited rogues," returned Jeph contemptuously, as he
nevertheless sauntered on so as to watch them down the lane.

"Be they on the right side or the wrong, father?" asked Steadfast, as
he picked up the pitcher and the horn.

"They be dead against our parson, lad," returned Kenton, "and he says
they be against the Church and the King, though they do take the
King's name, it don't look like the right side to be knocking out
church windows, eh?"

"Nay!" said Steadfast, "but there's them as says the windows be
popish idols."

"Never you mind 'em, lad, ye don't bow down to the glass, nor worship
it.  Thy blessed mother would have put it to you better than I can,
and she knew the Bible from end to end, but says she 'God would have
His worship for glory and for beauty in the old times, why not now?'"

John Kenton had an immense reverence for his late wife.  She had been
far more educated than he, having been born and bred up in the
household of one of those gentlemen who held it as their duty to
provide for the religious instruction of their servants.

She had been serving-woman to the lady, who in widowhood went to
reside at Bristol, and there during her marketings, honest John
Kenton had won her by his sterling qualities.

Puritanism did not mean nonconformity in her days, and in fact
everyone who was earnest and scrupulous was apt to be termed a
Puritan.  Goodwife Kenton was one of those pious and simple souls who
drink in whatever is good in their surroundings; and though the
chaplain who had taught her in her youth would have differed in
controversy with Mr. Holworth, she never discovered their diversity,
nor saw more than that Elmwood Church had more decoration than the
Castle Chapel.  Whatever was done by authority she thought was right,
and she found good reason for it in the Bible and Prayer-book her
good lady had given her.  She had named her children after the
prevailing custom of Puritans because she had heard the chaplain
object to what he considered unhallowed heathenish names, but she had
been heartily glad that they should be taught and catechised by the
good vicar.  Happily for her, in her country home, she did not live
to see the strife brought into her own life.

She had taught her children as much as she could.  Her husband was
willing, but his old mother disapproved of learning in that station
of life, and aided and abetted her eldest grandson in his resistance,
so that though she had died when he was only eleven or twelve years
old, Jephthah could do no more than just make out the meaning of a
printed sentence, whereas Steadfast and Patience could both read
easily, and did read whatever came in their way, though that was only
a broadside ballad now and then besides their mother's Bible and
Prayer-book, and one or two little black books.

The three eldest had been confirmed, when the Bishop of Bath and
Wells had been in the neighbourhood.  That was only a fortnight after
their mother died, and even Jeph was sad and subdued.

Since that sad day when the good mother had blessed them for the last
time, there had been little time for anything.  Patience had to be
the busy little housewife, and what she would have done without
Steadfast she could not tell.  Jeph would never put a hand to what he
called maids' work, but Stead would sweep, or beat the butter, or
draw the water, or chop wood, or hold the baby, and was always ready
to help her, even though it hindered him from ever going out to fish,
or play at base ball, or any of the other sports the village boys
loved.

His quiet, thoughtful ways had earned his father's trust, though he
was much slower of speech and less ready than his elder brother, and
looked heavy both in countenance and figure beside Jeph, who was
tall, slim, and full of activity and animation.  He had often made
his mother uneasy by wild talk about going to sea, and by consorting
with the sailors at Bristol, which was their nearest town, though on
the other side of the Avon, and in a different county.

It was there that the Elmwood people did their marketing, often
leaving their donkeys hobbled on their own side of the river, being
ferried over and carrying the goods themselves the latter part of the
way.




CHAPTER III.

KIRK RAPINE.



"When impious men held sway and wasted Church and shrine."
                                             LORD SELBORNE.


Patience, in her tight little white cap, sat spinning by the door,
rocking the cradle with her foot, while Rusha sometimes built what
she called houses with stones, sometimes trotted to look down the
lane to see whether father and the lads were coming home from market.

Presently she brought word, "Stead is coming.  He is leading
Whitefoot, but I don't see father and Jeph."

Patience jumped up to put her wheel out of the way, and soon she saw
that it was only Steadfast leading the old mare with the large crooks
or panniers on either side.  She ran to meet him, and saw he looked
rather pale and dazed.

"What is it, Stead?  Where's daddy?"

"Gone up to Elmwood!  They told us in town that some of the soldiers
and the folk of that sort were gone out to rabble cur church and our
parson, and father is Churchwarden, you know.  So he said he must go
to see what was doing.  And he bade me take Whitefoot home and give
you the money," said Steadfast, producing a bag which Patience took
to keep for her father.

She watched very anxiously, and so did Stead, while relieving
Whitefoot of her panniers and giving her a rub down before turning
her out to get her supper.

It was not long however before Kenton and Jeph both appeared, the one
looking sad, the other sulky.  "Too late," Jeph muttered, "and father
won't let me go to see the sport."

"Sport, d'ye call it?" said Kenton.  "Aye, Stead, you may well gape
at what we have seen--our good parson with his feet tied to his
stirrups on a sorry nag, being hauled off to town like a common
thief!"

"Oh!" broke from the children, and Patience ventured to ask, "But
what for, father?"

"They best know who did it," said the Churchwarden.  "Something they
said of a scandalous minister, as though his had not ever been a
godly life and preaching.  These be strange times, children, and for
the life of me, I know not what it all means.  How now, Jeph, what
art idling there for?  There's the waggon to be loaded for to-morrow
with the faggots I promised Mistress Lightfoot."

Jeph moved away, murmuring something about fetching up the cows, to
which his father replied, "That was Steadfast's work, and it was not
time yet."

In fact Jeph was very curious to know what was going on in the
village.  If there was any kind of uproar, why should not he have his
part in it?  It was just like father to hinder him, and he had a
great mind to neglect the faggots and go off to the village.  He was
rather surprised, and a good deal vexed to see his father walking
along on the way to the pasture with Steadfast.

It was for the sake of saying "Aye, boy, best not go near the sorry
sight!  They would not let good Master Holworth speak with me; but I
saw he meant to warn me to keep aloof lest Tim Green or the like
should remember as how I'm Churchwarden."

"Did they ask after those things?" inquired Steadfast in a lowered
voice.

"I can't say.  But on your life, lad, not a word of them!"

After work was done for the evening, Jeph and Stead were too eager to
know what had happened to stay at home.  They ran across the bit of
moorland to the village street and the grey church, whose odd-shaped
steeple stood up among the trees.  Already they could see that the
great west window was broken, all the glass which bore the picture of
the Last Judgment, and the Archangel Michael weighing souls in the
balance was gone!

"Yes," said Tom Oates, leaping over two or three tombstones to get to
them.  "'Twas rare sport, Jeph Kenton.  Why were you not there too?"

"At Bristol with father," replied Jeph.

"Worse luck for you.  The red coat shot the big angel right in the
eye, and shivered him through, and we did the rest with stones.  I
sent one that knocked the wing of him right off.  You should have
seen me, Stead!  And old Clerk North was running about crying all the
time like a baby.  He'll never whack us over the head again!"

"What was the good?" said Steadfast.

"You never saw better sport," said the boys.

And indeed, since, when once begun, destruction and mischief are apt
to be only too delightful to boys, they had thoroughly and
thoughtlessly delighted in knocking down the things they had been
taught to respect.  A figure of a knight in a ruff kneeling on a tomb
had had its head knocked off, and one of the lads heaved the bits up
to throw at the last fragment of glass in the window.

"What do you do that for?" asked Stead.

"'Tis worshipping of idols," said a somewhat graver lad.  "'Break
down their idols,' the man in the black gown said, 'and burn their
graven images in the fire.'"

"But we never worshipped them," said Stead.

"Pious preacher said so," returned the youth, "and mighty angered was
he with the rails."  (Jeph and Will were sparring with two fragments
of them.)  "'Down with them,' he cried out, so as it would have done
your heart good to hear him."

"And the parson is gone!  There will be no hearing the catechism on
Sundays!" cried Ralph Wilkes, making a leap over the broken font.

"Good luck for you, Ralph," cried the others.  "You, that never could
tell how many commandments there be."

"Put on your hat, Stead," called out another lad.  "We've done with
all that now, and the parson is gone to prison for it."

"No, no," shouted Tom Oates, "'twas for making away with the
Communion things."

"I heard the red coat say they had a warrant against scandalous
ministers," declared Ralph Wilkes.

"I heard the man with the pen and ink-horn ask for the popish
vessels, as he called them, and not a word would the parson say,"
said Oates.

"I'd take my oath he has hid them somewheres," replied Jack Beard, an
ill-looking lad.

"What a windfall they would be for him as found them!" observed
Wilkes.

"I'd like to look over the parsonage house," said Jeph.

"No use.  Old dame housekeeper has locked herself in, as savage as a
bear with a sore head."

"Besides, they did turn over all the parson's things and made a
bonfire of all his popish books.  The little ones be dancing their
rounds about it still!"

Stead had heard quite enough to make him very uneasy, and wish to get
home with his tidings to his father.  There was a girl standing by
with a baby in her arms, and she asked:

"What will they do to our minister?"

"Put him in Little Ease for a scandalous minister," was the ready
answer.  "But he _is_ a good man.  He gave us all broth when father
had the fever!"

"And who will give granny and me our Sunday dinner?" said a little
boy.

"But there'll be no more catechising.  Hurrah!" cried Oates,
"hurrah!"

"'Tis rank superstition, said the red coat, Hurrah!" and up went
their caps.  "Halloa, Stead Kenton, not a word to say?"

"He likes being catechised, standing as he does like a stuck pig, and
answering never a word," cried Jack.

"I do," said Steadfast, "and why not?"

"Parson's darling!  Parson's darling!" shouted the boys.  "A
malignant!  Off with him."  They had begun to hustle him, when Jeph
threw himself between and cried:

"Hit Steadfast, and you must hit me first."

"A match, a match!" they cried, "Jeph and Jack."

Stead had no fears about Jeph conquering, but while the others stood
round to watch the boxing, he slipped away, with his heart perplexed
and sad.  He had loved his minister, and he never guessed how much he
cared for his church till he saw it lying desolate, and these rude
lads rejoicing in the havoc; while the words rang in his ears, "And
now they break down all the carved work thereof with axes and with
hammers."




CHAPTER IV.

THE GOOD CAUSE.



"And their Psalter mourneth with them
 O'er the carvings and the grace,
 Which axe and hammer ruin
 In the fair and holy place."
                Bp. CLEVELAND COXE.


When next John Kenton went into Bristol to market he tried to
discover what had become of Mr. Holworth, but could only make out
something about his being sent up to London with others of his sort
to answer for being Baal worshippers!  Which, as he observed, he
could not understand.

There seemed likely to be no service at the church on Sunday, but
John thought himself bound to walk thither with his sons to see what
was going on, and they heard such a noise that they looked at each
other in amazement.  It was not preaching, but shouting, laughing,
screaming, stamping, and running.  The rude village children were
playing at hide-and-seek, and Jenny Oates was hidden in the pulpit.
But at Master Kenton's loud "How now, youngsters" they all were
frightened, some ran out headlong, some sneaked out at the little
north door, and the place was quiet, but in sad confusion and
desolation, the altar-table overthrown, the glass of the windows
lying in fragments on the pavement, the benches kicked over.

