BOOK II. CHAPTER I.

About a fortnight after the birth of the baron's son was the feast of All-hallows, and from All-hallows eve to the Purification of the Virgin, was little less than a continued festival. Mummers and maskers attired in fantastic habits, wearing garlands of holly and ivy on their heads, and bearing branches of the same in their hands, were to be met, dancing and singing along the roads that led to the castles of the barons, or to the broad beetling houses of those of a lesser degree. The castles, the manor-houses, and even the dwellings of those whom, one would think, could have no earthly object in view in their building but convenience, accorded little with, or rather was in direct opposition to, our present ideas of domestic comfort. The spaciousness of the apartments, lighted, perhaps, by a solitary window, whose small chequered panes, encased in a heavy frame, and divided into three compartments by two solid beams, curved, and meeting at the top in a point, were rendered still more gloomy by the projecting buttresses of the windows above; but still the very construction of the buildings was favourable to hospitality. A dozen, or twenty, or thirty, or fifty persons, according to the rank of the host, might be accommodated, and not the slightest inconvenience felt. The more the merrier, was undoubtedly the adage then: guests were greeted, especially on winter nights, with a genuine hospitable welcome, because, although the capacious hearth looked snug and cheerful, there was a dreariness in the void beyond—in the undefined and distant shadows of the apartment—that could alone be dispelled by additional lights and smiling faces. It will consequently be a natural conclusion, that in the castles of the nobles, and in the houses of those immediately or progressively beneath them, the arrival of the merry mummers was hailed with almost childish delight.

In addition to this annual exhibition of mirthful mummery, the town of Winchcombe was enlivened by a fair, periodically held, on the festival of All-hallows. The fair-green lay just beyond the town, enclosed on one side by the town walls, and on the opposite by an abrupt, wooded hill. All Winchcombe was in a bustle; the ale-houses were crowded with visitors, and the streets filled with strangers; young artizans or yeomen were escorting their favourite damsels to the fair, to shew their gallantry by purchasing some of the various articles so temptingly displayed, as presents for the maidens. Bodkins and fillets for the hair, and ribbons of every colour, except scarlet or crimson; and furs, principally cat-skin; and spices, and fine and coarse cloths of medley, and russets, and hoods, and mittens, and hose, were amongst the miscellaneous wares exhibited for sale.

But there was one stall that particularly attracted the eyes of the fair-folks, by the spices, silks, damasks, fine cloth, gold and silver cords and ornaments, furs, &c. it displayed. The owner of this stall was evidently a peddling Genoese merchant, or, as they were then called, galleymen. These foreigners generally bore a bad character—they were looked upon with suspicion; but, although suspected and disliked, they sold their merchandize, passed their base coin, and returned to Genoa to purchase, with English gold, fresh cargoes for Britain. They somehow or other sold their goods cheaper than the native dealers, and their coin, if even bad, would generally circulate through a few hands before it could be detected, and, consequently, those who purchased were seldom the losers.

The beauty and richness of the chief portions of their cargoes ensured them a demand from the superior classes; and if a noble, or courtly dame, or maiden, or knight, or even esquire, would not be seen bargaining personally with the foreigners, there were always officious agents who could transact the business, and have some trifle as an acknowledgment from the itinerant merchant. The galleyman, who was displaying his merchandize on the fair-green of Winchcombe, had, towards the close of the short gloomy day, disposed of a considerable portion of his stock. The damsels of the ladies, residing in the vicinity, bought even more than they were ordered, so well were they pleased with the animated glance of the foreign merchant's black eyes, and with the pretty, almost intelligible, compliments he paid them; and, above all, with the smiling liberality with which he rewarded every purchase.

In the villages, the distinctions of dress created by law were pretty generally observed, but in the towns that law was as generally evaded: furs, and colours, and embroidery were worn by those who had no right to them, except the single one of purchase. In some instances, the law would take cognizance of the violation of its prohibitions; a fine would be imposed, but even this could not check the vain assumption;—there was no law to prevent people buying, and those who could purchase forbidden finery, would, in despite of penalties, contrive some means of wearing it. But to return to our foreign merchant.

