By this time, the prisoner had shaken off in a great measure the effects of his fall. Of a reckless turn, like most Cavaliers, he either felt—or feigned to feel—indifferent to his present position. His chair was next that of Stelfax, and hearing the praises bestowed by the latter upon the sack, he begged to be allowed a measure for himself—and the favour was unhesitatingly granted. After the failure of his attempt to march off, Captain Goldspur’s audacity seemed to forsake him, and withdrawing as far as he could from the presence of the hateful Stelfax, he lapsed into gloomy silence. His companions were equally taciturn and moody. But the rest of the company took no umbrage at their detention, appearing rather pleased by the excuse it offered them for making a night of it. Whether Stelfax sat long to vex Goldspur and his sullen comrades—or whether, as is more probable, he felt disposed to rest and enjoy himself after a hard day’s work—certain it is that eleven o’clock had struck ere he rose to depart. The reckoning was then paid—rather to Simon Piddinghoe’s surprise, for the soldiers of the Republic were not notorious for scrupulously discharging their scores; the horses were brought out; the prisoner was placed on the crupper behind Nathan Guestling, and strapped to that stout trooper as he had previously been. All these arrangements made, Stelfax mounted, and after partaking of a stirrup-cup proffered by the host, put himself at the head of the little troop, and rode out of Poynings.
Notwithstanding the Roundhead leader’s injunctions to the contrary, one person had contrived to slip out of the house unobserved. When the host returned to his guests to tell them they were now free to depart if they were so minded, he remarked that Captain Goldspur was gone, and had taken his rapier with him. Upon which he muttered, “There will be mischief, I fear—And who, think you, yon red-coated knaves have got as a prisoner, my worthy masters?” he added.
“Nay, I know not,” the schoolmaster rejoined. “Who should it be?”
“No other than Colonel George Gunter of Racton,” the host replied; “as worthy a gentleman as any in the county, and as staunch a partisan as ever breathed of the—of—You know whom I mean.”
“Was that Colonel Gunter of Racton?” cried a personage in a tarnished lace cloak and dilapidated Spanish hat. “Would I had known it.”
“Why, what wouldst thou have done, Master Jervoise Rumboldsdyke?” demanded the inquisitive schoolmaster.
“No matter,” the other rejoined. “It may not yet be too late. Tell me the way taken by those cursed troopers,” he added to the host.
“They rode towards Patcham,” Simon Piddinghoe replied. “No doubt they are bound for Lewes, where the detachment is quartered.”
“To Lewes!” exclaimed Rumboldsdyke. “To Lewes, then, let us hie. Here is thy reckoning, mine host.” And flinging a double-crown upon the table he rushed out of the house, followed by his comrades.
It was a clear starlight night, and by no means dark. Stelfax kept a little in advance of his men, but did not urge his horse beyond a walk. Their road lay partly along a valley, partly over a lower range of downs. After a while, they reached Patcham, and were passing the thick hanging wood on the hill-side, when a pistol—for such the fire-arm seemed to be from its report—was discharged at Stelfax. The bullet struck the Roundhead leader’s gorget, but did him no injury. He instantly turned, and dashing to the edge of the wood, called, in a voice of thunder, upon his dastardly assailant to show himself, and come forth if he dared. But no answer was returned to the summons, neither could any lurking assassin be detected. Deeming search useless at such an hour, Stelfax set off again; but he now mended his pace, and being under no apprehension of losing his way, he rode over the silent and solitary downs in the direction of Ovingdean, where he arrived without further molestation of any kind, and deposited his prisoner at the Grange.
VI
BY WHAT MEANS THE PRISONERS ESCAPED FROM THE CHURCH
We must now return to the church, and see what the disorderly rout left within it were about. It was past midnight. The torches were still blazing, but the thick vapour that rose from their flames, combined with the tobacco-smoke, filled the whole body of the fabric, and so obscured its-more distant portions, that the arched screen separating the chancel from the nave could scarcely be discerned. The light, struggling through this vapour, only imperfectly revealed the figures of the Ironsides stretched upon the benches, some of them, as we have said, asleep, and the rest in a drowsy state, half-stupefied with drink. All their boisterous merriment had long since ceased, and nothing was heard but the heavy breathing of the slumbering topers. All at once, a slight noise reached the ears of the sergeant, and looking in the direction whence it proceeded, he thought he discerned a dark figure in the pulpit. After steadily regarding the object for a few moments, during which it continued perfectly motionless, a superstitious terror took possession of Delves, and be began to think it was the Enemy of Mankind standing before him in prison. Rousing up Besadaiah Eavestaff, who was near to him, he directed his attention to the mysterious figure, and asked him, in accents that betrayed his alarm, what he thought of it?