"Because you could not share in that which I desire. I desire neither favour nor position at the hands of the king--only justice. This could not affect you. Stay! if I gain my desire, you should never want a home or a friend."

"Neither favour nor position!" he said like a man in astonishment. "A secret like that, and demand neither riches nor honour!"

"Neither," I replied.

"Then what would you do with your power?"

"Justice," I replied.

"You would seek to place the--the boy on the throne?"

"If he is the king's lawful son, yes, when his father dies."

He grasped my hand eagerly.

"But you would do nothing without consulting me first. You must promise that."

"But I might not abide by your counsels."

"Oh, I fear not that. If you come to me before you take action--all will be well. You will see the wisdom of my words."

"Yes, I would promise that," I said slowly, for the full meaning of what I was saying was not clear to me.

"That is well--that is well!"

He spoke like a man from whose shoulders a burden had rolled, and I judged that he was mightily pleased.

"But remember," I said, "in return you promise to tell me what you know of the woman Constance who came to you here last night, and you also promise to place in my hands the marriage contract of the king with Lucy Walters."

"That is, I will take you to the place where it is. I will share with you this secret. And in return you will seek to do justice, justice! And you will do nothing without consulting me. You will also be my friend, and will seek to shelter me. And you are a gentleman. You speak only the truth, and you keep your promises."

The whole question had been settled so easily that I wondered at my good fortune. I had told the man nothing, and yet he had promised to give me the information I coveted. In truth, so easily was my work accomplished that I feared lest I had pledged myself more fully than I realized. And yet all seemed straightforward. I had touched the old man's fear, and he had yielded. His great dread was that I should discover his secret, the secret of his name and ident.i.ty. Well, what were his name and ident.i.ty to me? Then I had promised to befriend him. That was more serious. It might be that in making this promise I had undertaken more than I knew.

And yet all might be simple. I believed that he was afraid to make use of the secret he guarded, and that he was eager to obtain the services of some one like myself. Besides, nothing could be obtained without risk, and I had made my promise.

He moved the pot from the fire, and then threw some dry wood upon the smouldering embers.

"The night is cold, although summer is approaching fast," he said.

"Besides, it is well for us to be warm and comfortable. You will drink wine with me. No? Ah, you fear. You are cautious for one so young, but it is well. We shall need caution as well as courage. There, the fire flames. Draw up that chair, good youth, and let us talk in a friendly way. Our skirmish is over, and we have arranged a truce. Nay, more than that, we have agreed to fight on the same side, and I am content. Do you know that for three days following I have dreamt that I shall have a youth, brave and strong and wise, like you, who shall be my friend?

Well, I took every precaution before taking you into my confidence, but now I believe you are the fulfilment of my dream. But it will be easier for us to talk if we each have a name. You can call me Father Solomon; what may I call you?"

"You may call me Master Roland," I made answer.

"Master Roland. Ah, it sounds well. It brings to me memories of great courage, great wisdom, and great fidelity. Master Roland; but Master Roland what?"

"That is enough. Master Roland and nothing else."

"Ah, very good. A sagacious youth. Ha, ha!"

His tone had changed. He evidently desired to be friends; he even regarded me with an air that was almost affectionate. I could have sworn that my presence was in accord with his strongest desires.

He sat on one side of the fire, and I on the other--he with his head sunk between his shoulders, and his long beard almost resting on his knees; I alert and watchful, for as yet I had no confidence in him.

Around the walls of the room were strange mystic charts, while on the table were grinning skulls and much peculiar apparatus, of the meaning of which I knew nothing.

"I will e'en drink some water of life," he said, filling a goblet from a bottle which stood on a shelf. "Ah, it warms my blood and cheers my brains! That is well. Now I will tell you the things you desire to know."

He gave me a keen furtive glance as he spoke, but I simply nodded my head and waited for him to proceed.

"You would know more of the fair Constance," he said. "That is natural.