There was now scarcely light to distinguish external objects, when a sudden rush was heard from the town, and, in an instant, a dozen persons surrounded the peddling merchant, and seizing him violently, while uttering threats and imprecations, dragged the dusty-foot to the court of Pie-powder.[1] As they were hauling him along, the crowd increased, the fair was forsaken, all pressing eagerly forward to learn the fate of the unlucky pedlar. The galleyman seemed perfectly to comprehend the nature of his danger—not by the changing colour of his cheek, for that exhibited still the same glowing brown—but by the restless flash of his full black eyes, glancing before and around, as if looking for some chance of escape.

The court of Pie-powder was situated at the extremity of the fair-green, about twenty paces beyond the last stall: the court was a kind of tent, with a large, high-backed chair in the centre for the judge, a long table being placed before him, on which were balances and weights of various descriptions, to ascertain the truth of any charges that might be preferred against the sellers at the fair: there was also a smaller balance, a stone, and a small phial of liquid, to prove the weight and purity of any coin that might be doubted. At each extremity of the table was a bench, on which sat six men, to act as jurors. Although in a fair, the court was conducted with some attention to propriety; the clerk, who sat as judge, assumed as much importance as a dignitary of a higher tribunal; and, as the crowd approached, hallooing and vociferating, with the culprit, two men, who stood at the door with maces in their hands, prevented the rush of the people: and, by order of the judge, the accuser, the offender, and two witnesses were the only persons permitted to enter. The charge was laid;—the foreign dusty-foot was accused of defrauding the accuser's wife, one Martha Fuller, of the value of half a noble.

The lushburgs (as this base coin was called) were then produced. The judge took the money, and was raising the phial to apply the test, when the accused, whose hands had been left at liberty, drew something from his breast, and threw it on the lamp which was burning before him. The lamp was extinguished;—a sudden explosion took place; burning fragments were scattered in every direction; a strange suffocating smell filled the tent, and nearly stifled the astonished spectators. Before they could recover from their surprise, the galleyman had knocked down the two witnesses, crept under the canvas of the tent, and, with the bound of a deer, reached the wooded hill that lay at a short distance behind.

The pause of astonishment was scarcely of a moment's duration; and then, like the hounds pursuing a hare that had broke cover, the whole multitude, uttering a wild shout, sprung after the flying stranger. The lightness of the galleyman's foot had often befriended him, upon occasions similar to the present, but now his bounding step seemed but of little advantage—for the foremost of the pursuers was as fleet as himself. There were few spirits more bold, more constitutionally brave, than this stranger's;—he had struggled with the world till he had learned to despise it; he had buffeted with the waves till he had deemed them harmless; and, up to the last five minutes, he would have sworn that there was neither a man nor a sea that he feared to meet. But the stranger had, at that time, no law in England;—the gallows-tree by torchlight, the execrations, the tumult, the sudden hurrying of the soul away without even a moment to call for mercy;—all this was distinctly before the eyes of the fugitive. He had seen others act a part in such a scene, and his turn seemed now at hand;—and the galleyman almost groaned at the thought of dying unshrieved.

A large thicket, at this moment, gave the dusty foot an opportunity of doubling, and, for an instant, diverging from the straightforward course, though it availed him little, he seemed to feel the breath of his pursuer on the back of his neck; his foot sounded as if at his heels; he drew his garment closely around him, turned suddenly to the right, and, bounding from the ground, the next instant a splash was heard in the little river, and the fugitive was safe from his pursuer.

We before observed that Stephen Holgrave's dwelling was situated at a short distance from the little Eastbourne; and, on the night of All-hallows fair, a quick knocking was heard at the door just after Holgrave had retired to rest. Holgrave, concluding it was some mandate from the castle, arose, and, in a surly voice, demanded who was there?

"A stranger who wants a shelter—open the door."

It was instantly opened; and the galleyman, with his saturated garments, and his long black hair hanging dripping over his shoulders, entered the cottage.

"Why, what mishap has befallen you?" inquired Holgrave, in surprise.

"Ask no questions," answered the dusty-foot, "but give me a cup of malmsey."