Kenton, with his boys' help, put what he could straight again, and
then somewhat to their surprise knelt down with bowed head, and said
a prayer, for they saw his lips moving.  Then he locked up the church
doors, for the keys had been left in them, and slowly and sadly went
away.

"Thy mother would be sad to see this work," he said to Steadfast, as
he stopped by her grave.  "They say 'tis done for religion's sake,
but I know not what to make of it."

The old Parish Clerk, North, had had a stroke the night after the
plunder of the church, and lay a-dying and insensible.  His wife gave
his keys to Master Kenton, and on the following Sunday there was a
hue-and-cry for them, and Oates the father, the cobbler, a meddling
fellow, came down with a whole rabble of boys after him to the farm
to demand them.  "A preacher had come out from Bristol," he said, "a
captain in the army, and he was calling for the keys to get into the
church and give them a godly discourse.  It would be the worse for
Master Kenton if he did not give them up."

John had just sat down in the porch in his clean Sunday smock with
the baby on his knee, and Rusha clinging about him waiting till Stead
had cleaned himself up, and was ready to read to them from the
mother's books.

When he understood Gates' message he slowly said, "I be in charge of
the keys for this here parish."

"Come, come, Master Kenton, this wont do, give 'un up or you'll be
made to.  Times are changed, and we don't want no parsons nor
churchwardens now, nor no such popery!"

"I'm accountable to the vestry for the church," gravely said Kenton.
"I will come and see what is doing, and open the church if so be as
the parish require it."

"Don't you see!  The parish does--"

"I don't call you the parish, Master Gates, nor them boys neither,"
said Kenton, getting up however, and placing the little one in the
cradle, as he called out to Patience to keep back the dinner till his
return.  The two boys and Rusha followed him to see what would
happen.

Long before they reached the churchyard they heard the sound of a
powerful voice, and presently they could see all the men and women of
the parish as it seemed, gathered about the lych gate, where, on the
large stone on which coffins were wont to be rested, stood a tall
thin man, in a heavy broad-brimmed hat, large bands, crimson scarf,
and buff coat, who was in fiery and eager words calling on all those
around to awaken from the sleep of sloth and sin, break their bonds
and fight for freedom and truth.  He waved his long sword as he spoke
and dared the armies of Satan to come on, and it was hard to tell
which he really meant, the forces of sin, or the armies of men whom
he believed to be fighting on the wrong side.

Someone told him that the keys of the church were brought, but he
heeded not the interruption, except to thunder forth "What care I for
your steeple house!  The Church of God is in the souls of the
faithful.  Is it not written 'The kingdom of heaven is within you?'
What, can ye not worship save between four walls?"  And then he went
on with the utmost fervour and vehemence, calling on all around to
set themselves free from the chains that held them and to strive even
to the death.

He meant all he said.  He really believed he was teaching the only
way of righteousness, and so his words had a force that went home to
people's hearts as earnestness always does, and Jephthah, with tears
in his eyes, began begging and praying his father to let him go and
fight for the good Cause.

"Aye, aye," said Kenton, "against the world, the flesh, and the
devil, and welcome, my son."

"Then I'll go and enlist under Captain Venn," cried Jeph.

"Not so fast, my lad.  What I gave you leave for was to fight with
the devil."

"You said the good Cause!"

"And can you tell me which be the good Cause?"

"Why, this here, of course.  Did not you hear the Captain's good
words, and see his long sword, and didn't they give five marks for
Croppie's bull calf?"

"Fine words butter no parsnips," slowly responded Kenton.

"But," put in Steadfast, "butter is risen twopence the pound."

"Very like," said Kenton, "but how can that be the good Cause that
strips the Churches and claps godly ministers into jail?"

Jephthah thought he had an answer, but fathers in those times did not
permit themselves to be argued with.

Prices began going up still higher, for the Cavaliers were reported
to be on their way to besiege Bristol, and the garrison wanted all
the provisions they could lay in, and paid well for them.  When
Kenton and his boys went down to market, they found the old walls
being strengthened with earth and stones, and sentries watching at
the gates, but as they brought in provisions, and were by this time
well known, no difficulty was made about admitting them.

One day, however, as they were returning, they saw a cloud of dust in
the distance, and heard the sounds of drums and fifes playing a
joyous tune.  Kenton drew the old mare behind the bank of a high
hedge, and the boys watched eagerly through the hawthorns.

Presently they saw the Royal Standard of England, though indeed that
did not prove much, for both sides used it alike, but there were many
lesser banners and pennons of lords and knights, waving on the
breeze, and as the Kentons peeped down into the lane below they saw
plumed hats, and shining corslets, and silken scarves, and handsome
horses, whose jingling accoutrements chimed in with the tramp of
their hoofs, and the notes of the music in front, while cheerful
voices and laughter could be heard all around.

"Oh, father! these be gallant fellows," exclaimed Jephthah.  "Will
you let me go with these?"

Kenton laughed a little to himself.  "Which is the good Cause, eh,
son Jeph?"

He was, however, not at all easy about the state of things.  "There
is like to be fighting," he said to Steadfast, as they were busy
together getting hay into the stable, "and that makes trouble even
for quiet folks that only want to be let alone.  Now, look you here,"
and he pulled out a canvas bag from the corner of the bin.  "This has
got pretty tolerably weighty of late, and I doubt me if this be the
safest place for it."

Stead opened his eyes.  The family all knew that the stable was used
as the deposit for money, though none of the young folks had been
allowed to know exactly where it was kept.  There were no banks in
those days, and careful people had no choice but either to hoard and
hide, or to lend their money to someone in business.

The farmer poured out a heap of the money, all silver and copper, but
he did not dare to wait to count it lest he should be interrupted.
He tied up one handful, chiefly of pence, in the same bag, and put
the rest into a bit of old sacking, saying, "You can get to the brook
side, to the place you wot of, better than I can, Stead.  Take you
this with you and put it along with the other things, and then you
will have something to fall back on in case of need.  We'll put the
rest back where it was before, for it may come handy."

So Steadfast, much gratified, as well he might be, at the confidence
bestowed on him by his father, took the bag with him under his smock
when he went out with the cows, and bestowed it in a cranny not far
from that in which that more precious trust resided.




CHAPTER V.

DESOLATION.



"They shot him dead at the Nine Stonerig,
 Beside the headless Cross;
 And they left him lying in his blood,
 Upon the moor and moss."
                                 SURTEES.


More and more soldiers might be seen coming down the roads towards
the town, not by any means always looking as gay as that first troop.
Some of the feathers were as draggled as the old cock's tail after a
thunderstorm, some reduced even to the quill, the coats looked
threadbare, the scarves stained and frayed, the horses lean and bony.

There was no getting into the town now, and the growling thunder of a
cannon might now and then be heard.  Jeph would have liked to spend
all his time on the hill-side where he could see the tents round the
town, and watch bodies of troops come out, looking as small as toy
soldiers, and see the clouds of smoke, sometimes the flashes, a
moment or two before the report.

He longed to go down and see the camp, taking a load of butter and
eggs, but the neighbours told his father that these troops were bad
paymasters, and that there were idle fellows lurking about who might
take his wares without so much as asking the price.

However, Jeph grew suddenly eager to herd the cattle, because thus he
had the best chance of watching the long lines of soldiers drawn out
from the camp, and seeing the smoke of the guns, whose sound made
poor Patience stay and tremble at home, and hardly like to have her
father out of her sight.

There was worse coming.  Jeph had been warned to keep his cattle well
out of sight from any of the roads, but when he could see the troops
moving about he could not recollect anything else, and one afternoon
Croppie strayed into the lane where the grass grew thick and rank,
and the others followed her.  Jeph had turned her back and was close
to the farmstead when he heard shouts and the clattering of
trappings.  Half-a-dozen lean, hungry-looking troopers were clanking
down the lane, and one called out, "Ha! good luck!  Just what we
want!  Beef and forage.  Turn about, young bumpkin, I say.  Drive
your cattle into camp.  For the King's service."

"They are father's," sturdily replied Jeph, and called aloud for
"Father."

He was answered with a rude shout of derision, and poor Croppie was
pricked with the sword's point to turn her away.  Jeph was wild with
passion, and struck back the sword with his stick so unexpectedly
that it flew out of the trooper's hand.  Of course, more than one
stout man instantly seized the boy, amid howls of rage; and one heavy
blow had fallen on him, when Kenton dashed forward, thrusting himself
between his son, and the uplifted arm, and had begun to speak, when,
with the words "You will, you rebel dog?" a pistol shot was fired.

Jeph saw his father fall, but felt the grasp upon himself relax, and
heard a voice shouting, "How now, my men, what's this?"

"He resisted the King's requisition, your Grace," said one of the
troopers, as a handsome lad galloped up.

"King's requisition!  Your own robbery.  What have you done to the
poor man, you Schelm?  See here, Rupert," he added, as another young
man rode hastily up.

"Rascals!  How often am I to tell you that this is not to be made a
place for your plunder and slaughter," thundered the new comer,
rising in his stirrups, and striking at the troopers with the flat of
his sword, so that they fell back with growls about "soldiers must
live," and "curs of peasants."

The younger brother had leapt from his horse, and was trying to help
Jephthah raise poor Kenton's head, but it fell back helplessly, deaf
to the screams of "Father, father," with which Patience and Rusha had
darted out, as a cloud of smoke began to rise from the straw yard.
Poor children, they screamed again at what was before them.  Rusha
ran wildly away at sight of the soldiers, but Patience, with the baby
in her arms, came up.  She did not see her father at first, and only
cried aloud to the gentlemen.

"O sir, don't let them do it.  If they take our cows, the babe will
die.  He has no mother!"

"They shall not, the villains!  Brother, can nothing be done?" cried
the youth, with a face of grief and horror.  And then there was a
great confusion.

The two young officers were vehemently angry at sight of the fire,
and shouted fierce orders to the guard of soldiers who had
accompanied them to endeavour to extinguish it, themselves doing
their best, and making the men release Steadfast, whom they had
seized upon as he was trying to trample out the flame, kindled by a
match from one of the soldiers who had scattered themselves about the
yard during the struggle with Jephthah.

But either the fire was too strong, or the men did not exert
themselves; it was soon plain that the house could not be saved, and
the elder remounted, saying in German, "'Tis of no use, Maurice, we
must not linger here."

"And can nothing be done?" again asked Prince Maurice.  "This is as
bad as in Germany itself."

"You are new to the trade, Maurice.  You will see many such sights, I
fear, ere we have done; though I hoped the English nature was more
kindly."

Then using the word of command, sending his aides-de-camp, and with
much shouting and calling, Prince Rupert got the troop together
again, very sulky at being baulked of their plunder.  They were all
made to go out of the farm yard, and ride away before him, and then
the two princes halted where the poor children, scarce knowing that
their home was burning behind them, were gathered round their father,
Patience stroking his face, Steadfast chafing his hands, Jephthah
standing with folded arms, and a terrible look of grief and wrath on
his face.

