“some day the soft ideal that we wooed

confronts us fiercely, foe-beset, pursued,

and cries reproachful, ‘was it, then, my praise,

and not myself was loved? prove now thy truth;

i claim of thee the promise of thy youth;

give me thy life, or cower in empty phrase,

the victim of thy genius, not its mate!’

life may be given in many ways,

and loyalty to truth be sealed,

as bravely in the closet as the field,

so bountiful is fate;

but then to stand beside her,

when craven churls deride her,

to front a lie in arms and not to yield,

this shows, methinks, god’s plan,

and measure of a stalwart man.”

—lowell.

it was on wednesday, october 19, that the main body of essex’s army set out from worcester, and after making slow progress, owing to the terrible state of the roads, they reached the little market town of kineton between nine and ten o’clock on the saturday evening. the people, who in those parts were favourable to the parliament, received them with no little kindness, and gabriel soon found himself in comfortable quarters in the house of a certain manoah mills, a saddler, whose wife, tibbie, was eager to bestow the good supper she had provided on six of the soldiers she thought most in need of it.

the worthy couple stood in their doorway to make choice of their guests. “we will have naught but knowledgeable men,” said manoah, shaking his bald head shrewdly. “good talkers that can tell us the news, and good men that can argue a point in theology.”

“nay,” said tibbie, “but i will have for one yon lad with the sad eyes, he’s sore in need of mothering, by the look of, pshaw! a mere boy, and not even an officer,” protested manoah.

but tibbie had a will of her own, and while her husband brought in some shrewd and knowledgeable men to his taste, she beckoned to gabriel. “me and my husband can give you shelter for the night, sir, and a good supper, if you’ll step in. ’tis hard if those who are fighting for us can’t get food and lodging on a cold night like this,” she said.

gabriel thanked her, and gladly sat down to the excellent supper of fried eggs and bacon, and rye bread which the good woman provided; but when the “knowledgeable men” passed from the events of the day to a warm argument on a difficult point in theology, he fell far below manoah’s standard, not being able to take any interest at all in the discussion, but growing more and more sleepy, till at length, when he had nodded violently in the middle of his host’s eager remarks on election and fore-ordination, tibbie kindly pointed to an old oak settle by the fire. here he stretched himself in great content, and leaving the theologians to edify themselves with their favourite pastime, was soon lulled by their voices into dreamless sleep.

sunday was to be a day of rest, and he woke with a relieved consciousness that there would be no more ploughing their way knee deep in mud through the country lanes. tibbie provided them with an excellent breakfast, and was just expressing her admiration of the way in which they all prepared to attend morning service at the church, when the bugle sounded “to arms,” and like wild-fire the news ran through kineton that the king was only two miles from them. already the royalist cavalry were forming on the top of edgehill, a high hill overlooking the little market town, and essex promptly drew out his forces in the open ground between, lining the hedges and enclosures which lay upon one side with musketeers.

gabriel, in the lord general’s regiment under sir philip stapleton, found himself on the right wing next to lord brooke’s purple-coated troop, on the one side, and to cromwell’s troop on the other.

then came the apparently interminable waiting which most severely tries those who have never before been under fire. the day was cold and windy, moreover, and much rain had fallen during the night; to wait hour after hour while the king’s army massed itself on edgehill was far from inspiriting.

at length, about one o’clock, when it became apparent that essex was too good a general to scale heights guarded by a far more numerous army, and intended to wait in the admirable position he had chosen, at some little distance from the foot of the hill, the royalist forces were brought down into the plain, and somewhat before three o’clock the dull roar of the cannon began. then the royalists advanced to the charge, and the left wing of the parliamentary army, thrown into utter confusion through the treachery of sir faithful fortescue, who had previously arranged with prince rupert to change sides on the field, broke and fled before rupert’s fiery charge. their panic, though partly checked by denzil holies, would certainly have ruined the hopes of the parliamentary army had not rupert been carried away by his usual impetuous zeal, and hotly pursued them as far as kineton, where the sight of the valuable baggage waggons proved irresistible to him, and he and his troopers, totally ignoring the battle, lingered over the plunder till they were perforce driven back to the field by the advance of the parliamentary rear-guard under hampden and grantham.

meanwhile, gabriel, who had had the good fortune to be in the admirably steadfast right wing, had passed through some strange experiences.

during the first exchange of cannon shots after those long hours of waiting, and before the first royalist charge, a sickening imagination of what awaited them, for a minute half-paralysed him. he was grateful to a rugged-looking scotsman beside him, who, understanding his sudden pallor, said: “hoots, laddie, a’ that will pass by; think that the cause has muckle need o’ just yer ain sel’.”