"Malmsey! and in a villein's cottage," replied Holgrave, bitterly. "No, no; but here is a small flask of sack which a neighbour brought to my wife: she will little grudge it to a man in your plight."

While Holgrave was speaking, he emptied the flask into a horn, and, handing it to the galleyman, the latter eagerly clutched it, and, with astonishing rapidity, swallowed the contents.

"Is that all you have?" inquired the dusty-foot.

"Yes," replied Holgrave; "and enough too, I think, for any reasonable man at one time."

"Nonsense!" returned the stranger, "I would drink ten times as much and be nothing the worse. But hark you, Stephen Holgrave—I have come to you for shelter, and I expect you will give it."

"While I have a roof the way-faring man shall never sleep——"

"I do not talk of sleep," interrupted the stranger; "I would not trouble any man for the sake of a night's rest: but to be plain with you, my life is sought for—the hue and cry is even now after me;—so, if you mean to keep your word, give me some dry clothing, and hide me—anywhere."

Holgrave turned from the galleyman in silence, and, opening the large chest, took out his only spare clothing—a suit of medley; and, as he offered it to the stranger, he looked at him with an earnestness which attracted the attention of the galleyman.

"You do not know me?" asked the latter.

"No," replied Holgrave, "I cannot call your face to mind; but surely I must have heard your voice before."

"May be you have; but that matters little; I know you are an honest man, and were I even your enemy, you would not betray me."

"No," said Holgrave, "I would betray no man; but I should not like to harbour—a man that had——"

"Had what!" interrupted the galleyman, impatiently. "I wish I had never done worse than I have done this day, Holgrave; I have neither hurt nor harmed; I only gave a pretty little fair-going dame a Genoese piece instead of an English one."

"Ah! well," said Holgrave; "if she was fool enough to trust a dusty-foot, she must look to it. I care not what you did so long as you kept your hand from blood: so come up this way." He then took one of the branches that were still blazing on the hearth, and conducted the fugitive to the loft.

The stranger instantly divested himself of his wet apparel, and attired himself in Holgrave's yeoman's garb; and then, with the natural regret of one accustomed to traffic, he drew from a secret pocket of his wet doublet, a bag of coin, the wreck of his merchandize, and with a sigh for all he had lost, placed it in his bosom. His dagger was also stuck in his doublet, so that if necessity came, he might use it; and then attentively listening to Holgrave's directions, he threw himself upon a heap of rushes in a corner, and soon after his host had withdrawn to throw the tell-tale garments into the Isborne, he fell into the short, light slumbers of a seaman.

The first sound of a far-off shout instantly dispelled his sleep; he started on his feet, and as he became convinced it was really the hue and cry, he raised a small flap in the roof, as Holgrave had directed, and forcing himself through, slid down into a sort of rude garden at the back of the dwelling; then springing forward till he came to a dry well, he leapt, with a dauntless heart and sound limbs, ten feet below the surface of the earth.

The hue and cry passed on its noisy course without heeding the cottage; and about an hour after, Holgrave threw down a rope to the galleyman, who, with the agility of one accustomed to climb, sprung up the side of the well, and entered the cottage with his host.

"You can now go to the loft, and lie down again," said Holgrave; "but do not sleep too soundly; for if any one comes in to look for you, you must go to your old hiding-place. You see, stranger, that mine is not the best place you could have chosen; there is ill blood between me and the castle folks, and they will not let any chance slip to let me know that even this hut, poor as it is, is not my own, but must be entered and searched as they would the kennel of a dog. You know me, stranger, though I know nothing of you, except your voice. You called me by my name, and you addressed me as a yeoman—think you that I am a yeoman?"

"Yes," said the galleyman; "I knew you were a freeman, and I heard you were a yeoman."

"Yes, I was a freeman, and I was a yeoman; but I am now a—villein! Ay, stare—stare! I live through it all. It was but the space of a moment—the drawing of a breath, that changed me from a man who dared look the heavens in the face, and close his door, if he listed, on even the baron himself, to a poor worm, that must crawl upon the earth, and has not even this (taking up a log of wood) that he can call his own. True, it was not my birthright, but I earned it, in sweat, in hunger, and cold, and I fought for it amidst swords and lances—and I sold it, like a traitor, for—her!" And he pointed, with a look of bitter reproach, to his wife.

