The Pageant of England/An Angel of Revolution
VI.—AN ANGEL OF REVOLUTION.
IT all befell five hundred years ago, in a storm of new ideas. Strange gospels of men's rights to the next world and their duties in this clashed like thunder and dazed weak heads. For the power of the storm there was need enough. The most of Englishmen were bound like slaves to lord and land. Even if Piers Plowman were free, the law forbade him more than threepence for his day's labour, and if he were stubborn for a higher wage made him outlaw, whom any gentle might send down to death. Wise souls strode out to wield the lightnings of revolution, It is ever a position of splendour.
Captain John Craddock came to his house on London Bridge with content. He loved the ordered days, the still home, and the gay, comfortable wife that he kept. “All the havens, from Gootlond to the Cape of Fynystere,” had taken their toll of his youth. Now other men plied in his barks and he counted the gain. But the roar of the flood tide as it broke upon the narrow arches of the bridge came to him, and he stayed on his threshold drinking delight of the sound.
He was a sturdy figure, substantial in prosperous maturity, bearded and brown, and his skin was clear, his eyes gleamed bright as a boy's. He had wasted no gold on his frieze cap, his gown of coarse cloth, or his worsted stockings, but all were precisely neat. His hall matched him well. Clean rushes strewed the floor, the wainscot gleamed, the oak table was white; the benches were stalwart, and the two chairs of massive comfort, but there was nothing else. He stood by his hearth, smiling satisfaction. A woman came, lithe as he was solid, and eager as he was sedate. She too was neat enough, with her dark hair bound in a silver caul, with grey gown that clung to all her form like a woven skin, Over her heart was a great knot of scarlet ribands. Her pale face, grave and earnest to sternness, was strangely wedded to the passionate light in her eyes. She saw him, and came. One arm claimed her sturdily, and he kissed her. “Dear heart!” she whispered, resting on him.
He patted her shoulder in complacent approval and put her aside.
“Ay, thy need is dinner,” she laughed, and rustled out.
Something of contempt in her tone surprised Captain Craddock, who could see no cause for it. But he was not a man to plague himself with fancies.
What disturbed him next was no fancy, but a tune. While she spread white linen at the top of the table—a fashion condemned by Captain Craddock as new, foreign and luxurious—she was humming. Captain Craddock grunted. That made her louder:
John the Miller hath yground small, small, small.
The Kynge's son of heaven shall pay for all.
Be ye ware or ye be wo,
Know your friend from your foe.
Have enough and cry “Ho!”
And do well
“What rattle is this?” growled Captain Craddock.
“It is a rhyme,” said his wife, and went on with it.
“Marry, 'tis no reason, for certain. Where did your lips find it?”
She faced him with challenging eyes and a smile that mocked. “There are a thousand lips ready to teach me.”
“Ay, but that is my business.”
“Why, do it, then, prithee. What hast thou ever taught me?”
“I taught thee to kiss. All else that a woman should know thou hadst ready for me. Why wilt mar it with the pestilent madness of these levellers?”
“The Christ was called mad.”
“And then He rose from the dead. Let John Ball or Gamelyn Gaveston do the like, and I will say thou hast not blasphemed.”
She flushed. “Art thou judge of God and man?”
“I will be judge of mine own wife,” said Captain Craddock. “And when she gives herself to the knaves of the Great Society, I will tell her she is a fool.”
She bit her lip, and was busy awhile about the table with nervous hands, Then she started back, her eyes aflame. “We are free, so no folk are slaves; we feed fat, so none go hungry; we keep our own, so none are despoiled. Oh, St. Mary, I had rather be the wretchedest villein that serves a vile lord, than that my heart should not beat for them. Thou—thou wouldst not dare right the slaves, lest thou shouldst wrong their lords. But I am of the temper of Father John, and I would have every man peril what he hath to win a better world for all.”
“Like the dog that snapped at the shadow,” said Captain Craddock. “Well, put my dinner in my mouth, and see what I do with it.”
