CHAPTER XII

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*How I was Saved from Rashness*

Turning down a stone-flagged passage, I made for a small, snug parlour, where I had oft held private converse with the landlord and his daughter Miriam, especially the latter. I found the door wide open and the room deserted, but that did not prevent my entering, for indeed the house had ever been a sort of second home to me; and, as things were just then, I did not crave for any company, and silence seemed a blessed thing.

So, standing with my hands behind me, and back towards the empty fire-place, I took swift thought, if thought it could be called--for what a medley filled my brain! John Coram's words had let in such a blinding light upon the question nearest to my heart that I was fairly dazzled and bewildered by it. Thus, there was the mischief-working demon with two names; his meeting on the previous night with Ferguson, not a stone-throw from the spot where I was standing; their slinking by the very man who was as zealous to kill Ammon as I was myself; and, finally, the mocking thought that, in his ignorance, John Coram looked on the murderous chaplain as a thing of spotless righteousness--fit company for angels.

A bitter laugh escaped me when I thought of that, and what the ale-soaked trooper would have said and looked like if I had told him all I knew about his saintly reverence.

This led me to consider whether I could trust myself so far as to look on Ferguson just then--supposing Coram had been right in stating he was with the Duke. For might I not, in spite of cooler, better judgment, be constrained to fire a pistol at him, and thereby bring swift death upon me? Yes, in my then fierce, desperate state, it seemed most likely that I should thus lose myself. What then? Why, to begin with, Tubal Ammon would live on, unless John Coram found and settled with him--which I doubted, for indeed there seemed in him no sort of match for Ammon's wriggling craftiness. Thus, in attempting to kill Ferguson (and such a wild excited shot might easily miss its mark!) I should be foiled of doing that which lay still nearer to my heart's desire. Again, my father must be buried on the morrow, and that he should be laid to rest without his son to mourn him was unthinkable.

No, my life, barren and blighted though it was, must not be risked that night, too much depended on it. For a time, at least, I must restrain myself, meet craftiness with craft and guile with guile.

These thoughts, which were so strange a mixture of cold reckoning and burning hate, left me where I had been. A hot and overmastering desire was on me to watch Ferguson, gloat over him, and see how one who had so vilely bargained for my father's death could play the part of holiness before Duke Monmouth and his followers. The very words with which he had thus bartered life for gold rang in my ears; and once again the vision of my father's white set face rose up before me. And then I muttered something, loosed my sword within its sheath, and cast a hungering glance down at the pistols in my belt.

From close at hand there came the heavy tramp of those who went to join the "Cause", while from the street beyond the cries of "Liberty and pure religion!" rose and fell unceasingly.

With curling lip I listened for a space to what, for me, was now a bitter mockery, by reason of one Ferguson the Plotter; then with tight-clenched teeth I strode across the room, bent on I scarce know what, though if ever man had thought of murder in his heart that had I just then. But ere I reached the door there came the rustle of a dress, and Miriam, the landlord's daughter, stood before me.

It may have been the altered look upon my face, or simply great surprise at seeing me, which was the cause of it, I know not; but with a little cry she clasped her hands and started back, while I stood dumb as Lucifer before an angel.

I tried to murmur something, but I could not; nor was there any need; for now she came to me, took both my hands in hers, and looking up with big sad eyes, said softly:

"Oh, Michael, I am very, very sorry for thee."

Her sweet voice trembled, and her pretty head was bowed.

Those were the gentlest, truest words that I had heard throughout that awful day, and so there is no shame in saying that I could not answer her. Instead I drew her close, and for a moment there was silence in that little room. The setting sun shone in upon us; and, for a time at least, I knew what power a woman has to save man from himself.

This is no tale of love, nor, if it were, would this be any place in which to prate of it; but yet I should be something of a thankless coward were I not to state that Miriam Hope was very dear to me. We had been friends from childhood, and looking backward through the long, long years I know how much I owe to her. And speaking of that night, she saved me from I know not what mad act.

"And how came you here?" she asked, when we had talked a while of other things.

"By the side door yonder," I replied.

"Ah, verily," sighed she, "the front is crowded like a fair. The fearful din hath made my head ache sorely. How, think you, Michael, will this sorry business end?"

"I fear in hanging for the most part, Miriam," was my answer.

"Ah, that is what my father says. 'Tis terrible to think of."

"And so the Duke is in the Great Room yonder?"

"Yes, and a very gracious, kindly gentleman he seems. His smile is very sweet. Aye, 'tis a thousand pities that he ever landed on so wild a business."

"Yes, ten thousand pities," I agreed, though not because I thought of Monmouth's peril.

"My father says he cannot win."

"No; there is little chance of that, methinks."

"And what if he be beaten, Michael?"

"Why, then 'twill be a case of hunt and hunted. But say, Miriam, are many of the gentry coming in to join him?"

"Nay, very few, if any. They are nearly all rough country men, more used to scythes than swords. I pity them, for verily they look like stupid boys let loose from school."

"Yes, yes," I murmured, for my mind was set on other things just then. "Is Ferguson the chaplain with the Duke?"

"Yes; but him I like not," answered Miriam with a little frown. "He may be great and clever as they say, but I go by faces, Michael, and never saw I such an ugly, evil one as his. His little eyes glint out beneath his old torn wig like those of rats, and when he walks he shuffles like a camel. Why the Duke makes so much of him, and trusts him so, 'tis past me to imagine, for verily I would not trust him with my shoes."

"Ah, then he must be bad," said I; then fearing lest my face might tell a tale, I added quickly: "Now for the Great Room, Miriam; I would go there."

She started back from me, glanced fearfully about her, then with a searching look said:

"You would not join these rebels, surely, Michael?"

"Nay, I would only see the fun," I answered carelessly.

"But even that might well be dangerous," said she. "Remember there be wicked, desperate men abroad just now."

I could have told her so much, but I only laughed and said:

"Nay, have no fear, sweet girl, for, look you, I am fully armed and care for no man. But, say, how shall I get into the room through such a press?"

"Why, if you must really go," said she, "I will take you through the antechamber, and that will bring you well into the room, not far from where the Duke is sitting."

"Most excellent!" quoth I. "I pray you lead the way at once, dear Miriam."

She turned as if to go, then stopped and gazed upon me in a sad, reproachful fashion.

"Michael," she murmured, "how can you talk of seeing fun when your poor father is thus lying----"

"Stop! stop!" I broke in swiftly. "We will not speak of that, dear girl. You do not understand. It may be that I seek to drown my thoughts. Lead on, I pray you."

And so I followed Miriam, and was ushered in.

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