The galleyman, for the first time, fixed his eyes upon Margaret, who was sitting, nursing her little charge within the recess of the chimney. She had latterly been accustomed to unkind language from her husband; but the bitterness with which he had now alluded to her before a stranger, brightened the delicacy of her complexion with a passing glow, and caused a sudden tear to tremble in her eye.

"And, by the good cargo I lost even now at Winchcombe," said the galleyman, after looking at her for a moment, "you could not have sold it to better advantage. Such a wife would make any man think little of her price. If you have made yourself a villein, is the world so small that there is no place but the manor of Sudley to live in? Come, come, let us talk like friends—we are not such strangers as you suppose."

"No," said Holgrave; "but I cannot think where we have met."

"Never mind that. As for me, I am not quite foundered, although I have left a cargo behind at Winchcombe that would have bought a dozen bondmen's freedom. Come with me to London: I have part of a galley of my own there, and you may either stow away in some hole of the city, or slip your cable, and be off for Genoa, where I'll promise you as snug a birth as a man could wish for. Besides, there is your child—is it a boy?"

Margaret nodded assent.

"Yes, there is your boy—would you let him grow up a bondman?"

"No," said Holgrave. "Now you speak of the boy, I will not leave this place. Let him live and toil, and suffer, and——"

"And if he was a headstrong boy, and felt one stroke of the lash," interrupted the galleyman, "would he not fly from the bondage, even to become a thing like me? Hark you, Holgrave," he continued, starting upon his feet, extending his right arm, and fixing his full black eyes on his face—"hark you, Holgrave! my father was as honest a man as ever drew the breath of heaven; and yet I trade and traffic in cheatery. My father's greatest oath was 'the saints defend us!' and he would not drink a second cup at one sitting; and yet there is not a holy name that I have not blasphemed every day for these nine years, and scarcely a day that I have not drunk more—more than my head could well carry. My father could not have slept if he had missed the shrovetide, and yet I have passed years, aye, and am likely to pass my life, without a single shrift. Yes, yes, he continued, dropping his arm, and sinking down upon his seat, I have done every thing but—murder"—(Margaret crossed herself)—"and scarcely can I clear myself even of that; and all because I was a bondman's son! Yes, Holgrave, I know what bondage is; I know what it is to be buffetted and railed at, and threatened with the tumbrel. I never was lazy; but I hated to be driven. All men are not made alike; some are only fit to be slaves, while others are endowed by nature with a high, proud spirit—of such was your mother."

"My mother! what know you of her?"

"Never mind that," replied the galleyman; "but as for your mother, she was a good, and a holy woman; but I say she was proud! You are proud, or you would not think so much of being a villein. And is it not likely that your boy will be as proud as either?"

"If that child takes after his father," said Holgrave, "he will have pride enough."

"And if he has," returned the dusty-foot, "he cannot have a greater cause. It is all very well for the great,—it looks well upon them; and even the decent chapman and yeomen get little harm by it: but for the poor man to be proud; to have the swelling heart and the burning cheek—oh! it is a curse!" He raised his voice as he spoke, and then sinking it to a whisper, added—"and if it is a sin, surely it has its punishment."

As Holgrave looked at, and listened to the stranger, his heart warmed, and he forgot for a time his own selfish feelings; but the picture the galleyman had drawn, and which his own soul acknowledged to be too true, determined him not to accept his offer. The baron had earned for his son the curse of "the swelling heart and the burning cheek," and the lad should know the toils and sufferings of a bondman.

"We shall talk further," said Holgrave: "in the mean time, we must consult for your own safety. If your father was a villein of this barony, it is not likely that the old steward, or the new one—the fiend Calverley—should forget you; and——"

"Tush, tush!" interrupted the galleyman; "if Stephen Holgrave has forgotten Robin Wells, how should Thomas Calverley remember him?"