and at that minute, glancing towards the next troop, gabriel perceived cromwell a little in advance of his men, not looking harassed, as he had often seen him in london on his way to the house of commons, but with an indescribable light in his strong, noble face—the light of one inspired: while from the manly voices of his troopers there rang out the psalm which, for gabriel, would be for ever associated with hilary and the morning in the cathedral when both had been so full of heaviness.

in trouble and adversity

the lord god hear thee still,

the majesty of jacob’s god

defend thee from all ill.

what followed was more like some wild nightmare than like real waking existence; for awhile it seemed that the parliamentary right wing was to be annihilated as the left had been, for beneath the splendid charge of wilmot’s men fielding’s regiment suffered grievously. by a rapid and clever movement balfour and stapleton slipped aside, that they might outflank the enemy, but wilmot made precisely the same mistake made by prince rupert, and pursued the remnant of fielding’s men, failing utterly to reckon with the men led by cromwell, balfour and stapleton, who with great skill hemmed in the royalists and fought with a desperate courage that carried all before it.

of how matters were going gabriel had scarcely a thought; he could realise only his near surroundings. he saw his scotch neighbour drop to the ground, killed instantly by a ghastly injury of the head, and he sickened at the sight, till the memory of the dead man’s words came back to him. “the cause has muckle need o’ just yer ain sel’.”

the next minute, with a horrible shriek, his horse reared wildly, and he found himself on the blood-stained turf. struggling to his feet, still half-stunned by the shock, he snatched at the bridle of the dead scot’s horse, and, mounting it, pressed eagerly forward, fighting now with an ardour and an impassioned zeal which he had not before felt. the royalists were making a strenuous resistance, but they could not stand against the splendid charge of the parliamentary troops, who, utterly undaunted by the line of pikes, pushed on with a steadfastness that was destined to retrieve their fortunes.

for gabriel, however, it was soon merely a matter of blocking the way with his body, his second horse fell a victim, and as he leapt to the ground a pikeman ran him clean through the thigh; then came a crash and a sudden darkness, after which for some time he knew no more.

when he slowly revived and became conscious of the confused din of battle he for a moment thought himself in hell; the most horrible and unearthly screams close by made him shudder, and the pain of his wound, of which till then he had only been dully aware, became intolerable agony, as his shrieking horse in its dying struggles plunged on to him.

“god!” he cried, in his torture, “let me die!”

his words were heard. at that moment a horseman close by sharply reined back his galloping steed, put a pistol to the head of the plunging horse and ended its death agony, then, swiftly dismounting, bent for a moment over gabriel, with a look of ineffable pity as he dragged him into a less torturing position.

he was a short man, and to gabriel’s astonishment he wore the dress of a royalist officer. where had he before seen that broad-browed, kindly-eyed, yet decidedly plain face?

“poor lad, i can do no more for you,” said a quiet voice which could scarcely be heard in the uproar.

“my lord falkland!” cried gabriel, in amazement. “you!”

and then before he could say a word of gratitude, the black cloud began to steal over him once more and his eyes closed.

falkland thought him dead, and remounting, rode back to rejoin wilmot and urge him to attempt a decisive charge, for, like so many, he clung to the hope that the war might be ended by one great battle. at the same moment hampden was urging a similar request to essex, but the generals on either side refused to venture a further attempt, and the gathering twilight gave them some excuse. the king’s standard-bearer, sir edward verney, had been killed; the royal standard was taken; thousands of men lay dead or dying on the blood-stained plain, and the drawn battle of edgehill was over.

gabriel’s swoon must have lasted long, for it was quite dark when he again came to himself, he was too weak from loss of blood to wish definitely to live, though still the dead scotsman’s words sounded in his ears and braced him to a certain extent, kept him, at any rate, from voluntarily letting go his precarious hold on life. then a memory of falkland’s pitying face came back to him, and he tried to think how it could have been possible that the secretary of state should be there just at that minute. early in the afternoon he had seen him with wilmot’s men and had been surprised that one in his position should have exposed himself so needlessly. it must, he imagined, have been while returning with wilmot from the pursuit of fielding’s routed troop that he had chanced to ride in his direction. he moved a little, longing to make out where he lay, and how the day had gone, but the frightful agony of the attempt quickly made him desist; he sank down with his head propped up a little on the dead body of the horse which falkland had put out of its pain.

and now he could make out here and there fires at some little distance on his left, while two or three fires on the top of edgehill led him to think that the royalists had retired again up the heights, and that essex’s army intended to remain on the field throughout the night. doubtless, in the morning, hostilities would be resumed.

the far away sound of a psalm raised him for a time above his pain; he prayed silently for the cause that had cost him so dear, and his thoughts wandered back to his home and to hilary. how her face would have lighted up if he could have told her about lord falkland! somehow, he could almost fancy the same pitying tone in her voice, had she come upon him in so terrible a plight. the thought gave him no little comfort.