"Is there no hope?" asked Prince Maurice, sorrowfully.

"He is dead.  That's all," muttered Jeph between his clenched teeth.

"Mark," said Prince Rupert, "this mischance is by no command of the
King or mine.  The fellow shall be brought to justice if you can
swear to him."

"I would have hindered it, if I could," said the other prince, in
much slower, and more imperfect English.  "It grieves me much.  My
purse has little, but here it is."

He dropped it on the ground while setting spurs to his horse to
follow his brother.

And thus the poor children were left at first in a sort of numb
dismay after the shock, not even feeling that a heavy shower had
begun to fall, till the baby, whom Patience had laid on the grass,
set up a shriek.

Then she snatched him up, and burst into a bitter cry herself--
wailing "father was dead, and he would die," in broken words.
Steadfast then laid a hand on her, and said "He won't die, Patience,
I see Croppie there, I'll get some milk.  Take him."

There were only smoking walls, but the fire was burning down under
the rain, and had not touched the stable, the wind being the other
way.  "Take him there," the boy said.

"But father--we can't leave him."

Without more words Jephthah and Steadfast took the still form between
them and bore it into the stable, the baby screaming with hunger all
the time, so that Jephthah hotly said--

"Stop that!  I can't bear it."

Steadfast then said he would milk the cow if Jeph would run to the
next cottage and get help.  People would come when they knew the
soldiers were gone.

There was nothing but Steadfast's leathern cap to hold the milk, and
he felt as if his fingers had no strength to draw it; but when he had
brought his sister enough to quiet little Ben, she recollected Rusha,
and besought him to find her. She could hardly sit still and feed the
little one while she heard his voice shouting in vain for the child,
and all the time she was starting with the fancy that she saw her
father move, or heard a rustling in the straw where her brothers had
laid him.

And when little Ben was satisfied, she was almost rent asunder
between her unwillingness to leave unwatched all that was left of her
father, still with that vain hopeless hope that he might revive, all
could not have been over in such a moment, and her terrible anxiety
about her little sister.  Could she have run back into the burning
house?  Or could those dreadful soldiers have killed her too?

Steadfast presently came back, having found some of the startled
cattle and driven them in, but no Rusha.  Patience was sure she could
find her, and giving the baby to Steadfast ran out in the rain and
smouldering smoke calling her; all in vain.  Then she heard voices
and feet, and in a fresh fright was about to turn again, when she
knew Jephthah's call.  He had the child in his arms.  He had been
coming back from the village with some neighbours, when they saw the
poor little thing, crouched like a hare in her form under a bush.  No
sooner did she hear them, than like a hare, she started up to run
away; but stumbling over the root of a tree, she fell and lay, too
much frightened even to scream till her brother picked her up.

Kind motherly arms were about the poor girls.  Old Goody Grace, who
had been with them through their mother's illness, had hobbled up on
hearing the terrible news.  She looked like a witch, with a tall hat,
short cloak, and nose and chin nearly meeting, but all Elmwood loved
and trusted her, and the feeling of utter terror and helplessness
almost vanished when she kissed and grieved over the orphans, and
took the direction of things.  She straightened and composed poor
John Kenton's limbs, and gave what comfort she could by assuring the
children that the passage must have been well nigh without pain.
"And if ever there was a good man fit to be taken suddenly, it was
he," she added.  "He be in a happier place than this has been to him
since your good mother was took."

Several of the men had accompanied her, and after some consultation,
it was decided that the burial had better take place that very night,
even though there was no time to make a coffin.

"Many an honest man will be in that same case," said Harry Blane, the
smith, "if they come to blows down there."

"And He to Whom he is gone will not ask whether he lies in a coffin,
or has the prayers said over him," added Goody, "though 'tis pity on
him too, for he always was a man for churches and parsons and
prayers."

"Vain husks, said the pious captain," put in Oates.

"Well," said Harry Blane, "those could hardly be vain husks that made
John Kenton what he was.  Would that the good old times were back
again; when a sackless man could not be shot down at his own door for
nothing at all."

Reverently and carefully John Kenton's body was borne to the
churchyard, where he was laid in the grave beside his much loved
wife.  No knell was rung: Elmwood, lying far away over the hill side
in the narrow wooded valley with the river between it and the camp,
had not yet been visited by any of the Royalist army, but a midnight
toll might have attracted the attention of some of the lawless
stragglers.  Nor did anyone feel capable of uttering a prayer aloud,
and thus the only sound at that strange sad funeral was the low boom
of a midnight gun fired in the beleaguered city.

Then Patience with Rusha and the baby were taken home by kind old
Goody Grace, while the smith called the two lads into his house.




CHAPTER VI.

LEFT TO THEMSELVES.



"One look he cast upon the bier,
 Dashed from his eye the gathering tear,
 Then, like the high bred colt when freed
 First he essays his fire and speed,
 He vanished---"
                           SCOTT.


Steadfast was worn and wearied out with grief and slept heavily,
knowing at first that his brother was tossing about a good deal, but
soon losing all perception, and not waking till on that summer
morning the sun had made some progress in the sky.

Then he came to the sad recollection of the last dreadful day, and
knew that he was lying on Master Blane's kitchen floor.  He picked
himself up, and at the same moment heard Jephthah calling him from
the outside.

"Stead," he said, "I am going!"

"Going!" said poor Stead, half asleep.

"Yes.  I shall never rest till I have had a shot at those barbarous
German princes and the rest of the villains.  My father's blood cries
to me from the ground for vengeance."

"Would father have said like that?" said the boy, bewildered, but
conscious of something defective, though these were Bible words.

"That's not the point!  Captain Venn called every man to take the
sword and hew down the wicked, and slay the ungodly and the
murderers.  I will!" cried Jeph, "none shall withhold me."

He had caught more phrases from these fiery preachers than he himself
knew, and they broke forth in this time of excitement.

"But, Jeph, what is to become of us?  The girls, and the little one!
You are the only one of us who can do a man's work."

"I could not keep you together!" said Jeph.  "Our house burnt by
those accursed sons of Belial, all broken up, and only a lubber like
you to help!  No, Goody Grace or some one will take in the girls for
what's left of the stock, and you can soon find a place--a strong
fellow like you; Master Blane might take you and make a smith of you,
if you be not too slow and clumsy."

"But Jeph--"

"Withhold me not.  Is it not written--"

"I wish you would not say is it not written," broke in Stead, "I know
it is, but you don't say it right."

"Because you are yet in darkness," said Jeph, contemptuously.  "Hold
your tongue.  I must be off at once.  Market folk can get into the
town by the low lane out there, away from the camp of the spoilers,
early in the morning, and I must hasten to enlist under Captain Venn.
No, don't call the wenches, they would but strive to daunt my spirit
in the holy work of vengeance on the bloodthirsty, and I can't abide
tears and whining.  See here, I found this in the corn bin.  I'm poor
father's heir.  You won't want money, and I shall; so I shall take
it, but I'll come back and make all your fortunes when I am a captain
or a colonel.  I wonder this is not more.  We got a heap of late.
Maybe father hid it somewhere else, but 'tis no use seeking now.  If
you light upon it you are welcome to do what you will with it.  Fare
thee well, Steadfast.  Do the best you can for the wenches, but a
call is laid on me!  I have vowed to avenge the blood that was shed."

He strode off into the steep woodland path that clothed the hill
side, and Steadfast looked after him, and felt more utterly deserted
than before.  Then he looked up to the sky, and tried to remember
what was the promise to the fatherless children.  That made him
wonder whether the Bible and Prayer-book had been burnt, and then his
morning's duty of providing milk for the little ones' breakfast
pressed upon him.  He took up a pail of Mrs. Blane's which he thought
he might borrow and went off in search of the cows.  So, murmuring
the Lord's Prayer as he walked, and making the resolution not to be
dragged away from his trust in the cavern, nor to forsake his little
sister--he heard the lowing of the cows as he went over the hill, and
found them standing at the gate of the fold yard, waiting to be eased
of their milk.  Poor creatures, they seemed so glad to welcome him
that it was the first thing that brought tears to his eyes, and they
came with such a rush that he had much ado to keep them from dropping
into the pail as he leant his head against Croppie's ruddy side.

There was a little smouldering smoke; but the rain had checked the
fire, and though the roof of the house was gone and it looked
frightfully dreary and wretched, the walls were still standing and
the pigs were grunting about the place.  However, Steadfast did not
stop to see what was left within, as he knew Ben would be crying for
food, but he carried his foaming pail back to Goody Grace's as fast
as he could, after turning out the cows on the common, not even
stopping to count the sheep that were straggling about.

His sisters were watching anxiously from the door of Goody Grace's
hovel, and eagerly cried out "Where's Jeph?"

Then he had to tell them that Jeph was gone for a soldier, to have
his revenge for his father's death.

"Jeph gone too!" said poor Patience, looking pale.  "Oh, what shall
we ever do?"

"He did not think of that, I'll warrant, the selfish fellow," said
Goody Grace.  "That's the way with lads, nought but themselves."

"It was because of what they did to poor father," replied Stead.

"And if he, or the folks he is gone to, call that the Christian
religion, 'tis more than I do!" rejoined the old woman.  "I wish I
had met him, I'd have given him a bit of my mind about going off to
his revenge, as he calls it, without ever a thought what was to
become of his own flesh and blood here."

"He did say I might go to service (not that I shall), and that some
one would take you in for the cattle's sake."

"O don't do that, Stead," cried Patience, "don't let us part!"   He
had only just time to answer, "No such thing," for people were coming
about them by this time, one after another emerging from the cottages
that stood around the village green.  The women were all hotly angry
with Jeph for going off and leaving his young brothers and sisters to
shift for themselves.

"He was ever an idle fellow," said one, "always running after the
soldiers and only wanting an excuse."

"Best thing he could do for himself or them," growled old Green.

"Eh!  What, Gaffer Green!  To go off without a word or saying by your
leave to his poor little sister before his good father be cold in his
grave," exclaimed a whole clamour of voices.

"Belike he knew what a clack of women's tongues there would be, and
would fain be out of it," replied the old man shrewdly.

It was a clamour that oppressed poor Patience and made her feel sick
with sorrow and noise.  Everybody meant to be very kind and pitiful,
but there was a great deal too much of it, and they felt quite
bewildered by the offers made them.  Farmer Mill's wife, of Elmwood
Cross, two miles off, was reported by her sister to want a stout girl
to help her, but there was no chance of her taking Rusha or the baby
as well as Patience.  Goody Grace could not undertake the care of Ben
unless she could have Patience, because she was so often called away
from home, nor could she support them without the cows.  Smith Blane
might have taken Stead, but his wife would not hear of being troubled
with Rusha.  And Dame Oates might endure Rusha for the sake of a
useful girl like Patience, but certainly not the baby.  It was an
utter Babel and confusion, and in the midst of it all, Patience crept
up to her brother who stood all the time like a stock, and said "Oh!
Stead, I cannot give up Ben to anyone.  Cannot we all keep together?"

