“The grand point,” he said, “is to prevent, if possible, these rascals from using their fire-arms, or the alarm will be given to their comrades at the Grange. When the attack is made, let me go out first, and I will engage to disarm the sergeant. With the rest we must take our chance.”
II
THE CHASE OF THE CAVALIER
LEAVING the desecrated church for a while, we will now follow Stelfax and his men in their chase after the fugitive Cavalier.
On gaining the brow of the hill which the flying horseman had crossed, the Roundhead leader looked around in vain for the object of his quest, and came to a momentary halt. The position he and his men had attained was a most commanding one, being, in fact, the south-eastern boundary of the existing race-course. To those unfamiliar with the locality, it may be proper to mention that the Brighton race-course—one of the most beautifully situated in England—forms a wide semicircular sweep over the gently undulating ridges of a very extensive down. The large arc described by this noble hill embraces part of Kemp Town, and constitutes a worthy background to Brighton itself. At present the race-hill retains much of its original character; but encroachments are being constantly made upon the springy turf so dear to the pedestrian and the horseman. At the time, however, of our story the eminence was wholly uncultivated and unenclosed. Magnificent was the view which it offered to Stelfax and his followers. The sea was dyed with the gorgeous hues of the sun, which had just sank beneath the waves. Towards the west the whole line of coast was visible, from the little fishing town of Brightelmstone, with its small ruinous castle or block-house standing close to the shore; Shoreham, with its harbour, in which a few vessels were moored; and, farther on, Worthing, and the narrow neck of land beyond it jutting out far into the sea. In this direction, also, the Isle of Wight could now be distinctly seen, rising proudly out of the glowing waters. Exactly opposite the Roundhead leader—though to reach it he would have had to cross a lower intermediate hill—stood one of those ancient encampments found on many commanding points of the downs, and denominated the White Hawk. Hard by this antique camp stood a fire-beacon. Other camp-crowned hills were also visible from the spot where Stelfax stood—namely, Ditchling, which, moreover, possessed a beacon; Hollingsbury, Wolstonbury, and Chanctonbury, the latter constituting a landmark from its clump of fir-trees.
The view Stelfax beheld, though sufficiently striking, differed materially from that which would now be offered to a spectator stationed on the same spot. No modern race-stand towered before the stern soldier of the Commonwealth as he cast his eye on the opposite hill—no lines of white railings marked out the course reserved for struggling steeds—no mighty structures reared on the southern slopes of the declivity met his ken—no stately terraces built on the high cliffs overlooking the sea awakened his admiration, or proclaimed the vicinity of a large and well-built town. Nothing of this kind did the Roundhead behold. In the valley immediately beneath him were a barn and sheepfold. At the point called the black Rock, near the coast, a small farm-house, with two or three cottages adjoining it, could be distinguished. These were the only habitations in sight. An air of solitude pervaded the hill. A single figure, darkly defined against the still radiant western sky, and dilated to gigantic proportions, could be perceived on the verge of the Roman encampment near the fire-beacon. None else was in sight, save an old grey-coated shepherd, who, crook in hand, and attended by his dog, was driving a flock of loudly-bleating sheep down the steep escarpment towards the fold in the valley.
A few seconds sufficed to place all we have taken so long to describe before the quick-sighted Ironside leader. He looked right and left, but could discern no trace of the fugitive, and yet he ought to be in view. The dark figure near the White Hawk camp could not possibly be him. The spot was too far off to have been reached. But Stelfax did not pause long in reflection. Dashing down the hill-side towards the shepherd, he fiercely demanded whether he had seen a horseman pass by, and in which direction he had ridden.