but what was this horrible cold creeping over him? this icy chill which made the torture of his wound almost intolerable? was this how death came when men were left to bleed on the battle-field? was the death he had once so ardently desired coming to him now? all the youth within him rose up as if in protest. he longed, with an agony of longing, to live, and be once more physically strong.

very quickly, however, the lifelong habit of direct and most simple communion with the unseen came to his aid. and in answer to his cry he heard the comforting words, “the beloved of the lord shall dwell in safety by him.” what did it matter whether life went on here or in some other world, since neither death, nor life, nor principalities, nor powers, could separate him from the love of god?

the sharp frost and the bitter, nipping cold of that autumn night killed some of the wounded, but saved many by the painful process of freezing their wounds and thus staunching the blood. when the age-long hours had been lived through, and the next day dawned, gabriel was quite unable to move, even when he heard footsteps and voices close by, he was too dull and exhausted to call for aid; it was not until a young, vigorous-looking man, with a mass of wavy golden hair, stooped over him, that he raised himself to see whether he had fallen into the hands of friend or foe. the green coat and orange scarf told him in a moment that this was one of colonel hampden’s men.

“what of the battle?” he asked, faintly.

“neither side was wholly victorious, but in the main they say that we made the best fight, as our infantry and cavalry acted better together. but doubtless the finest charge of the day was prince rupert’s.”

the momentary light in gabriel’s face died out. the speaker broke off hurriedly and moistened the dry lips of the wounded man with water.

“you are badly hurt,” he exclaimed. “we will get you carried to kineton, where the surgeons will attend to you.”

“let me be!” said gabriel, wearily. “the war has robbed me of all i value in life; for god’s sake, let me die in peace.”

“that will i not,” said the other, firmly. “you are but worn out with suffering; remember that the country yet needs you.”

he beckoned to two soldiers with a roughly extemporised litter, and then went on to look for others in need of help.

“who is yon officer?” asked gabriel, as the men set down the litter beside him.

“’tis cornet joscelyn heyworth,” replied the soldier, and without any loss of time he lifted gabriel with little care and less skill from the ground, a process fraught with such hideous pain that a cry was wrung from his lips.

joscelyn heyworth hastily rejoined them.

“take your water bottle to yonder man by the carcase of the white horse,” he said. “i will help to carry this gentleman to kineton.”

gabriel gave him a grateful look, but he was past speaking, and could with difficulty strangle his groans through the long rough journey.

at last he saw the church and the welcome sight of the houses in the little market town. his bearers hesitated for a minute as to where to take him.

“try the house of manoah mills, the saddler,” he said, with an effort. somehow the recollection of tibbie’s motherly face carried with it a world of comfort.

“here, lad,” said joscelyn heyworth, beckoning to a small boy who was playing hop scotch as unconcernedly as though there were no such things as wars and fightings amongst them, “guide us to the house of manoah mills and serve one who suffers that you may live in safety.”

the boy looked with awe at the bloodstained soldier on the litter and leading the way up the street knocked at the door of a gabled house, then stood aside as tibbie appeared, and pointed her to the little group in the road.

“woe worth the day!” she cried, running out with a face of pity. “why,’tis mr. gabriel harford that was our guest.”

“can you tend him and give him a bed to lie on while i fetch the surgeon?” said joscelyn heyworth. “he’s badly hurt, and hath lain out in the frost all night.”

“bring him in, sir,” said tibbie. “he shall have the best bed in the house. lord ha’ mercy on us! to think that one so young should lie at death’s door.”

“don’t tell him that,” said joscelyn heyworth. “an he thinks he’s lying at the door, he will be minded to step inside.” very gently he set down his comrade in the room that tibbie showed him, and took it as a good omen that his words called up an amused look in the dark hazel eyes which mutely thanked him for his help.

he had great hopes that the battle would be resumed and a more decisive action promptly fought out, but in this he was doomed to be disappointed. the day was spent in burying the dead and attending to the wounded and then the royalist forces withdrew, while the parliamentary army rested that night at kineton.

joscelyn heyworth, finding himself with free time on his hands, went to the saddler’s house again. tibbie reported well of the patient, who, having had his wound attended to by the surgeon, had spent the greater part of the day in sleep, but was now, as she expressed it, “turning contrairy, just like a man, and thinking himself worse when in truth he was mending.”

“i will take a turn at watching by him,” said joscelyn. “you have had a hard day’s work.”

“well, sir,” said tibbie; “i’ll not deny that i’d as lief have a night’s rest. my man’s with him now; i’ll show you up.”

she led the way to the room to which the wounded man had been carried, and as she opened the door the voice of manoah was heard discoursing on his favourite topic of election and foreordination. gabriel lay wearily listening, and even the submissive tibbie was roused by his look of patient endurance.