"Robin Wells!" repeated Holgrave, with a long inquiring look. "No—you are safe! I hardly think the foul fiend himself would detect you. Now I call you to mind—your eyes and mouth are little Robin's—but the brown skin and the black hair——"

"Aye," said the galleyman, "you marvel what has become of the red and white, and the short, thick, yellow curls. Oh, you landsmen know nothing of the wonders that sea-suns and sea-storms can work. To be sure, it never would entirely change yellow into black,—so, when I wanted to turn Genoese, I used a certain drug that made my eyes and hair look as if they belonged to the same master."

"Well," said Holgrave, looking at his guest with that kindly feeling that is ever called forth by unexpectedly beholding an acquaintance of earlier days—"well, how often my poor mother used to talk of you, and wonder how it fared with you. I remember well when you came to bid us good-bye."

"Aye, aye, so do I," said the young man, evidently agitated; "but—let us talk no more of it."

Holgrave, thinking that Wells was averse to being reminded of an unpleasant circumstance, spoke no more of the day when the orphan boy had gone forth into a strange world; but, counting upon the sympathy of the galleyman, he began to recount his mother's fate.

"Hold, hold," said Wells, starting up, and covering his eyes with his hands; "as you hope for mercy, say no more—I cannot bear it."

He then sprung up the ladder, and threw himself upon the heap of rushes.

The extreme agitation of Wells, although it surprised Holgrave, by no means displeased him;—be sympathy ever so extravagant, still, generally speaking, it is gratifying; and Holgrave, at that moment, would have laid down his life in defence of the man who could feel so keenly.

Nature had given the galleyman a good and a kind heart, but evil associates had done much, and dissipation still more, to demoralize his soul; yet his natural good qualities were not entirely uprooted: the good fruit would sometimes spring up, but it sprung up only to shew what the soil might have produced—it bloomed for an hour in beauty, and then was trodden underfoot, and defiled in the dust.

When Wells had sprung into the loft, accusing himself of the part he had taken in Edith's trial, and of the nefarious traffic which had placed him in the power of Black Jack, he vowed that, in future, his dealings should be strictly honest; that he would give a portion of his worldly goods to the poor; offer a certain sum to the Abbot of Gloucester for masses to be said for the soul of Edith, and endeavour to make what atonement he could by befriending Holgrave. But in a few hours his feelings became less acute; and we believe all of his vow that he fulfilled was that of striving to aid Holgrave, and becoming, to a certain degree, honest in his dealings. The next day he began to feel that depression of spirits usually experienced by persons accustomed to stimulants. Several times was he tempted to go out and brave detection,—but a fear lest some of the fair-folks should recognize him, made him pause.

In the afternoon Lucy Hartwell came in to see Margaret, bringing some little gift, and asking how she fared. Wells could distinctly hear all that passed in the room below; and soon collected, from the conversation, that the visitor was the daughter of old Hartwell the ale-seller. He remembered her a pretty little girl when he had left the village—with hazel eyes twinkling and brightening like a star; with a step as light, and a form as delicate and graceful as the greenwood fairy to whom she used to be likened. Her voice had deepened a little, but it had still much of the sprightly animation of her childhood.

She kissed and admired the infant, inquired of Margaret's health, bade her hope for better days, and then proceeded to talk of affairs at the castle;—how the baroness still continued to weep and lament; and how De Boteler, ever since he had returned from London, had been almost distracted—one minute crying and raving that there was some traitor at the castle who had connived at the abduction of his child, and that he would discover him and hang him up without form of trial,—and the next offering large rewards and free pardon to any one who could give the slightest information, even though they should have aided in the theft;—and once he even went so far as to promise pardon to the actual offender. As, of course, this strange occurrence had been a prolific source of speculation to the gossips, Lucy proceeded to detail a number of stories she had heard on the subject.

Although Wells took little interest in these details, yet he loved to listen to the sweet tones of a remembered voice; and, as the evening had begun to close in, and Lucy talked of returning home, he resolved to put faith in the good feelings and discretion of the maiden. In an instant he had leaped down the ladder and stood at her side.

Lucy gave a faint scream, and cast a look of astonishment at Margaret.

"It is only a stranger," said Margaret, answering to Lucy's glance, "whom Stephen has promised to shelter.—You need not fear."