She stared at him a moment, her face growing crimson before his easy laughter, then went out in a noise of wrath. The dinner—salmon from the nets at the bridge, chickens stewed with gallingale—came at speed, and the servants, crowding to their places below the salt, stole curious glances. She spent little labour on eating and less on talk.
When the board was bare, and he ready for the wharf again, she was too busy with her linen coffer to give him a good-bye. He caught her up from her knees with a rough tenderness, and kissed her.
“Thou art too sweet a wench to meddle with these men's matters, good wife. Keep the lips for kissing.” It was she who drew away.
Alone, she stood by a narrow window looking out over the gleaming river and the crowded masts of the Pool.
“Am I not like him?” said a soft voice in her ear.
She turned with a start. It was a man in the scarlet gown of a physician, travel-stained indeed, and threadbare, yet borne with dignity and grace. He bent and kissed her hands. A thin dark face of large lips and mobile eyes smiled at her. She was all crimson. “Gamelyn! Why—why—how dost thou read in my heart?”
“Souls that are kin need no words, Alison.” He laid his hand on her shoulder. “Beyond this cramping body mine is ever with thine to comfort thee and crave thy comfort.”
Her hand sought his a moment, but she looked out still over the river. “Thou art like a brother for me,” she said softly.
“And thou nearer than sister. Ay, nearer far. Shrink not: I mean not what lustful blood means. The sages of old taught that the good God Omnipotent made some souls, which for their exercise unto perfection in the school of sorrow He divided asunder. And now each one of these, whatever bonds chafe it upon earth, when it finds its God-formed mate, yearns and yearns, and cannot be content till they are one again. I have thought...” he broke off with a sigh. She, blushing, stole a swift glance. His hand was at his brow, his thin face drawn in pain. “What right have I to talk of my own yearnings, I who have vowed myself a sacrifice for the people?”
He felt her tremble. He heard her mutter, “St. Mary help us!” Then she turned to him, smiling like a spring morning through tears. “You make me want to kneel to you,” she said, and took his hands and kissed them. He caught them away with a cry, and started back. Then she laughed happily. “Tell me, tell me, how fares the work?”
The physician became mysterious. He looked all round him with keen contracting eyes, and gathered his gown. The display seemed no affectation, but naïvely natural to him. He drew her to the middle of the hall and spoke in a low voice. “The leaven works! the leaven works! Hob and Straw are waking. By Christ's soul, I am glad of this cruel poll-tax. Though it takes his last black bread out of Hob's mouth, it whips him on to strike a shrewd blow. I am just come out of Kent, and”—he looked cunning—“and I think we may hear something of Kent anon. I have rung the bell, and there will be a goodly company at mass. Ay, the commons know they are men at last. They are coming to ask my lord why he wears his ermine while the wind whistles through their rags; why he hath his hall of wainscot and tapestry while in their hovels the beasts breed with them; why Adam's seed should be slave to the seed of Adam:
When Adam delved and Eve span,
Who was then a gentleman?”
His face was ennobled. Plainly he held his gospel so wondrous new and great that oft telling would not stale it. The water of rhetoric made him drunk. His own breast was quivering as well as hers. He tossed back his dark hair with a wild, graceful gesture, and strode to and fro, his hands working nervously. “Marry, there comes a bloody accompt!” he cried. “For your lords and ladies what care I? Let their blood pay for the sweat of blood they have drunk. But Jack Trueman of the commons, that perils life for the right to live—ah, would that I might die for him!” His eyes were glistening with tears. He walked away to the window, fighting with himself.... When he turned he was calm and smiling. He saw a woman throbbing with pain and joy, like a mother proud of her son's peril. He came to her, holding out his hands. “Forgive me, Alison. Why should I draw thee into the peril of my war?”
Her hands clung to his, her lips were eager: “If I could have part—ah, if I might have part in thy toil! In truth, my heart goes with thee; but that, that is no help.”