“man!” she exclaimed, putting her hand on her husband’s shoulder, and gently shoving him from his chair, “i do believe you’d talk the hind leg off a donkey! theology’s not for sickrooms, manoah; go and discourse with them that’s not been wounded.”

manoah made no objection, for what was the pleasure of arguing if there was no one to take the opposite side? he had never been able to drag more than a reluctant “possibly” or “perchance” from mr. harford. and theology, as he had severely told him, knew nothing of such vague words, but was a matter of “yea, yea,” and “nay, nay.”

however, he was somewhat mollified by gabriel’s courteous thanks for his hospitality and great anxiety to give as little trouble as possible. and he never noticed the look of relief with which the patient heard joscelyn heyworth’s proposal to remain on night duty.

it seemed to gabriel a long time since he had had a comrade of his own age and standing to talk to, and that strong link of contemporary life, in itself did him good, while naturally he was drawn to one so frank and friendly as his rescuer. there was a strength, too, about cornet heyworth which appealed to him; young as he was he nevertheless had the look and bearing of a man who had suffered for his convictions.

“how long have you been saddled with the saddler?” he asked, taking manoah’s vacant chair.

“for an hour by the clock,” said gabriel, “and never wished more for the use of my legs, that i might flee from his long tongue.”

joscelyn laughed.

“oh! you are mending,” he said, cheerfully. “last time i saw you, you were not wanting to run but to die.”

“a man’s not responsible for what he says in extremity,” said gabriel. “’twas an award’s wish, and i’m ashamed of it now that i can think clearly.”

“a wish to be fought and conquered,” said joscelyn, musingly. “but one that comes to us all in moments of the greatest suffering.”

then, with a little hesitation, he told gabriel that the war had robbed him also in cruel fashion, and in listening to what he was willing to tell of his story, the wounded man forgot his own troubles, and the two began a friendship that was to stand them in good stead.

“i owe my life to you,” said gabriel, gratefully. “to you, and strangely enough, to my lord falkland.”

he told of the incident on the previous day and of his amazement that the secretary of state should be there.

“in truth,” said joscelyn heyworth, “i heard from no less a person than colonel hampden’s cousin, cromwell, that my lord falkland had ridden about the field more as one that wished to spare life than to take it, and he had heard from others that the secretary of state intervened several times when the royalists would have slain the fugitives, and urged that they should have quarter on throwing down their arms.

“but as secretary he was not bound to fight at all,” said gabriel.

“no, but ’twas well known that he ever counsels the king to make peace and, like all peacemakers, he is misunderstood and miscalled a coward; therefore, no doubt, he loses no chance to give the lie to those that taunt him, by throwing himself fearlessly into an unnecessary peril. never has man been in harder case, for he is disliked now by both parties, and very scurvily treated, they say, by the king, who doth not like his plain-speaking and his scrupulous truthfulness.”

“why did he ever desert the parliamentary cause to which he was once true?” said gabriel.

“colonel hampden, who hath a great regard for him, says that he distrusted archbishop laud’s teaching and his narrow intolerance, but dreaded the narrowness of the extreme puritans even worse. being thus in a strait betwixt two parties he, to colonel hampden’s great sorrow, cast in his lot with our opponents.”

“may god keep us from all evil passion in our fighting and make us as merciful foes as lord falkland has proved,” said gabriel, sorely perplexed in his mind as he recalled the fiery spirit which had possessed him after he had seen the ghastly death-wound of his scottish comrade. with what a strange, fierce joy he had hurled himself and his steed against the royalist pikes, and with what burning heat the blood had coursed through his veins! yet now the mere remembrance of the awful sights he had seen turned him positively faint.

joscelyn heyworth made him take some of tibbie’s strongest cordial.

“i am but an ill nurse,” he said, “and have let you talk over much. remember that the noblest men on both sides have tried their very utmost for years to settle matters peacefully; this is a last stand for freedom and truth against kingly despotism which, in the end, would leave england a prey to rome, for the king is ruled by the queen, and the queen is ruled by her confessor.”

gabriel remembered the dead scotsman’s words, and they rang in his ear in very comforting fashion as at last he fell asleep.

his rescuer watched him thoughtfully. he had spoken of his home and his parents, clearly the war had not robbed him of them; it must, then, be some yet dearer tie that had been severed. and long before the morning dawned joscelyn knew practically the whole story, for all through the night the feverish wanderings of the wounded man took the form of last interviews and broken-hearted partings with a maiden named “hilary,” who refused to remain betrothed to one she thought a rebel and a traitor.