"Fear!" repeated the galleyman, as he gazed on the beautiful features of the abashed Lucy; "what can such an angel have to fear?—and yet, by the saints! such a prize would tempt the honestest captain that ever commanded a vessel. Years have passed away since I last saw you;—you were then but a child. You have forgotten me—but in storm or in sunshine, never have I forgotten you: the first sound of your voice, when I was aloft there, made my heart beat—and I thought I would run all hazards and face you. But—you don't know who is talking to you—Do you?"

"No," replied Lucy, "I don't think I ever saw you before."

"Oh yes, but you did;—don't you remember one Robin Wells, a stout rosy boy with curly hair, that made you a wreath of holly and ivy—one All-hallows day—and put it on your head, and called you a little queen? You were ten years old that day, and it is just ten years and three days since then. Don't you remember it?"

"Yes," said Lucy, blushing deeply, and half raising her bright eyes to see if she could identify the stranger with the boy who used to pluck fruits and flowers for her, and make garlands for her hair; but the fixed gaze of the galleyman compelled her to withdraw her inquisitive glance, and then there was a moment of silence, during which Lucy's burning cheeks told she was conscious the stranger's eyes were still regarding her. But her embarrassment was far from very painful;—there was something so gratifying, especially to a warm-hearted girl, to be remembered for so many years by one whom she had herself forgotten—for poor Lucy never once suspected the truth of what Wells had asserted!

"You are changed, Lucy;" said the galleyman, in a meditative tone, "and so am I; but a quiet home has reared you into loveliness; while cold, heat, and storms, have made me what I am. It was that ivy wreath of yours that made me a wanderer—I spent a couple of hours gathering and making it, and they promised me a flogging for idling, and so, after putting the crown on your head I set off, and here I am again after ten years, looking old enough to be your father—but, hark you, maiden—sailors are thirsty souls, and here have I been laid up these two days, without tasting a drop of any thing stronger than—ha! ha!—milk! Your father has plenty of stout ale, and I'm sure such a little angel as you will have the charity to bring a flagon to a poor seaman adrift."

Lucy, glad to escape from the gaze of the galleyman, and also pleased at an opportunity of showing kindness to an old acquaintance, instantly arose, promising to return in a few minutes with some ale.

"But, take care," said Margaret, "that you say not whom it is for."

Lucy promised to be circumspect, and in less than ten minutes placed a flagon of her father's best ale before the galleyman, and then bounding away with a light laugh, as Wells sprang forward to pay for it with a kiss, her little form was instantly lost in the darkness of the evening.

About an hour after nightfall the next evening, the galleyman prepared to depart from Holgrave's cottage: repeatedly did he urge his host to accept his offer, and with his wife and the little babe remove for ever from a spot where his proud spirit had suffered such wrong; but Holgrave steadily refused; and the galleyman, having forced Margaret to accept two pieces of gold, went forth from the roof that had sheltered him. Holgrave's dwelling, as the reader already knows, stood upon an eminence apart from the congregated dwellings that were styled the village. The only object Wells could discover as he looked around, was the glimmering of the lights in the adjoining habitations. He remained stationary for an instant, while he looked across in the direction of Hartwell's house, and then, smiling an imaginary farewell to the pretty Lucy, with a quick step and a light heart, he walked away in the opposite direction.

All was silence as the galleyman proceeded; labour had ceased, the evening repast was made, and many of the inhabitants of the village had already retired to rest. The evening was clear and cold, and the firmament was radiant with stars, the moon being only a few days old. By some strange impulse, the man who had so often gazed upon the far-spread beauty of an ocean sky, stood still for a moment here; and, by as strange a conceit, the silvery semicircle above, as it seemed, even in the crowd of lesser lights, brought to his mind the ever-smiling beauty of Lucy Hartwell. The wanderer lingered for a space—then hesitated—then turned suddenly—and, in less than five minutes, he had pushed open the hatch of old Hartwell's door and had entered boldly.

There were no guests; a bright fire was blazing on the hearth, and the galleyman, throwing himself upon a bench in the chimney-corner, requested Hartwell, who was sitting on the opposite bench, to give him a jug of his best ale.