He drew away. “Life is stern with us, my dear,” he said in a broken voice. Then he turned, flushed, and with flaming eyes: “By St. Mary, thou wert fashioned for higher work than a sleek man's serving-maid!” he cried, and sprang upon her. She was white and her eyes frightened. He let her go. “God help us both! I need thee, I need thee, Alison,” he groaned, and dashed his hand across his eyes. She was swaying, her hands came to and fro, and she tried to look away from him. He came closer, making his eyes keen beneath a frowning brow. She grew still and looked at him, puzzled, fearful, like a child when its world is troublous and strange. He drew her to him, and she came, neither yielding nor denying. “The soul is not held by the bonds of man,” he said. Her head was bowed upon her breast, and so he held her against him. He smiled content.... “Thou knowest at last,” he said softly, “It is well. There be perils closing upon me, and soon all that is mortal of me may be loosed again into the four elements. Care not thou for that! What is the life of man but a gift to spend that others may live? But by St. Mary, I am glad of this hour. Soon or late thy soul homes with mine. Mine abides for thee in life, in death, alway.”
She drew away from him, though he tried to stay her, and gazed at him with honest questioning eyes. He caressed her gently. “No, no,” she said in a low voice. “Peril, sayest thou? Tell me true.”
Again he looked round suspiciously, then finding no matter for fear, drew a parchment from his bosom. She read this mystery:
With right and with might. With skill and with will. Let might help right. Skill before will. Right before might. So goeth our milne aright.
Amen and so forth. In Dartford xii score and iii.
Jack Trueman.
Then there was another:
Piers Plowman goes to his work, and Robin the robber is grounden small, small. John Nameless hath the castle in hold.
God be with you from Rochester, where x hundred and mo.
John Trewman.
And yet another:
Look sharp you to onehead, as doth John Nameless in Canterbury, where lords swear faith unte him.
Amen in God's name, quod ii thousand.
Jack Trewman.
“What does it mean?”
“It means that the shires are marching on the towns, the commons upon their lords, the kingdom upon the king. Essex is up in arms. The men of Kent have mastered the castles and are homing upon London. It needs only chiefs of bold heart and cunning head, and Hob and Straw shall win of their lords good lusty livelihood.”
“And thou—what art thou in this?”
He drew her closer, his lips were touching her hair when they were alarmed. An old, substantial serving-woman came bustling into the hall with a determined noise. The two drew apart, and, as they glanced at her covertly, met the steady stare of little, knowing eyes. She established herself by the chest where the pewter was kept, and began to go over its treasures.
Gamelyn looked a question at Dame Alison, and she, who was pale with angry eyes, shook her head. “Why, I am tedious with my tales of healing,” said he aloud, “but prithee, if thou art ever in need let me stead thee.”
She, less adroit, had no answer ready, but her hand clung to his.
She turned from the shut door to hear the serving-woman humming one of the people's songs:
Covetise is holden wise,
Lechery without ashame,
Lechers red be without blame
The words came again with unction.
“What foulness is this?” cried Dame Alison, flushing.
The old woman went on polishing her pewter. “Foulness, quotha? Well, and if it be foulness, foul it is to meddle withal.”
“Thou hast an old foul heart, Martha.” Her mistress turned away in disdain.
“Ay, ay,” the harsh old voice rose; “foul am I, and too fair is my dainty doctor for any foulness. Marry, then, so be it. Give me the foul man who covets the body, not the devil who bids for the soul. A fair devil, a devil of maiden speech—Lord Christ deliver us!”
Captain Craddock came home before dusk. Queer rumours were flaming through the city. William Walworth, the mayor, had been called to the Tower to advise with the boy King Richard and his council. Now portcullis was down and guards doubled at the gate. Captain Craddock saw the sleek alderman of Bridge, Walter Sybyle, setting a watch over the drawbridge that linked the arches with Southwark. One of the gapers told him that the men of Kent had sworn to burn London black as sea-coal, and draw and quarter the King. Captain Craddock had known a man swear to swallow the moon. In the hall he found the old woman still polishing pewter, and her little eyes twinkled at him. No wife came hurrying to his step or answered his call. He found her lying on their bed. “Why, sweetheart, aweary?” He knelt to kiss her.