"Hush, Patty!  That's what I mean to do, if you will stand by me," he
whispered, "wait till all the clack is over."

And there he waited with Patience by his side while the parish seemed
to be endlessly striving over them.  If one woman seemed about to
make a proposal, half-a-dozen more fell on her and vowed that the
poor orphans would be starved and overworked; till she turned on the
foremost with "And hadn't your poor prentice lad to go before the
justices to shew the weals on his back?"  "Aye, Joan Stubbs, and what
are you speaking up for but to get the poor children's sheep?  Hey,
you now, Stead Kenton--Lack-a-day, where be they?"

For while the dispute was at its loudest and hottest, Stead had taken
Rusha by the hand, made a sign to Patience, and the four deserted
children had quietly gone away together into the copsewood that led
to the little glen where the brook ran, and where was the cave that
Steadfast looked on as his special charge.  Rusha, frightened by the
loud voices and angry gestures, had begun to cry, and beg she might
not be given to anyone, but stay with her Patty and Stead.

"And so you shall, my pretty," said Steadfast, sitting down on the
stump of a tree, and taking her on his knee, while Toby nuzzled up to
them.

"Then you think we can go on keeping ourselves, and not letting them
part us," said Patience, earnestly.  If I have done the house work
all this time, and we have the fields, and all the beasts.  We have
only lost the house, and I could never bear to live there again," she
added, with a shudder.

"No," said Steadfast, "it is too near the road while these savage
fellows are about.  Besides--" and there he checked himself and
added, "I'll tell you, Patty.  Do you remember the old stone cot down
there in the wood?"

"Where the old hermit lived in the blind Popish times?"

"Aye.  We'll live there.  No soldiers will ever find us out there,
Patty."

"Oh! oh! that is good," said Patience.  "We shall like that, shan't
we, Rusha?"

"And," added Steadfast, "there is an old cowshed against the rock
down there, where we could harbour the beasts, for 'tis them that the
soldiers are most after."

"Let us go down to it at once," cried the girl, joyfully.

But Steadfast thought it would be wiser to go first to the ruins of
their home; before, as he said, anyone else did so, to see what could
be saved therefrom.

Patience shrank from the spectacle, and Rusha hung upon her, saying
the soldiers would be there, and beginning to cry.  At that moment,
however, Tom Gates' voice came near shouting for "Stead! Stead
Kenton!"

"Come on, Stead.  You'll be prentice-lad to Dick Stiggins the tailor,
if so be you bring Whitefoot and the geese for your fee; and Goodman
Bold will have the big wench; and Goody Grace will make shift with
the little ones, provided she has the kine!"

"We don't mean to be beholden to none of them," said Steadfast,
sturdily, with his hands in his pockets.  "We mean to keep what
belongs to us, and work for ourselves."

"And God will help us," Patience added softly.

"Ho, ho!" cried Tom, and proud of having found them, he ran before
them back to the village green, and roared out, "Here they be!  And
they say as how they don't want none of you, but will keep
themselves.  Ha! ha!"

Anyone who saw those four young orphans would not have thought their
trying to keep themselves a laughing matter; and the village folk,
who had been just before so unwilling to undertake them, now began
scolding and blaming them for their folly and ingratitude.

Nothing indeed makes people so angry as when a kindness which has
cost them a great effort turns out not to be wanted.

"Look for nothing from us," cried Dame Bold.  "I'd have made a good
housewife of you, you ungrateful hussy, and now you may thank
yourself, if you come to begging, I shall have nothing for you."

"Beggary and rags," repeated the tailor.  "Aye, aye; 'tis all very
fine strolling about after the sheep with your hands in your pockets
in summer weather, but you'll sing another song in winter time, and
be sorry you did not know when you had a good offer."

"The babe will die as sure as 'tis born," added Jean Oates.

"If they be not all slain by the mad Prince's troopers up in that
place by the roadside," said another.

Blacksmith Blane and Goody Grace were in the meantime asking the
children what they meant to do, and Stead told them in a few words.
Goody Grace shook her head over little Ben, but Blane declared that
after all it might be the best thing they could do to keep their land
and beasts together.  Ten to one that foolish lad Jephthah would come
back with his tail between his legs, and though it would serve him
right, what would they do if all were broken up?  Then he slapped
Stead on the back, called him a sensible, steady lad, and promised
always to be his friend.

Moreover he gave up his morning's work to come with the children to
their homestead, and see what could be saved.  It was a real
kindness, not only because his protection made Patience much less
afraid to go near the place, and his strong arm would be a great help
to them, but because he was parish constable and had authority to
drive away the rough lads whom they found already hanging about the
ruins, and who had frightened Patience's poor cat up into the ash
tree.

The boys and two curs were dancing round the tree, and one boy was
stripping off his smock to climb up and throw poor pussy down among
them when Master Blane's angry shout and flourished staff put them
all to flight, and Patience and Rusha began to coax the cat to come
down to them.

Hunting her had had one good effect, it had occupied the boys and
prevented them from carrying anything off.  The stable was safe. What
had been burnt was the hay rick, whence the flames had climbed to the
house.  The roof had fallen in, and the walls and chimney stood up
blackened and dismal, but there was a good deal of stone about the
house, the roof was of shingle, and the heavy fall, together with the
pouring rain, had done much to choke the fire, so that when Blane
began to throw aside the charred bits of beams and of the upper
floor, more proved to be unburnt, or at least only singed, than could
have been expected.

The great black iron pot still hung in the chimney with the very meal
and kail broth that Patience had been boiling in it, and Rusha's
little stool stood by the hearth.  Then the great chest, or ark as
Patience called it, where all the Sunday clothes were kept, had been
crushed in and the upper things singed, but all below was safe.  The
beds and bedding were gone; but then the best bed had been only a box
in the wall with an open side, and the others only chaff or straw
stuffed into a sack.

Patience's crocks, trenchers, and cups were gone too, all except one
horn mug; but two knives and some spoons were extracted from the
ashes.  Furniture was much more scanty everywhere than now.  There
was not much to lose, and of that they had lost less than they had
feared.

"And see here, Stead," said Patience joyfully holding up a lesser box
kept within the other.

It contained her mother's Bible and Prayer-book.  The covers were
turned up, a little warped by the heat, and some of the corners of
the leaves were browned, but otherwise they were unhurt.

"I was in hopes 'twas the money box," said Blane.

"Jeph has got the bag," said Patience.

"More shame for him," growled their friend.  Steadfast did not think
it necessary to say that was not all the hoard.

Another thing about which Patience was very anxious was the meal
chest.  With much difficulty they reached it.  It had been broken in
by the fall of the roof, and some of the contents were scattered, but
enough was gathered up in a pail fetched from the stable to last for
some little time.  There were some eggs likewise in the nests, and
altogether Goodman Blane allowed that, if the young Kentons could
take care of themselves, and keep things together, they had decided
for the best; if they could, that was to say.  And he helped them to
carry their heavier things to the glen.  He wanted to see if it were
fit for their habitation, but Steadfast was almost sorry to show
anyone the way, in spite of his trust and gratitude to the
blacksmith.

However, of course, it was not possible to keep this strange hiding-
place a secret, so he led the way by the path the cattle had trodden
out through the brushwood to the open space where they drank, and
where stood the hermit's hut, a dreary looking den built of big
stones, and with rough slates covering it.  There was a kind of hole
for the doorway, and another for the smoke to get out at.  Blane
whistled with dismay at the sight of it, and told Stead he could not
take the children to such a place.

"We will get it better," said Stead.

"That we will," returned Patience, who felt anything better than
being separated from her brother.

"It is weather-tight," added Stead, "and when it is cleaned out you
will see!"

"And the soldiers will never find it," added Patience.

"There is something in that," said Blane.  "But at any rate, though
it be summer, you can never sleep there to-night."

"The girls cannot," said Stead, "but I shall, to look after things."

These were long days, and by the evening many of the remnants of
household stuff had been brought, the cows and Whitefoot had been
tied up in their dilapidated shed, with all the hay Stead could
gather together to make them feel at home.  There was a hollow under
the rock where he hoped to keep the pigs, but neither they nor the
sheep could be brought in at present.  They must take their chance,
the sheep on the moor, the pigs grubbing about the ruins of the
farmyard.  The soldiers must be too busy for marauding, to judge by
the constant firing that had gone on all day, the sharp rattle of the
musquets, and now and then the grave roll of a cannon.

Stead had been too busy to attend, but half the village had been
watching from the height, which accounted perhaps for the move from
the farm having been so uninterrupted after the first.

It was not yet dark, when, tired out by his day's hard work, Stead
sat himself down at the opening of his hut with Toby by his side.
The evening gold of the sky could hardly be seen through the hazel
and mountain-ash bushes that clothed the steep opposite bank of the
glen and gave him a feeling of security.  The brook rippled along
below, plainly to be heard since all other sounds had ceased except
the purring of a night-jar and the cows chewing their cud.  There was
a little green glade of short grass sloping down to the stream from
the hut where the rabbits were at play, but on each side the trees
and brushwood were thick, with only a small path through, much
overgrown, and behind the rock rose like a wall, overhung with ivy
and traveller's joy.  Only one who knew the place could have found
the shed among the thicket where the cows were fastened, far less the
cavern half-way up the side of the rock where lay the treasures for
which Steadfast was a watchman.  He thought for a moment of seeing if
all were safe, but then decided, like a wise boy, that to disturb the
creepers, and wear a path to the place, was the worst thing he could
do if he wished for concealment.  He had had his supper at the
village, and had no more to do, and after the long day of going to
and fro, even Toby was too much tired to worry the rabbits, though he
had had no heavy weights to carry.  Perhaps, indeed, the poor dog had
no spirits to interfere with their sports, as they sat upright,
jumped over one another, and flashed their little white tails.  He
missed his old master, and knew perfectly well that his young master
was in trouble and distress, as he crept close up to the boy's
breast, and looked up in his face.  Stead's hand patted the rough,
wiry hair, and there was a sort of comfort in the creature's love.
But how hard it was to believe that only yesterday he had a father
and a home, and that now his elder brother was gone, and he had the
great charge on him of being the mainstay of the three younger ones,
as well as of protecting that treasure in the cavern which his father
had so solemnly entrusted to him.

The boy knelt down to say his prayers, and as he did so, all alone in
the darkening wood, the words "Father of the fatherless, Helper of
the helpless," came to his aid.




CHAPTER VII.

THE HERMIT'S GULLEY.



"O Bessie Bell and Mary Grey,
 They were twa bonnie lasses--
 They digged a bower on yonder brae,
 And theek'd it o'er wi' rashes."     BALLAD.


Steadfast slept soundly on the straw with Toby curled up by his side
till the morning light was finding its way in through all the chinks
of his rude little hovel.

When he had gathered his recollections he knew how much there was to
be done.  He sprang to his feet, showing himself still his good
mother's own boy by kneeling down to his short prayer, then taking
off the clothes in which he had slept, and giving himself a good bath
in the pool under the bush of wax-berried guelder rose, and as good a
wash as he could without soap.