She is fair of face, and hath a sweet voice; but, Master Roland, take my advice and seek not her company. You cannot help her. She is in danger of her life, and a price is set upon her head!"

"What hath she done?" I asked.

"Many things. She is the daughter of Master John Leslie, who is the bosom friend of Master Hugh Peters, who was friend and chaplain of Oliver Cromwell. Master John Leslie hated the late king more than any man in the kingdom, and took a princ.i.p.al part in the beheading of Charles. He is a great Independent, Master Roland, and he gave his daughter in marriage to Sir Charles Denman, a man old enough to be her father, but who is also a great Independent, and who fears as much as he hates the thought of the coming of Charles II."

He hesitated here, and looked towards me as if he expected me to speak, but I held my peace, for I knew he was only at the beginning of his story.

"Do you not know the rest?" he asked.

"No," I replied, "I know nothing."

He heaved a sigh like one well satisfied. "Ah, thou art a simple youth, after all," he said; "thou knowest nought of what hath been taking place."

"Well, tell me," I said sharply, for I grew impatient at his slowness.

"Oh yes, I will tell thee. It is a part of the bargain, and I will tell thee. When it was known that General Monk seemed to favour the coming of the new king, Master Leslie, Sir Charles Denman, and his wife conceived a scheme for the murdering of Monk. They believed they would be doing good service. They knew that if Charles came back, in spite of all the promises he might make, it would go hard with those who took part in the death of the new king's father. The question was, who was to do the deed? The presence of Master Leslie or Sir Charles Denman, men known to hate the royalty, would destroy any chance of success. So they settled upon the wife of Sir Charles, whose person was unknown either to Monk or his retainers. Well, the plan was carried out, Master Roland; that is, the attempt was made. The woman, never dreaming of disobeying her husband and also mad with fear as to what should take place if Charles Stuart came back, attempted the deed. If Monk was killed, Lambert would have power--you follow, Master Roland? Oh, it was not a bad plan, and had it succeeded--well, methinks there would not be at this moment a gaping crowd waiting to welcome another Stuart. But it did not succeed--that is, not fully. Mark you, she did succeed in reaching the room where Monk lay asleep. She stabbed young James Carew, who acted as Monk's secretary, ay, and so badly that he hath not yet recovered; but Monk awoke before she was able to harm him much. Oh, but she made a desperate fight. She wounded Monk in the arm, and fled. Moreover, so cleverly had she arranged everything that she managed to escape, and although every attempt hath been made, she hath not yet been captured."

"But how dare she ride abroad?" I cried.

"That woman would dare anything," cried the old man. "Besides, Monk described a woman different from the beautiful Constance. You see, she had taken steps to alter her appearance before she attempted the deed.

Nevertheless, the thing hath been traced to her. Master John Leslie is even now in disgrace, while spies be everywhere trying to track down Sir Charles Denman and his wife. Not that guilt hath been proved against Sir Charles on that count, nevertheless his life is not worth ten groats."

"But how dare he ride to the _Barley Sheaf_ while it was yet daylight?"

I cried. "I saw him myself."

"Sir Charles hath many friends; besides, what kind of man did you see?"

"A tall strong man with an iron-grey beard and a grey ashen countenance; one who speaks with a rough harsh voice."

"Sir Charles hath a yellow beard, brown hair, and hath a sweet mellow voice," he replied. "Ay, but he is cleverer than any play-actor in London. Besides, he knows that just now the search is somewhat lax, seeing that every one is at Dover waiting to welcome the new King."

"Then--then----"

"Ah, more I may not tell you. Ay, and seek to know no more, Master Roland. The chase cannot last long: she will be taken, and then G.o.d have mercy on her!"

"And Sir Charles?"

A cloud crossed his face, and that harsh, cruel look which I had seen in his eyes when first we met came back.

"Who knows?" he snarled. "Who knows, if he----but enough of that, Master Roland. There is something of more importance. There is that for which you came hither; your fate, and perchance mine, depend on that."