She put him away. “I have a sickness. Do not trouble me. I have a sickness.”
He shuffled about the room ill at ease, proffering quaint remedies, till she begged him leave her in quiet. He went back to the hall and bade Martha go tend her mistress.
The old woman rose grunting. “Oh, aye, good wife must be watched—surely, must be watched.”
Captain Craddock, pacing to and fro with downcast anxious eyes, saw a scrap of parchment on the floor, and taking it up read this:
Tax hath troubled us all:
Probat hoc mors tot validorum.
The King thereof had small:
Fuit in manibus cupidorum.
He knew the hand. There was no need to ask why Alison was distraught. A nauseous flood of suspicion choked him....
That night Alison knew without word spoken that he had learnt of Gamelyn's coming, and learnt to doubt her. She was consumed with a feverish anger. That he should dare suspect was a wicked wrong. It was haughty insolence to suspect and not challenge her. His cold, grave kindliness stung keenly. If he had but put his thought in words, she would have answered—she would have answered. Tossing sleepless the hot night through, she made a score of vehement vindications: she proved the fault his, who lay still at her side, sleepless as she.
The morning found Captain Craddock as silent as the dark, and soon there was other trouble than his own to concern him. The rebels had come. The men of Essex beset the wall at Aldgate. The men of Kent were encamped upon Blackheath, and had sent messengers to demand that the king should come to them. Within the city walls the prentices were rushing to and fro, wild for the chance of a riot; and vagrants and masterless men, runaway villeins and outlaws, who had stolen in by twos and threes the day before, were mustering on Tower Hill like a disciplined army at its officers' call. The rebels had friends within the town.
The watchers on the bridge saw Southwark suburb swarming with a horde of rustics. Soon red flames leapt up to the summer sky. The prisons of the Marshalsea and King's Bench were doomed. Nervous merchants and nervous nobles thronged about Walter Sybyle, the alderman of Bridge, and proffered him abundant aid. “Corpus Domini,” quoth he, “I will have none of any man but mine own men. The drawbridge is purely of my ward, and I will ward it as meseemeth good.” The men of substance looked at him askance, but there was a throng of the city rioters about him and no hope in force.
“God give you wits,” Captain Craddock grumbled.
“There is a good soul prays you better luck than his own, Master Sybyle,” said a keen voice.
Captain Craddock saw close behind the alderman's ear the scarlet gown of Gamelyn Gaveston. He opined the worst, and was not disappointed.
The rebels speedily sent a message to the alderman saying that if they were not given entry to London, they would burn down all Southwark. He had no mind to give them so much trouble. He bade a man go and tell the mayor that there was nothing for it but to down drawbridge; and before any answer could come, down the drawbridge went and the wild army of peasants surged over and into the town. Gamelyn Gaveston changed a knowing look and a handshake with some of them, and plunged into the throng, seeking Father John Ball and Wat Tyler.
The citizens kept their heads. Merchants used to traffic all over Christendom, to dealing with the brigand baron of the Empire and the keen Lombard banker, the Venetian with his luxurious guile, the arrogant prelate of the Rhine and the savage flock-masters of their own western shires, were not likely to be dazed by a crowd of peasantry. Halls were thrown open, wine casks broached, great joints grew savoury upon the spits. Hob and Straw, dazed by the mere mass of the town, the narrow lanes and swarming houses, found white plump hands clinging to their ragged sleeves, and stately gentlemen in gowns of silk and fur welcoming them as though they were very lords. Poor souls, whose only use of the graces of life had been a mud hovel and straw, with wooden platter and coarse brown pitcher, were welcomed to lofty halls where the rich stained light flashed on bright pewter, and the table was polished till it gleamed like a river. For the first time they had their fill of fresh meat, for the first time hot red wine made their blood leap. Soon they were ready to swear themselves true servants of the good citizens of London.