Then he milked the cows, for happily his own buckets had been at the
stable and thus were safe.  He had just released Croppie and seen her
begin her breakfast on the grass, when Patience in her little red
hood came tripping through the glen with a broom over her shoulder,
and without the other children.  Goody Grace had undertaken to keep
them for the day, whilst Patience worked with her brother, and had
further lent her the broom till she could make another, for all the
country brooms of that time were home-made with the heather and the
birch.  She had likewise brought a barley cake, on which and on the
milk the pair made their breakfast, Goody providing for the little
ones.

"We must use it up," said Patience, "for we have got no churn."

"And we could not get into the town to sell the butter if we had,"
returned her brother.  "We had better take it up to some one in the
village who might give us something for it, bread or cheese maybe."

"I would like to make my own butter," sighed Patience, whose mother's
cleanly habits had made her famous for it.

"So you shall some day, Patty," said her brother, "but there's no
getting into Bristol to buy one or to sell butter now.  Hark! they
are beginning again," as the growl of a heavy piece of cannon shook
the ground.

"I wonder where our Jeph is," said the little girl sadly.  "How could
he like to go among all those cruel fighting men?  You won't go,
Stead?"

"No, indeed, I have got something else to do."

The children were hard at work all the time.  They cleared out the
inside of their hovel, which had a floor of what was called lime ash,
trodden hard, and not much cracked.  Probably other hermits in
earlier times had made the place habitable before the expelled monk
whom the Kentons' great-grandfather recollected; for the cell, though
rude, was wonderfully strong, and the stone walls were very stout and
thick, after the fashion of the middle ages.  There was a large flat
stone to serve as a hearth, and an opening at the top for smoke with
a couple of big slaty stones bent towards one another over it as a
break to the force of the rain.  The children might have been worse
off though there was no window, and no door to close the opening.
That mattered the less in the summer weather, and before winter came,
Stead thought he could close it with a mat made of the bulrushes that
stood up in the brook, lifting their tall, black heads.

Straw must serve for their beds till they could get some sacking to
stuff it into, and as some of the sheep would have to be killed and
salted for the winter, the skins would serve for warmth.  Patience
arranged the bundles of straw with a neat bit of plaiting round them,
at one corner of the room for herself and Rusha, at the opposite one
for Stead.  For the present they must sleep in their clothes.

Life was always so rough, and, to present notions, comfortless, that
all this was not nearly so terrible to the farmer's daughter of two
centuries ago as it would be to a girl of the present day.  Indeed,
save for the grief for the good father, the sense of which now and
then rushed on them like a horrible, too true dream, Steadfast and
Patience would almost have enjoyed the setting up for themselves and
all their contrivances.  Some losses, however, besides that of the
churn were very great in their eyes.  Patience's spinning wheel
especially, and the tools, scythe, hook, and spade, all of which had
been so much damaged, that Smith Blane had shaken his head over them
as past mending.

Perhaps, however, Stead might borrow and get these made for him.  As
to the wheel, that must, like the churn, wait till the siege was
over.

"But will not those dreadful men burn the town down and not leave one
stone on another, if Jeph and the rest of them don't keep them out?"
asked Patience.

"No," said Stead.  "That is not the way in these days--at least not
always.  So poor father said last time we went into Bristol, when he
had been talking to the butter-merchant's man.  He said the townsfolk
would know the reason why, if the soldiers were for holding out long
enough to get them into trouble."

"Then perhaps there will not be much fighting and they will not hurt
Jeph," said Patience, to whom Jeph was the whole war.

"There's no firing to-day.  Maybe they are making it up," said
Steadfast.

"I never heeded," said Patience, "we have been so busy!  But Stead,
how shall we get the things?  We have no money.  Shall we sell a
sheep or a pig?"

Stead looked very knowing, and she exclaimed "Have you any, Stead?
***I thought Jeph took it all away."

Then Stead told her how his father had entrusted him with the bulk of
the savings, in case of need, and had made it over to the use of the
younger ones.

"It was well you did not know, Patty," he added.  "You told no lie,
and Jeph might have taken it all."

"O! he would not have been so cruel," cried Patience.  "He would not
want Rusha and Ben to have nothing."

Stead did not feel sure, and when Patience asked him where the hoard
was, he shook his head, looked wise, and would not tell her.  And
then he warned her, with all his might and main against giving a hint
to anyone that they had any such fund in reserve.  She was a little
vexed and hurt at first, but presently she promised.

"Indeed Stead, I won't say one word about it, and you don't think I
would ever touch it without telling you."

"No, Patty, you wouldn't, but don't you see, if you know nothing, you
can't tell if people ask you."

In truth, Stead was less anxious about the money than about the other
treasure, and when presently Patience proposed that the cave where
they used to play should serve for the poultry, so as to save them
from the foxes and polecats, he looked very grave and said "No, no,
Patty, don't you ever tell anyone of that hole, nor let Rusha see
it."

"Oh! I know then !" cried Patience, with a little laugh, "I know
what's there then."

"There's more than that, sister," and therewith Stead told in her ear
of the precious deposit.

She looked very grave, and said "Why then it is just like church!  O
no, Stead, I'll never tell till good Mr. Holworth comes back.  Could
not we say our prayers there on Sundays?"

Stead liked the thought but shook his head.

"We must not wear a path up to the place," he said, "nor show the
little ones the way."

"I shall say mine as near as I can," said Patience.  "And I shall ask
God to help us keep it safe."

Then the children became absorbed in seeking for a place where their
fowls could find safe shelter from the enemies that lurked in the
wood, and ended by an attempt of Stead's to put up some perches
across the beam above the cow-shed.

Things were forward enough for Rusha and Ben to be fetched down to
their new home that night; when Patience went to fetch them, she
heard that the cessation of firing had really been because the troops
within the town were going to surrender to the King's soldiers
outside.

"Then there will be no more fighting," she anxiously asked of Master
Blane.

"No man can tell," he answered.

"And will Jeph come back?"

But that he could tell as little, and indeed someone else spoke to
him, and he paid the child no more attention.

Rusha had had a merry day among the children of her own age in the
village; she fretted at coming away, and was frightened at turning
into so lonely a path through the hazel stems, trotting after
Patience because she was afraid to turn back alone, but making a low,
peevish moan all the time.

***Stead stirring the porridge.

Patience hoped she would be comforted when they came out on their
little glade, and she saw Stead stirring the milk porridge over the
fire he had lighted by the house.  For he had found the flint and
steel belonging to the matchlock of his father's old gun, and there
was plenty of dry leaves and half-burnt wood to serve as tinder.  The
fire for cooking would be outside, whenever warmth and weather
served, to prevent indoor smoke.  And to Patience's eyes it really
looked pleasant and comfortable, with Toby sitting wisely by his
young master's side, and the cat comfortably perched at the door, and
Whitefoot tied to a tree, and the cows in their new abode.  But
Jerusha was tired and cross, she said it was an ugly place, and she
was afraid of the foxes and the polecats, she wanted to go home, she
wanted to go back to Goody Grace.

Stead grew angry, and threatened that she should have no supper, and
that made her cry the louder, and shake her frock at him; but
Patience, who knew better how to deal with her, let her finish her
cry, and come creeping back, promising to be good, and glad to eat
the supper, which was wholesome enough, though very smoky: however,
the children were used to smoke, and did not mind it.

They said their prayers together while the sun was touching the tops
of the trees, crept into their hut, curled themselves up upon their
straw and went to sleep, while Toby lay watchful at the door, and the
cat prowled about in quest of a rabbit or some other evening wanderer
for her supper.

The next day Patience spent in trying to get things into somewhat
better order, and Steadfast in trying to gather together his live
stock, which he had been forced to leave to take care of themselves.
Horse, donkey, and cows were all safe round their hut; but he could
find only three of the young pigs and the old sow at the farmyard,
and it plainly was not safe to leave them there, though how to pen
them up in their new quarters he did not know.

The sheep were out on the moor, and only one of them seemed to be
missing.  The goat and the geese had likewise taken care of
themselves and seemed glad to see him.  He drove them down to their
new home, and fed them there with some of the injured meal.  "But
what can we do with the pigs?  There's no place they can't get out of
but this," said Stead, looking doubtfully.

"Do you think I would have pigs in here?  No, I am not come to that!"

It ended in Stead's going to consult Master Blane, who advised that
the younger pigs should be either sold, or killed and salted, and
nothing left but the sow, who was a cunning old animal, and could
pretty well take care of herself, besides that she was so tough and
lean that one must be very hungry indeed to be greatly tempted by her
bristles,

But how sell the pigs or buy the salt in such days as these?  There
was, indeed, no firing.

There was a belief that treaties were going on, but leisure only left
the besiegers more free to go wandering about in search of plunder;
and Stead found all trouble saved him as to disposing of his pigs.
They were quite gone next time he looked for them, and the poor old
sow had been lamed by a shot; but did not seem seriously hurt, and
when with some difficulty she had been persuaded to be driven into
the glen, she seemed likely to be willing to stay there in the corner
of the cattle shed.

The children were glad enough to be in their glen, with all its
bareness and discomfort, when they heard that a troop of horse had
visited Elmwood, and made a requisition there for hay and straw.
They had used no violence, but the farmers were compelled to take it
into the camp in their own waggons, getting nothing in payment but
orders on the treasury, which might as well be waste paper.  And,
indeed, they were told by the soldiers that they might be thankful to
get off with their carts and horses.




CHAPTER VIII.

STEAD IN POSSESSION.



"At night returning, every labour sped,
 He sits him down, the monarch of a shed."
                                     GOLDSMITH.


Another day made it certain that the garrison of Bristol had
surrendered to the besiegers.   A few shots were heard, but they were
only fired in rejoicing by the Royalists, and while Steadfast was
studying his barley field, already silvered over by its long beards,
and wondering how soon it would be ripe, and how he should get it cut
and stacked, his name was shouted out, and he saw Tom Oates and all
the rest of the boys scampering down the lane.

"Come along, Stead Kenton, come on and see, the Parliament soldiers
come out and go by."

Poor Steadfast had not much heart for watching soldiers, but it
struck him that he might see or hear something of Jephthah, so he
came with the other boys to the bank, where from behind a hedge they
could look down at the ranks of soldiers as they marched along, five
abreast, the road was not wide enough to hold more.  They had been
allowed to keep their weapons, so the officers had their swords, and
the men carried their musquets.  Most of them looked dull and
dispirited, and the officers had very gloomy, displeased faces.  In
fact, they were very angry with their commander, Colonel Fiennes, for
having surrendered so easily, and he was afterwards brought to a
court-martial for having done so.

Stead did not understand this, he thought only of looking under each
steel cap or tall, slouching hat for Jephthah.  Several times a
youthful, slender figure raised his hopes, and disappointed him, and
he began to wonder whether Jeph could have after all stayed behind in
the town, or if he could have been hurt and was ill there.

