“She belongs to the fourth generation,” replied the old shepherd. “Edith is my great-grandson’s daughter. But now that she is gone, I will speak to thee plainly. Thou hast intimated to me that thou art a fugitive Royalist. I cannot give thee shelter, but I can offer thee sympathy. I love not the present state of things. Night and day do I pray for the young king’s safety, and for his restoration to the throne of his ancestors. In all likelihood I am the oldest man in the land, and Heaven will listen to me.”
‘Say’st thou so, father?” cried Charles; “then the king might trust his life to thee?”
“Is the king on these hills?” demanded the old shepherd, trembling.
“He stands before thee!” exclaimed Charles. “Nay, he kneels to thee—implores thy blessing. Thou wilt not withhold it, father?”
Mastering his astonishment by a marvellous effort, with a dignity which nothing but extreme age could impart, and with an expression of countenance almost sublime, the patriarch spread his arms over the head of the kneeling monarch, and in a tone of the utmost solemnity and fervour pronounced a benediction upon him.
“I feel that this blessing from one who, like thyself, has outlived all earthly passions, will indeed profit me,” said Charles, rising. “I am compelled to fly from my kingdom, but I shall return to it ere long, and trust to find thee living.”
“Not so, sire,” replied old Oswald; “my sand is nearly run. You will reascend the throne—of that I am well assured—but ere that happy event occurs, the old shepherd of Cissbury Hill will be laid in the grave already digged for him in this hollow. But while life remains he will not cease to pray for your restoration. Yet take counsel from me, sire,” the old man continued, in a slightly troubled tone.
“I dream dreams, and behold visions. I have watched the stars on many a night from this hill-top, and have learnt strange lore from the heavenly bodies. To-day you are in safety, but be not found within this rebellious land to-morrow.”
“I design not to be so,” replied the king. “Fare thee well, father!” And he extended his hand to the patriarch, who pressed it reverently to his lips. “Give this to little Edith,” added Charles, placing a piece of gold in the old man’s palm. “Once more, farewell!”
He then ran quickly up the side of the little hollow, mounted his horse, and rode off, remaining silent and abstracted for some time, much to the disappointment of his escort, who were curious to learn what had passed between him and the old shepherd of Cissbury Hill.
VI
WHAT HAPPENED AT THE “WHITE HORSE” AT STEYNING
LEAVING Findon to the left, the travellers next crossed the range of hills, of which the lofty headland known as Chanctonbury Ring is the termination on the north-west, and descended upon Steyning. It had been their intention to push on to Bramber, but on entering the town they accidentally learnt that a troop of horse had just ridden off in that direction, so they judged it best to make a brief halt lest they should overtake them. Riding into the yard of the White Horse, they dismounted, and ordered their horses to be taken to the stables. There were a good many persons in the yard at the time, and amongst them were two individuals, who, despite their threadbare apparel, gave themselves great airs, strutted about like well-clad gallants, pounding the earth with their heavy-heeled boots, and making their long rapiers clatter against the stones. These two personages, who were no other than the redoubted Captain Goldspur and his friend Jervoise Rumboldsdyke, had watched the arrival of the party with some curiosity, and as Charles was about to enter the house, the captain strode up to him, and said, in a low, significant tone, “Art thou a friend to Cæsar?” And then, without waiting for a reply, he exclaimed, “Why, zounds! can it be?—it is—it is Cæsar himself!”
“Be silent, sir !—I charge you on your allegiance,” said Charles, authoritatively.
“I am dumb, sire,” replied Goldspur, respectfully. “But I pray your Majesty to believe that my sword, my life, are at your disposal.”