But this was no pleasure to their leaders. They were not working for peace. Wild messengers ran from house to house crying that if Jack Trueman would be free, he must strike. They must gather on Tower Hill under the eyes of the King and teach him fear.
Towards the evening of the next day Gamelyn Gaveston came along the bridge with triumphal escort of a little company of sunburnt, white-polled Kentish peasants who cheered him steadily. Substantial citizens shrank away to give him the wall, and he was all complacent dignity. At Captain Craddock's door he halted and turned: “Good fellows,” quoth he, “I thank you. Ye do me right noble honour, who need none save the honour of brother men. Ye have won for each a goodly boon this day. Look ye, how was it won? By a fair trust in honest guides, even as I, who am all for you. Even so do hereafter, and all shall be well. I thank you,” and he went in.
Dame Alison sat at her spinning-wheel, and blushed and let hand and foot fall idle as she saw him. “Give me a king's welcome, Alison,” he cried, “for we have conquered a king to-day,” and he did not wait for a question but swept on with the story. “Methinks our boy King knows now what it is to tremble and cower for fear. So is it well for him and all his proud nobles. Our good army of the commons lay before the Tower and waxed hot and threatening. I will not say who blew the fire. It is an high art to enflame the spirit of men. There were cries of death if nought were done and yielded, and withal the Council in the Tower, seeing no help might be, made promise that the King would ride out and meet his trusty people beyond the town. Thither marched Jack Trueman in his ragged frieze, thither came King and Council in ermine and purple withal. It was an host against a family. The lordlings drew together quavering. Then I stood out from the van with Father John and in no humble wise made our demand: that all men should be free as God makes them, that no man be bound to the land or lord henceforth and for ever, but free to earn life as he may and where he may. By Christ's soul, I so wrought on them that they had no words to answer me. My speech was hard on their wit as our host upon their craven hearts. In a moment the King piped out in his shrill boyling voice that all was granted. Dost marvel good fellows follow me with shouts and greetings? In truth, I have done a work this day whereof the like hath never been in England.”
“It is ended, then? Peace hath come and rest?” she cried.
“Ended? Why, what weak soul spake that, Alison? It is but begun. We will have more and more and more till no lordling is left to vaunt himself Jack Trueman's better. All must come down. We will have them low upon their knees. I have mastered a king to-day. I will be King's counsellor yet and rule him to a new governance, wherein all shall enjoy the earth. I”
“Thou? Why art thou idle here?”
Gamelyn turned on the grim brow of Captain Craddock. “I have earned my leisure, sweet sir: hast thou?”
“Go to thy friends, and dabble in the Archbishop's blood.”
Dame Alison cried out, “Thou liest.”
Gamelyn frowned.
Captain Craddock let drive and sent him reeling against the wall with blood on his cheek.
“Ah, thou shalt pay me that,” cried Gamelyn; and then to Alison, “It is a lie—it is a lie.” But her gaze was set upon Captain Craddcock's fierce grey eyes. “By St. Thomas-a-Kent, I will school thee to blows upon me!” Gamelyn snarled, and rushed to the door for his bodyguard. The bridge was bare. With a comical loss of speed and pride he went out to look for them.
Alison, her cheeks grey, gazed at her husband and muttered: “Tell me.”
“I have seen these friends of thine seize the Archbishop and hew off his head and tear his body asunder. The like did they to many another, and now they rave through the town speckled with blood and flesh.”
She shuddered and fell a-weeping. The fair dream had too sudden, too cruel an end.
“Fool, if thou warm'st a stoat in thy bosom, is it less vermin?”
She trembled and cowered down, and he turned growling away and barred window and door. Then with content he watched her pain.