By-and-by came a standard, bearing a Bible lying on a sword, and
behind it rode a grave looking officer, with long hair, and a red
scarf, whom the lads recognised as the same who had preached at
Elmwood.  His men were in better order than some of the others, and
as Steadfast eagerly watched them, he was sure that he knew the turn
of Jeph's head, in spite of his being in an entirely new suit of
clothes, and with a musquet over his shoulder.

Stead shook the ash stem he was leaning against, the men looked up,
he saw the well-known face, and called out "Jeph! Jeph!"  But some of
the others laughed, Jeph frowned and shook his head, and marched on.
Stead was disappointed, but at any rate he could carry back the
assurance to Patience that Jeph was alive and well, though he seemed
to have lost all care for his brothers and sisters.  Yet, perhaps, as
a soldier he could not help it, and it might not be safe to straggle
from the ranks.

There was no more fighting for the present in the neighbourhood.  The
princes and their army departed, only leaving a garrison to keep the
city, and it was soon known in the village that the town was in its
usual state, and that it was safe to go in to market as in former
times.  Stead accordingly carried in a basket of eggs, which was all
he could yet sell.  He was ferried across the river, and made his way
in.  It was strange to find the streets looking exactly as usual, and
the citizens' wives coming out with their baskets just as if nothing
had happened.

There was the good-natured face of Mistress Lightfoot, who kept a
baker's shop at the sign of the Wheatsheaf, and was their regular
customer.

"Ha, little Kenton, be'st thou there?  I'm right glad to see thee.
They said the mad fellows had burnt the farm and made an end of all
of you, but I find 'em civil enow, and I'm happy to see 'twas all
leasing-making."

"It is true, mistress," said Stead, "that they burnt our house and
shot poor father."

"Eh, you don't say so, my poor lad?" and she hurried her kind
questions, tears coming into her eyes, as she thought of the orphans
deserted by their brother.  She was very anxious to have Patience
butter-making again and promised to come with Stead to give her
assistance in choosing both a churn and a spinning wheel if he would
come in the next day, for he had not ventured on bringing any money
with him.  She bought all his eggs for her lodger, good Doctor Eales,
who could hardly taste anything and had been obliged to live cooped
up in an inner chamber for fear of the Parliament soldiers, who were
misbehaved to Church ministers though civil enough to women; while
these new comers were just the other way, hat in hand to a clergyman,
but apt to be saucy to the lasses.  But she hoped the Doctor would
cheer up again, now that the Cathedral was set in order, so far as
might be, and prayers were said there as in old times.  In fact the
bells were ringing for morning prayer, and Stead was so glad to hear
them that he thought he might venture in and join in the brief daily
service.  There were many others who had done so, for these anxious
days had quickened the devotion of many hearts, and people had felt
what it was to be robbed of their churches and forbidden the use of
their prayer-books.  Moreover, some had sons or brothers or husbands
fighting on the one side or the other, and were glad to pray for
them, so that Stead found himself in the midst of quite a
congregation, though the choir had been too much dispersed and broken
up for the musical service, and indeed the organ had been torn to
pieces by the Puritan soldiers, who fancied it was Popish.

But Stead found himself caring for the Psalms and Prayers in a manner
he had never done before, and which came of the sorrow he had felt
and the troubles that pressed upon him.  He fancied all would come
right now, and that soon Mr. Holworth would be back, and he should be
able to give up his charge; and he went home, quite cheered up.

When he came into the gulley he heard voices through the bushes, and
pressing forward anxiously he saw Blane and Oates before the hovel
door, Patience standing there crying, with the baby in her arms, and
Rusha holding her apron, and an elderly man whom Stead knew as old
Lady Elmwood's steward talking to the other men, who seemed to be
persuading him to something.

As soon as Stead appeared, the other children ran up to him, and
Rusha hid herself behind him, while Patience said "O Stead, Stead, he
has come to turn us all out!  Don't let him!"

"Nay, nay, little wench, not so fast," said the steward, not
unkindly.  "I am but come to look after my Lady's interests, seeing
that we heard your poor father was dead, God have mercy on his soul
(touching his hat reverently), and his son gone off to the wars, and
nothing but a pack of children left."

"But 'tis all poor father's," muttered Stead, almost dumbfounded.

"It is held under the manor of Elmwood," explained the steward, "on
the tenure of the delivery of the prime beast on the land on the
demise of lord or tenant, and three days' service in hay and harvest
time."

What this meant Steadfast and Patience knew as little as did Rusha or
Ben, but Goodman Blane explained.

"The land here is all held under my Lady and Sir George, Stead--mine
just the same--no rent paid, but if there's a death--landlord or
tenant--one has to give the best beast as a fee, besides the work in
harvest."

"And the question is," proceeded the steward, "who and what is there
to look to.  The eldest son is but a lad, if he were here, and this
one is a mere child, and the house is burnt down, and here they be,
crouching in a hovel, and how is it to be with the land.  I'm bound
to look after the land.  I'm bound to look after my Lady's interest
and Sir George's."

"Be they ready to build up the place if you had another tenant?"
asked Blane, signing to Stead to hold his peace.

"Well--hum--ha!  It might not come handy just now, seeing that Sir
George is off with the King, and all the money and plate with him and
most of the able-bodied servants, but I'm the more bound to look
after his interests."

That seemed to be Master Brown's one sentence.  But Blane took him
up, "Look you here, Master Brown, I, that have been friend and gossip
this many years with poor John Kenton--rest his soul--can tell you
that your lady is like to be better served with this here Steadfast,
boy though he be, than if you had the other stripling with his head
full of drums and marches, guns and preachments, and what not, and
who never had a good day's work in him without his father's eye over
him.  This little fellow has done half his share and his own to boot
long ago.  Now they are content to dwell down here, out of the way of
the soldiering, and don't ask her ladyship to be at any cost for
repairing the farm up there, but will do the best they can for
themselves.  So, I say, Master Brown, it will be a real good work of
charity, without hurt to my Lady and Sir George to let them be, poor
things, to fight it out as they can."

"Well, well, there's somewhat in what you say Goodman Blane, but I'm
bound to look after my Lady's interests and Sir George's."

"I would come and work like a good one at my Lady's hay and harvest,"
said Stead, "and I shall get stronger and bigger every year."

"But the beast," said the steward, "my Lady's interests must come
first, you see."

"O don't let him take Croppie," cried Patience.  "O sir, not the
cows, or baby will die, and we can't make the butter."

"You see, Master Brown," explained Blane, "it is butter as is their
chief stand-by.  Poor Dame Kenton, as was took last spring, was the
best dairywoman in the parish, and this little maid takes after her.
Their kine are their main prop, but there's the mare, there's not
much good that she can do them."

"Let us look!" said the steward.  "A sorry jade enow!  But I don't
know but she will serve our turn better than the cow.  There was a
requisition, as they have the impudence to call it, from the
Parliament lot that took off all our horses, except old grey Dobbin
and the colt, and this beast may come in handy to draw the wood.  So
I'll take her, and you may think yourself well off, and thank my Lady
I'm so easy with you.  'Be not hard on the orphans,' she said.
'Heaven forbid, my Lady,' says I, 'but I must look after your
interests.'"

The children hung round old Whitefoot, making much of her for the
last time, and Patience and Rusha both cried sadly when she was led
away; and it was hard to believe Master Blane, who told them it was
best for Whitefoot as well as for themselves, since they would find
it a hard matter to get food even for the more necessary animals in
the winter, and the poor beast would soon be skin and bone; while for
themselves the donkey could carry all they wanted to market; and it
might be more important than they understood to be thus regularly
accepted as tenants by the manor, so that no one could turn them out.

And Stead, remembering the cavern, knew that he ought to be thankful,
while the two men went away, Brown observing, "One can scarce turn
'em out, poor things, but such a mere lubber as that boy is can do no
good!  If the elder one had thought fit to stay and mind his own
business now!"

"A good riddance, I say," returned Blane.  "Stead's a good-hearted
lad, though clownish, and I'll do what I can for him."




CHAPTER IX.

WINTRY TIMES.



"Thrice welcome may such seasons be,
 But welcome too the common way,
 The lowly duties of the day."


There was of course much to do.  Steadfast visited his hoard and took
from thence enough to purchase churn, spinning wheel, and the few
tools that he most needed; but it was not soon that Patience could
sit down to spin.  That must be for the winter, and their only chance
of light was in making candles.

Rusha could gather the green rushes, though she could not peel them
without breaking them; and Patience had to take them out of her hands
and herself strip the white pith so that only one ribbon of green was
left to support it.

The sheep, excepting a few old ewes, were always sold or killed
before the winter, and by Blane's advice, Stead kept only three.  The
butcher Oates took some of the others, and helped Stead to dispose of
four more in the market.  Two were killed at different intervals for
home use, but only a very small part was eaten fresh, as a wonderful
Sunday treat, the rest was either disposed of among the neighbours,
who took it in exchange for food of other kinds; or else was salted
and dried for the winter's fare, laid up in bran in two great crocks
which Stead had been forced to purchase, and which with planks from
the half-burnt house laid over them served by turns as tables or
seats.  The fat was melted up in Patience's great kettle, and the
rushes dipped in it over and over again till they had such a coating
of grease as would enable them to be burnt in the old horn lantern
which had fortunately been in the stable and escaped the fire.

Kind neighbours helped Stead to cut and stack his hay, and his little
field of barley.  All the grass he could cut on the banks he also
saved for the animals' winter food, and a few turnips, but these were
rare and uncommon articles only used by the most advanced farmers,
and his father had only lately begun to grow them, nor had potatoes
become known except in the gardens of the curious.

The vexation was that all the manor was called to give their three
days' labour to Lady Elmwood's crops just as all their own were cut,
and as, of course, Master Brown had chosen the finest weather, every
one went in fear and trembling for their own, and Oates and others
grumbled so bitterly at having to work without wage, that Blane asked
if they called their own houses and land nothing.

There was fresh grumbling too that the food sent out to the labourers
in the field was not as it used to be, good beef and mutton, but only
bread and very hard cheese, and bowls of hasty pudding, with thin,
sour small beer to wash it down.  Oates growled and vowed he would
never come again to be so scurvily used; and perhaps no one guessed
that my lady was far more impoverished than her tenants, and had a
hard matter to supply even such fare as this.

Happily the weather lasted good long enough to save the Kentons'
little crop, though there was a sad remembrance of the old times,
when the church bell gave the signal at sunrise for all the
harvesters to come to church for the brief service, and then to start
fair in their gleaning.  The bell did still ring, but there were no
prayers.  The vicar had never come back, and it was reported that he
had been sent to the plantations in America.  There was no service on
Sunday nearer than Bristol.  It was the churchwardens' business to
find a minister, and of these, poor Kenton was dead, and the other,
Master Cliffe, was not likely to do anything that might put the
parish to expense.

Goodman Blane, and some of the other more seriously minded folk used
to walk into Bristol to church when the weather was tolerably fine.
If it were wet, the little stream used to flood the lower valley so
that it was not possible to get across.  Steadfast was generally one
of the party.  Patience could not go, as it was too far for Rusha to
walk, or for the baby to be carried.