"Here, Lucy," shouted the old man, "bring a jug of the best."

Lucy obeyed the summons with alacrity, but, as she presented the beverage, a slight start and a sudden blush, told how much the appearance of Wells surprised her. The galleyman drank off the ale, and then, walking to the farther end of the kitchen, where Lucy stood. "Here, pretty maiden," said he, in his usual loud and joyous tone, "fill it again;" and, as she turned to the cask to replenish the jug, he added, in a voice that met her ear alone:—

"Lucy, I must speak to you before I go." He took the replenished jug from the little maiden, and then resuming his seat, paid Hartwell for the ale, and began chatting upon the weather and the times; and, when the old man's attention was thoroughly engaged, Lucy took the opportunity of throwing a large hood over her head and slipping out unperceived by her father. The galleyman took the hint, and draining the jug and starting on his feet, declared he should enter Winchcombe in better spirits after such excellent ale; and then bidding good evening to the unsuspecting old man, hastened after Lucy.

About thirty paces in the rear of her father's house, was an old far-spreading oak, beneath whose branches stood Lucy awaiting him, who was even now, in her mind, to all intents and purposes a lover. As the dusty-foot looked around in the darkness, a whispered hist! decided his course, he sprung to the tree, and stooped to clasp the little form in his arms, and to imprint on the glowing cheek his first kiss; but Lucy drew back, and, with the dignity of a maiden, repelled the freedom.

"Nay," said Wells, "you know I am slipping my cable, and you shouldn't grudge a parting salute; but, however, don't stand aloof—I give you the word of a sailor—I cannot say of an honest one, but that's nothing—one man's word is as good as another's if he means to keep it, and so I give you my word that I will not offend again, and now give me your hand, and I will trust my secret to a sinless maiden."

"Alas!" said Lucy, "I am not sinless."

"May be not so, entirely, yet I am sure you are as sinless as woman can be—but listen to me, Lucy—you know that I am a bondman's son—that I fled from bondage—and that ten years of roving freedom, had not made me free. All this you know, but you do not know that I am the Genoese galleyman who cheated the chapman's dame at the fair of Winchcombe."

Lucy started, and made an involuntary effort to withdraw the hand that Wells had taken; but he held it firmly, while he added,

"I need not have told you this, but I would not deceive you—I have led a wild sort of a life, and I used to laugh at it; but somehow, since I have beheld the place of my boyhood, I would give back all the lawless freedom of the seas, and all the money-making traffic of the land, to be what I was when I left this spot—but this is all foolish talking; what is past is gone and cannot be helped."

"Aye," interrupted Lucy, "but you can help what is to come."

"Yes, and so I will; but you know I have neither home nor kin. Now one doesn't like to stand alone in the world like a deserted wreck in the midst of the ocean—nobody caring a straw whether it sinks or swims. I think I should not have done as I have done if I had thought any heart would have grieved to hear I was not steering right."

Wells paused a moment, and then added—

"I have seen blue eyes and black eyes—fair skins—and dark skins, but I never saw a she of them I cared to look upon the second time; but I couldn't have sheered off this night without a parting look at you, if the whole hue and cry of Winchcombe had stood to meet me. You've never been to sea, Lucy, and so you cannot tell how it cheers a man to think of the port his vessel is steering to—to look across the heaving billows and to see, even in his fancy, the snug harbour where he is, at length, to cast his anchor. Now, maiden," continued Wells, pressing within his own hard palms the little hand he held, "now tell me, shall not the wandering seaman look across the ocean to a sure anchorage. May he not think of a haven where he may at last moor his tossed-about galley?"

Lucy was little used to the figurative language of a sailor, yet she easily interpreted his meaning; and, after much hesitation, a little blushing, many promises of amendment—and many more protestations of unchanging love, she plighted her troth, and the galleyman departed on his journey.
FOOTNOTES:

[1] The court of Pie-powder (pié-poudré) was a court held at fairs for the redress of all grievances happening there—so called, because justice must be done before the dust goes off the plaintiff's or defendant's feet. See statute 17 Edward IV. chap. 2., confirming the common law usage of, and detailing some new regulations for, these courts.