It was true enough. Who preaches madness to a mob earns converts easily. The saner minds, the honester hearts, heard the King's promise of freedom, were content and went their way. Every road out of the city was thronged with good fellows off homeward. They left the power to rogues and fools. The revolution fell into the hands of violence. Master Wat Tyler, a robber of Kent, became master, and guided the mob to havoc. Prelate and lawyer, friar and publican were not enough to still their lust of blood. They fell upon the weakest quarter of the city, where the Flemings dwelt, and made a ghastly butchery. Night and day they thronged the streets with foul wet trophies of death. Master Wat Tyler and his friends fed fat of luxury and pride, and boasted themselves the rulers of the land. Father John and Gamelyn, who had called up a devil they could in no wise lay, preached and intrigued in passionate impotence.
But all the while Walworth the mayor was making his plans with Sir Robert Knolles, an old schooled soldier of fortune. They could muster no force while the rabble held all the streets. The old trick was tried. Master Wat Tyler was told that the King would meet him and his army again without the wall in Smithfield. Master Tyler was puffed up. Already he felt two kings in England—and himself the better. This time all the mob left the city.
Beyond the New Gate, amid the filth and offal of the Market Square, “great and horrible smells and mortal abominations,” the drunken, blood-stained rabble met, and Master Tyler peacocked it among them. He was unquestioned leader, and Father John and Gamelyn and the orators stayed sulking within the city. The King came and his lords, and William Walworth the mayor, all with armour beneath their robes. And the while behind the walls, Sir Robert Knolles marshalled every loyal archer and man-at-arms who liked twelve pence a day. Master Tyler rode up to the King with a boisterous greeting and a “Good-morrow to all this roguery” for the lords. “Here barks a dog that needs whipping,” quoth Walworth: “to kennel, hound!” “Sayest thou?” cried Tyler. “This dog bites!” and lugged out his sword. Walworth struck at him with ready dagger and beat him to the ground, and his riderless horse galloped wildly across the square. A yell of rage went up from the rabble, but the boy King galloped to their surging ranks, facing the threats of spear and stave, and cried out gallantly: “Do ye need a leader? I will be your leader, your lord and king.” While they were held in wonder, they heard the tramp of Sir Robert Knolles's company, and the steel caps halted within bowshot. There was no more hope. They were frantic in yelling God's honour for the King. The soldiers closed upon them and they were bidden scatter to their homes. Cowed and wretched, they broke and fled.
Then the King went back to the city, and the city gates were shut, and Walworth the mayor ordered search for the villeins' masters and friends. Some who had led in the murder of the Flemings were taken with blood-stained spoil upon them. Father John won away to the open country.
As the late twilight fell, Gamelyn Gaveston broke in to Dame Alison. He flung himself against the door and slammed it, and with hasty blundering fingers shot the bolts. Half his red gown was torn away from him. Though his very hair dropped sweat, his face was pallid. All his body heaved and trembled like an overdriven horse. He staggered to Alison and clutched her shoulder. “Alison! They hunt me, they are close upon me!” he panted. “Oh! my heart, give me hiding!”
She pressed her hand to his and gazed up at him, pale as he with eyes of fear.
Standing aloof, Captain Craddock stared moody hate. “Ay, mercy is due to thy flesh.”
The two gave a quick glance at him and drew together. There was a great din upon the bridge. Gamelyn clung to her. “Alison, dear heart, dear love, put me in hiding. The freebooters are upon me, and it is death, death!”
She held him away; she started up and came swift to her husband, and gazing at him with level eyes, “Save him, I pray thee,” she said in a low voice.
Gamelyn stole after her and caught her hand from behind, and cowered against her, muttering in her ear.
Captain Craddock's brow was drawn. “Why, this is too modest, wife!” he sneered,
She was crimson from bosom to brow. “I dare—by St. Mary I dare!” she cried passionately. “Oh, can we let him be slain in our hall?”