Once, seeing how much she wished to go again to church, Stead
undertook to mind the children, the cattle, and the dinner in her
place; but what work he found it!  When he tried to slice the onions
for the broth, little Ben toddled off, and had to be caught lest he
should tumble into the river.  Then Rusha got hold of the knife, cut
her hand, and rolled it up in her Sunday frock, and Steadfast,
thinking he had got a small bit of rag, tied it up in Patience's
round cap, but that he did not know till afterwards, only that baby
had got out again, and after some search was found asleep cuddled up
close to the old sow.  And so it went on, till poor Steadfast felt as
if he had never spent so long a day.  As to reading his Bible and
Prayer-book, it was quite impossible, and he never had so much
respect for Patience before as when he found what she did every day
without seeming to think anything of it.

She did not get home till after dark, but the Blanes had taken her to
rest at the friends with whom they spent the time between services,
and they had given her a good meal.

"Somehow," said Patience, "everybody seems kinder than they used to
be before the fighting began--and the parsons said the prayers as if
they had more heart in them."

Patience was quite right.  These times of danger were making everyone
draw nearer together, and look up more heartily to Him in Whom was
there true help.

But winter was coming on and bringing bad times for the poor children
in their narrow valley, so close to the water.  It was not a very
cold season, but it was almost worse, for it was very wet.  The
little brook swelled, turned muddy yellow, and came rushing and
tumbling along, far outside its banks, so that Patience wondered
whether there could be any danger of its coming up to their hut and
perhaps drowning them.

"I think there is no fear," said Steadfast.  "You see this house has
been here from old times and never got washed away."

"It wouldn't wash away very easily," said Patience, "I wish we were
in one of the holes up there."

"If it looks like danger we might get up," said Steadfast, and to
please her he cleared a path to a freshly discovered cave a little
lower down the stream, but so high up on the rocky sides of the
ravine as to be safe from the water.

Once Patience, left at home watching the rushing of the stream,
became so frightened that she actually took the children up there,
and set Rusha to hold the baby while she dragged up some sheepskins
and some food.

Steadfast coming home asked what she was about and laughed at her,
showing her, by the marks on the trees, that the flood was already
going down.  Such alarms came seldom, but the constant damp was
worse.  Happily it was always possible to keep up a fire, wood and
turf peat was plentiful and could be had for the cutting and
carrying, and though the smoke made their eyes tingle, perhaps it
hindered the damp from hurting them, when all the walls wept, in
spite of the reed mats which they had woven and hung over them.  And
then it was so dark, Patience's rushes did not give light enough to
see to do anything by them even when they did not get blown out, and
when the sun had set there was nothing for it, but as soon as the few
cattle had been foddered in their shed and cave, to draw the mat and
sheepskins that made a curtain by way of door, fasten it down with a
stone, share with dog and cat the supper of broth, or milk, or
porridge which Patience had cooked, and then lie down on the beds of
dried leaves stuffed into sacking, drawing over them the blankets and
cloaks that had happily been saved in the chest, and nestling on
either side of the fire, which, if well managed, would smoulder on
for hours.  There the two elder ones would teach Rusha her catechism
and tell old stories, and croon over old rhymes till both the little
ones were asleep, and then would hold counsel on their affairs,
settle how to husband their small stock of money, consider how soon
it would be expedient to finish their store of salted mutton and pork
to keep them from being spoilt by damp, and wonder when their hens
would begin to lay.

It could hardly be a merry Christmas for the poor children, though
they did stick holly in every chink where it would go, but there were
not many berries that year, and as Rusha said, "there were only
thorns."

Steadfast walked to Bristol through slush and mire and rain, not even
Smith Blane went with him, deeming the weather too bad, and thinking,
perhaps, rather over much of the goose at home.

Bristol people were keeping Christmas with all their might, making
the more noise and revelry because the Parliament had forbidden the
feast to be observed at all.  It was easy to tell who was for the
King and who for the Parliament, for there were bushes of holly,
mistletoe, and ivy, at all the Royalist doors and windows, and from
many came the savoury steam of roast beef or goose, while the other
houses were shut up as close as possible and looked sad and grim.

All the bells of all the churches were ringing, and everybody seemed
to be trooping into them.  As Steadfast was borne along by the
throng, there was a pause, and a boy of his own age with a large hat
and long feather, beneath which could be seen curls of jet-black
hair, walked at the head of a party of gentlemen.  Everyone in the
crowd uncovered and there was a vehement outcry of "God save the
King!  God save the Prince of Wales!"   Everyone thronged after him,
and Steadfast had a hard struggle to squeeze into the Cathedral, and
then had to stand all the time with his back against a pillar, for
there was not even room to kneel down at first.

There was no organ, but the choir men and boys had rallied there, and
led the Psalms which went up very loudly and heartily.  Then the Dean
went up into the pulpit and preached about peace and goodwill to men,
and how all ought to do all in their power to bring those blessed
gifts back again.  A good many people dropped off during the sermon,
and more after it, but Steadfast remained.  He had never been able to
come to the Communion feast since the evil times had begun, and he
had thought much about it on his lonely walk, and knew that it was
the way to be helped through the hard life he was living.

When all was over he felt very peaceful, but so hungry and tired with
standing and kneeling so long after his walk, that he was glad to
lean against the wall and take out the piece of bread that Patience
had put in his wallet.

Presently a step came near, and from under a round velvet skull-cap a
kind old face looked at him which he knew to be that of the Dean.

"Is that all your Christmas meal, my good boy?" he asked.

"I shall have something for supper, thank your reverence," replied
Steadfast, taking off his leathern cap.

"Well, mayhap you could away with something more," said the Dean.
"Come with me."

And as Steadfast obeyed, he asked farther, "What is your name, my
child?  I know your face in church, but not in town."

"No, sir, I do not live here.  I am Steadfast Kenton, and I am from
Elmwood, but we have no prayers nor sermon there since they took the
parson away."

"Ah! good Master Holworth!  Alas! my child, I fear you will scarce
see him back again till the King be in London once more, which Heaven
grant.  And, meantime, Sir George Elmwood being patron, none can be
intruded into his room.  It is a sore case, and I fear me the case of
many a parish besides."

Steadfast was so much moved by the good Dean's kindness as to begin
to consider whether it would be betraying the trust to consult him
about that strange treasure in the cave, but the lad was never quick
of thought, and before he could decide one of the canons joined the
Dean, and presently going up the steps to the great hall of the
Deanery, Steadfast saw long tables spread with snowy napkins,
trenchers laid all round, and benches on which a numerous throng were
seating themselves, mostly old people and little children, looking
very poor and ragged.  Steadfast held himself to be a yeoman in a
small way, and somewhat above a Christmas feast with the poor, but
the Dean's kindness was enough to make him put away his pride, and
then there was such a delicious steam coming up from the buttery
hatch as was enough to melt away all nonsense of that sort from a
hungry lad.

Grand joints of beef came up in clouds of vapour, and plum puddings
smoked in their rear, to be eaten with them, after the fashion of
these days, when of summer vegetables there were few, and of winter
vegetables none.  The choirmen and boys, indeed all the Cathedral
clergy who were unmarried, were dining there too, but the Dean and
his wife waited on the table where the poorest were.  Horns of ale
were served to everyone, and then came big mince pies.  Steadfast
felt a great longing to take his home to his sisters, but he was
ashamed to do it, even though he saw that it was permissible, they
were such beggarly-looking folks who set the example.

However, the Dean's wife came up to him with a pleasant smile and
asked if he had no appetite or if he were thinking of someone at
home, and when he answered, she kindly undertook to lend him a
basket, for which he might call after evensong, and in the basket
were also afterwards found some slices of the beef and a fine large
cake.

Then the young Prince and his suite came in, and he stood at the end
of the hall, smiling and looking amused as everyone's cup was filled
with wine--such wine as the Roundhead captains had left, and the Dean
at the head of the table gave out the health of his most sacred
Majesty King Charles, might God bless him, and confound all his
enemies!  The Prince bared his black shining locks and drank, and
there was a deep Amen, and then a hurrah enough to rend the old
vaulted ceiling; and equally enthusiastically was the Prince's health
afterwards drunk.

Stead heard the servants saying that such a meal had been a costly
matter, but that the good Dean would have it so in order that one
more true merry Christmas should be remembered in Bristol.




CHAPTER X.

A TERRIBLE HARVEST DAY.



"There is a reaper, whose name is death."
                                     LONGFELLOW.


Spring came at last, cold indeed but dry, and it brought calves, and
kids, and lambs, and little pigs, besides eggs and milk.  The
creatures prospered for two reasons no doubt.  One was that Stead and
Patience always prayed for a blessing on them, and the other was that
they were almost as tender and careful over the dumb things as they
were over little Ben, who could now run about and talk.  All that
year nothing particular happened to the children.  Patience's good
butter and fresh eggs had come to be known in Bristol, and besides,
Stead and Rusha used to find plovers' eggs on the common, for which
the merchants' ladies would pay them, or later for wild strawberries
and for whortleberries.  Stead could also make rush baskets and mats,
and they were very glad of such earnings, some of which they spent on
clothes, and on making their hut more comfortable, while some was
stored up in case of need in the winter.

For another year things went on much in the same manner, Bristol was
still kept by the King's troops; but when Steadfast went into the
place there was less cheerfulness among the loyal folk, and the
Puritans began to talk of victories of their cause, while in the
Cathedral the canon's voice trembled and grew choked in the prayer
for the King, and the sermons were generally about being true and
faithful to King and church whatever might betide.  The Prince of
Wales had long since moved away, indeed there were reports that the
plague was in some of the low, crowded streets near the water, and
Patience begged her brother to take care of himself.

There had been no Christmas feast at the Deanery, it was understood
that the Dean thought it better not to bring so many people together.

Then as harvest time was coming on more soldiers came into the place.
They looked much shabbier than the troops of a year ago, their coats
were worn and soiled, and their feathers almost stumps, but they made
up for their poverty by swagger and noise, and Steadfast was thankful
that it was unlikely that any of them should find the way to his
little valley with what they called requisitions for the King's
service, but which meant what he knew too well.  Some of the
villagers formed into bands, and agreed to meet at the sound of a
cowhorn, to drive anyone off on either side, who came to plunder, and
they even had a flag with the motto--


     "If you take our cattle
      We will give you battle."


And they really did drive off some stragglers.  Stead, however,
accepted the offer from Tom Gates of a young dog, considerably larger
and stronger than poor old Toby, yellow and somewhat brindled, and
known as Growler.  He looked very terrible, but was very civil to
those whom he knew, and very soon became devoted to all the family,
especially to little Ben.  However, most of the garrison and the
poorer folk of the town were taken up with mending the weak places in
the walls, and digging ditches with the earth of which they made
steep banks, and there were sentries at the gates, who were not
always civil.  Whatever the country people brought into the town was
eagerly bought up, and was paid for, not often in the coin of the
realm, but by tokens made of tin or some such metal with odd stamps
upon them, and though they could be used as money they would not go
nearly so far as the sums they were held to represent--at least in
anyone's hands but those of the officers.

There were reports that the Parliament army was about to besiege the
town, and Prince Rupert was coming to defend it.  Steadfast was very
anxious, and would not let his sisters stir out of the valley,
keeping the cattle there as much as possible.

One day, when he had been sent for to help to gather in Lady
Elmwood's harvest, in the afternoon the reaping and binding were
suddenly interrupted by the distant rattle of musketry, such as had
been heard two years ago, in the time of the first siege but it was
in quite another direction from the town.  Everyone left off work,
and made what speed they could to the top of the sloping field,
whence they could see what was going on.

"There they be!" shouted Tom Gates.  "I saw 'em first!  Hurrah!  They
be at Luck's mill."

"Hush! you good-for-nothing," shrieked Bess Hart, throwing her apron
over her head.  "When we shall all be killed and murdered."

"Not just yet, dame," said Master Brown.  "They be a long way off,
and they have enow to do with one another.  I wonder if Sir George be
there.  He writ to my lady that he hoped to see her ere long."

"And my Roger," called out a woman.  "He went with Sir George."

"And our Jack," was the cry of another; while Steadfast thought of
Jephthah, but knew he must be on the opposite side.  From the top of
the field, they could see a wide sweep of country dipping down less
than two miles from them where there was a bridge over a small river,
a mill, and one or two houses near.  On the nearer side of the river
could be seen the flash of steel caps, and a close, dark body of men,
on the further side was another force, mostly of horsemen, with what
seemed like waggons and baggage horses in the rear.  They had what by
its colours seemed to be the English banner, the others had several
undistinguishable standards.  Puffs of smoke broke from the windows
of the mill.

"Aye!" said Goodman Blane.  "I would not be in Miller Luck's shoes
just now.  I wonder where he is, poor rogue.  Which side have got his
mill, think you, Master Brown?"

"The round-headed rascals for certain," said Master Brown, "and the
bridge too, trying to hinder the King's men from crossing bag and
baggage to relieve the town."

"See, there's a party drawing together.  Is it to force the bridge?"

"Aye, aye, and there's another troop galloping up stream.  Be they
running off, the cowards?"

"Not they.  Depend on it some of our folks have told them of Colham
ford.  Heaven be with them, brave lads."

"Most like Sir George is there, I don't see 'em."

"No, of course not, stupid, they'll be taking Colham Lane.  See, see,
there's a lot of 'em drawn up to force the bridge.  Good luck be with
them."

More puffs of smoke from the mill, larger ones from the bank, and a
rattle and roll came up to the watchers.  There was a moment's shock
and pause in the assault, then a rush forward, and the distant sound
of a cheer, which those on the hill could not help repeating.  But
from the red coats on and behind the bridge, proceeded a perfect
cloud of smoke, which hid everything, and when it began to clear away
on the wind, there seemed to be a hand-to-hand struggle going on upon
the bridge, smaller puffs, as though pistols were being used, and
forms falling over the parapet, at which sight the men held their
breath, and the women shrieked and cried "God have mercy on their
poor souls."  And then the dark-coated troops seemed to be driven
back.

"That was a feint, only a feint," cried Master Brown.  "See there!"

For the plumed troop of horsemen had indeed crossed, and came
galloping down the bank with such a jingling and clattering, and
thundering of hoofs as came up to the harvest men above, and Master
Brown led the cheer as they charged upon the compact mass of red
coats behind the bridge, and broke and rode them down by the
vehemence of the shock.

"Hurrah!" cried Blane.  "Surely they will turn now and take the
fellows on the bridge in the rear.  No.  Ha! they are hunting them
down on to their baggage!  Well done, brave fellows, hip! hip!--"

But the hurrah died on his lips as a deep low hum--a Psalm tune sung
by hundreds of manly voices--ascended to his ears, to the
accompaniment of the heavy thud of horsehoofs, and from the London
Road, between the bridge and the Royalist horsemen, there emerged a
compact body of troopers, in steel caps and corslets.  Forming in
ranks of three abreast, they charged over the bridge, and speedily
cleared off the Royalists who were struggling to obtain a footing
there.

There was small speech on the hill side, as the encounter was
watched, and the Ironsides forming on the other side, charged the
already broken troops before they had time to rally, and there was
nothing to be seen but an utter dispersion and scattering of men,
looking from that distance like ants when their nest has been broken
into.

It was only a skirmish, not to be heard of in history, but opening
the way for the besiegers to the walls of Bristol, and preventing any
of the supplies from reaching the garrison, or any of the intended
reinforcements, except some of the eager Cavaliers, who galloped on
thither, when they found it impossible to return and guard the bridge
for their companions.

The struggle was over around the bridge in less than two hours, but
no more of Lady Elmwood's harvest was gathered in that evening.  The
people watched as if they could not tear themselves from the
contemplation of the successful bands gathering together in their
solid masses, and marching onwards in the direction of Bristol,
leaving, however, a strong guard at the bridge, over which piled
waggons and beasts of burthen continued to pass, captured no doubt
and prevented from relieving the city.  It began to draw towards
evening, and Master Brown was beginning to observe that he must go
and report to my lady, poor soul; and as to the corn, well, they had
lost a day gaping at the fight, and they must come up again to-
morrow, he only hoped they were not carting it for the round-headed
rogues; when at that moment there was a sudden cry, first of terror,
then of recognition, "Roger, Hodge Fitter! how didst come here?"

For a weary, worn-out trooper, with stained buff coat, and heavy
boots, stood panting among them.  "I thought 'twas our folks," he
said.  "Be mother here?"

"Hodge!  My Hodge!  Be'st hurt, my lad?" cried the mother, bursting
through the midst and throwing herself on him, while his father
contented himself with a sort of grunt.  "All right, Hodge.  How
com'st here?"

"And where's my Jack?" exclaimed Goody Bent.

"And where's our Harry?" was another cry from Widow Lakin.

While Stead longed to ask, but could not be heard in the clamour,
whether his brother had been there.

Hodge could tell little--seen less than the lookers on above.  He had
been among those who had charged through the enemy, and ridden
towards Bristol, but his horse had been struck by a stray shot, and
killed under him.  He had avoided the pursuers by scrambling through
a hedge, and then had thought it best to make his way through the
fields to his own home, until, seeing the party on the hill, he had
joined them, expecting to find his parents among them.

Sir George he knew to be on before him, and probably almost at
Bristol by this time.  Poor Jack had been left weeks ago on the field
of Naseby, though there had been no opportunity of letting his family
know.  "Ill news travels fast enough!"  And as to Harry, he had been
shot down by a trooper near about the bridge, but mayhap might be
alive for all that.

"And my brother, Jeph Kenton," Steadfast managed to say.  "Was he
there?"

"Jeph Kenton!  Why, he's a canting Roundhead.  The only Elmwood man
as is!  More shame for him."

"But was he there?" demanded Stead.

"There!  Well, Captain Venn's horse were there, and he was in them!
I have seen him more than once on outpost duty, prating away as if he
had a beard on his chin.  I'd a good mind to put a bullet through him
to stop his impudence, for a disgrace to the place."

"Then he was in the fight?" reiterated Steadfast.

"Aye, was he.  And got his deserts, I'll be bound, for we went smack
smooth through Venn's horse, like a knife through a mouldy cheese,
and left 'em lying to the right and left.  If the other fellows had
but stuck by us as well, we'd have made a clean sweep of the canting
dogs."

Hodge's eloquence was checked by the not unwelcome offer of a drink
of cider.

"Seems quiet enough down there," said Nanny Lakin, peering wistfully
over the valley where the shadows of evening were spreading.  "Mayhap
if I went down I might find out how it is with my poor lad."

"Nay, I'll go, mother," said a big, loutish youth, hitherto silent;
"mayn't be so well for womenfolk down there."

"What's that to me, Joe, when my poor Harry may be lying a bleeding
his dear life out down there?"

"There's no fear," said Hodge.  "To give them their due, the
Roundheads be always civil to country folk and women--leastways
unless they take 'em for Irish--and thinking that, they did make
bloody work with the poor ladies at Naseby.  But the dame there will
be safe enough," he added, as she was already on the move down hill.
"Has no one a keg of cider to give her?  I know what 'tis to lie
parching under a wound."

Someone produced one, and as her son shouted "Have with you, mother,"
Steadfast hastily asked Tom Oates to let Patience know that he was
gone to see after Jephthah, and joined Ned Lakin and his mother.

Jeph had indeed left his brothers and sisters in a strange, wild way,
almost cruel in its thoughtlessness; but to Stead it had never seemed
more than that elder brotherly masterfulness that he took as a matter
of course, and there was no resting in the thought of his lying
wounded and helpless on the field--nay, the assurance that Hodge
shouted out that the rebel dogs took care of their own fell on
unhearing or unheeding ears, as Steadfast and Ned Lakin dragged the
widow through a gap in the hedge over another field, and then made
their way down a deep stony lane between high hedges.

It was getting dark, in spite of the harvest moon, by the time they
came out on the open space below, and began to see that saddest of
all sights, a battlefield at night.

A soldier used to war would perhaps have scorned to call this a
battle, but it was dreadful enough to these three when they heard the
sobbing panting, and saw the struggling of a poor horse not quite
dead, and his rider a little way from him, a fine stout young man,
cold and stiff, as Nanny turned up his face to see if it was her
Harry's.

A little farther on lay another figure on his back, but as Nanny
stooped over it, a lantern was flashed on her and a gruff voice
called out, "Villains, ungodly churls, be you robbing the dead?" and
a tall man stood darkly before them, pistol in hand.

"No, sir; no, sir," sobbed out Nanny.  "I am only a poor widow woman,
come down to see whether my poor lad be dead or alive and wanting his
mother."

"What was his regiment?" demanded the soldier in a kinder voice.

"Oh, sir, your honour, don't be hard on him--he couldn't help it--he
went with Sir George Elmwood."

"That makes no odds, woman, when a man's down," said the soldier.
"Unless 'tis with the Fifth Monarchy sort, and I don't hold with
them.  I have an uncle and a cousin or two among the malignants, as
good fellows as ever lived--no Amalekites and Canaanites--let Smite-
them Derry say what he will.  Elmwood! let's see--that was the troop
that forded higher up, and came on Fisher's corps.  This way, dame.
If your son be down, you'll find him here; that is, unless he be
carried into the mill or one of the houses.  Most of the wounded lie
there for the night, but the poor lads that are killed must be buried
to-morrow.  Take care, dame," as poor Nanny cried out in horror at
having stumbled over a dead man's legs.  He held his lantern so that
she could see the face while she groaned out, "Poor soul."  And thus
they worked their sad way up to the buildings about the water mill.
There was a shed through the chinks of which light could be seen, and
at the door of which a soldier exclaimed--

"Have ye more wounded, Sam?  There's no room for a dog in here.  They
lie as thick as herrings in a barrel."

"Nay, 'tis a poor country woman come to look for her son.  What's his
name?  Is there a mali