Already there was a hammering at the door, but that only Gamelyn heeded, who clung to the woman and prayed her wildly. Wife and husband drew close, fearless as fierce. “He is foul vermin,” said Captain Craddock.
“I pray thee,” she said.
His brow flushed dark in a grim scowl of hate. “Thou hast chosen,” he cried. He caught Gamelyn so cruelly that the man screamed, and dragging him across the hall, flung open the window that looked upon the river. Gamelyn shrank back with a cry of fear. “Hound, if I meant your death, there is a pleasanter way. See where the rope hangs down. Go thou by that and drop into the stream, Thou'lt be borne ashore beyond the Priory hard. The lads do it for sport.”
Gamelyn looked down at the swirling tide and shrank again. “I cannot. I have not strength. I dare not,” and he drew himself together and looked all about him.
Captain Craddock laughed. “Art proud of thy man, wench?”
Alison stood aloof, erect and pale.
All this while the hammering on the barred door had grown louder and louder, and now servants started into the hall. Captain Craddock stamped his foot. “Who bade you come? I did not bid you come. Away!” When they were gone he caught Gamelyn roughly and drove the man before him up the stair in the wall. He came down alone. He looked at his wife and laughed, and said very quietly, “Fool!” Then he walked to the door, and drew the bolts.
Half a score of the veteran freebooters of Sir Robert Knolles broke into the hall, and their captain laid hold of Captain Craddock with a French oath. “Why dost bar thy door, rogue?”
“My house is mine own.”
“Not for a burrow for rebels. Where is he?”
Captain Craddock's face set like stone. “Thou wilt find none here but mine own household.”
The soldier spat: “That for a lie,” quoth he. “Look thee, citizen, I waste no parley on thee. A red knave, a man of physic, Gamelyn Gaveston by name, came into thy house. Give him unto me swiftly, or thou shalt hang. Hola, knaves within, a quart of ale!”
Frightened servants peered into the hall. “Serve us liquor, Martha,” said Captain Craddock.
The black jacks were brought foaming. The soldier sat himself down with one, and his steel-capped men lounged about him. “I drink at my ease, citizen. Do thou find me this knave, or when I have done drinking, hanged thou shalt be.”
Captain Craddock stood silent and still.
The soldier saw the leather bottom dark through the liquor. “Reeve me a rope over the mercer's sign,” he cried, and two of his men went out. “Make ready, citizen.”
Captain Craddock took the other jack of ale and drank. “Ready I am,” said he.
The soldier drained the dregs, rose up and laid a hand upon him.
Captain Craddock looked round for his wife. She was gone.
She was away in the secret chamber in the wall, where Captain Craddock kept his gold. There lay Gamelyn, breathing hard and wiping his brow. He caught her hand and began to kiss it, but she wrenched it away. “Gamelyn, it is the end! They have taken him; they will hang him for thee, in thy stead.”
Gamelyn looked at her, looked stealthily at the close stone door, looked at her again, and a queer light came in his eyes.
“Alison,” he said softly, “Alison,” and drew her closer. “Very soul of my soul.” She yielded and let him take her to his side, but there was no love in her face. “Very God worketh for thee and me.”
She started away to the farthest corner of the narrow chamber. “Shall he die and thou live?” she cried, quivering with passion.
Gamelyn sprang up and caught her. “Thou art mine, thou art mine!”
She flung him off so that he reeled and fell; and tearing with frenzied hands at the secret of the door, won out and cried: “Soldiers! here, here!”
A jovial shout answered, and the clatter of steel.
Gamelyn sprang at her again and tried to force her in and close the stone, and for a moment they fought fiercely. Then he was in the soldiers' gripe, and, yelling mad reviling at her, was dragged away.
Walking slowly, unsteadily, blind, she came to the hall again. Captain Craddock stood there, still and silent like a man of stone. She staggered to him and cast herself upon his breast in a frenzy of weeping. His arms closed hard about her.
A shriek rent the air.