CHAPTER XXII

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*In which I become a Prisoner*

I found all well at home, though Lyme itself was trembling with fear; as well it might, considering the active part which it had played in Monmouth's luckless venture. The little town, which but a month before had been as blithe as any in the kingdom, now lay beneath a cloud of jeopardy. Indeed, the place seemed half-deserted, for scores of its inhabitants had fled the wrath to come; while those who still remained crept in and out with frightened looks, and trembled when a horseman clattered through the cobbled streets.

Many questioned me about the late rebellion, and not a few, with tearful eyes, implored me to protect them; but, though I strove to soothe them, the comfort that I could offer was a poor, cold thing indeed. For what was I? A youth who, without zeal therein--to serve his own ends, that is--had fought upon the winning side; then, for good reasons, had thrown up the business, and thereby brought upon his head the dire displeasure of a man who, by acts of vilest, wanton cruelty, was mounting higher every day into the royal pleasure. I, who had started out from Lyme three weeks before in search of great revenge, had found it--or at least a part thereof--yet what had it availed me? Nothing. And here, as one who proved its truth to the uttermost, I put on record that revenge when won is but an empty husk. The striving after it is all that counts (that well may stir the blood and make a man a demon, as indeed it does); but the thing itself, when gained, is worse than vanity.

Thus when news came that Ferguson (plotting to the end) had managed to escape from England, the tidings moved me little, and though, had I met him then, I would still have killed him, the keen desire to hunt him down at any price had vanished.

The days and weeks sped by, and I (sad at heart and feeling older by some years) went to and fro, unhindered, on my business, until at last it seemed that, after all, Kirke's threat had either been an empty one or clean forgotten. But like a thunder-clap there came the proof that this was not so; and also that one Robert Ferguson, for all his dash for life, had yet contrived to work me mischief.

One day towards the end of August (on the twenty-seventh of that month, to be exact) a troop of horse drew up before The Havering, and, when I went forth to enquire the cause of it, a captain, with a paper in his hand, strode up to me.

"Are you Cornet Michael Fane?" he asked.

"I am Michael Fane, but cannot claim the rank," I answered coldly, for his bearing was both bold and insolent.

"That matters not," quoth he. "I hold a warrant here for your arrest."

"Ah, so! And, prithee, on what grounds?" I asked.

"Why, on the best of grounds," he answered, opening the paper with a flourish. "For having aided and abetted rebels; for having spoken seditious words against His Majesty, King James, et cetera, et cetera."

"It is a lie!" I thundered.

"Then come and prove it so before my Lord Chief Justice Jeffreys, at Dorchester," said he, folding up the paper with great care.

Dorchester, whose prison was already full to overflowing! and Jeffreys, the heartless monster, who had just sent grey-haired, saintly Alice Lisle to death! I stood and stared until the horsemen, sitting there before me, seemed to vanish like a vision. But I was soon brought back to the grim reality of things.

"Come!" said the captain, striking his jack-boot with the warrant. "There is no time to lose. We have a spare horse here; so, when you're ready----"

There was nothing for it but to go. Calling Tom, the groom, I told him quickly how things stood, at which his terror and amazement were such that he could only stand there dumb and gaping. So I mounted, and away we went.

As we passed through the town the people stared at me as though the end of everything was come: but I took no heed of them; the world and everything therein seemed as nothing to me then. Thus that night found me in the jail at Dorchester.

On the terrors of that pestilential place I will not dwell. Over three hundred prisoners were crowded there like cattle in a pen, and almost every one of them was doomed to certain death. The air was foul and stifling, while cries and groans of anguish made up such a scene of horror as no pen could properly describe.

There were several faces there well known to me, and barely had I entered when a little wizened man came darting through the crowd and seized my hands. 'Twas old Samuel Robins, who, as you will remember, sold fish to Monmouth's men aboard the frigate and was kept there. That was his crime.

"Oh, Master Fane," he cried, looking up at me with wild imploring eyes, "what do it mean? What be Oi here for? I sold them fish as fair and straight as any man; fore-right I did, and how were Oi to know as it were Monmouth's ship? Zur, zur! My pretty boo-at! What be they a-goin' to do wi' me and her? Get back, zur; go you to the King and tell en old Sam Robins ne'er did harm to any man."

He tried to drag me to the door. Alas! he did not understand that I was just as helpless as himself. I tried to comfort him as best I could, but he only raved the louder, wringing his hands and asking God to save him and his "pretty boo-at".

Many of the prisoners were sick, and some still suffering from wounds. Amongst these moved a grey-haired gentleman, endeavouring, by word and touch, to give relief. His name was Dr. Temple, and he told me that he hailed from Nottingham, but had been in the Netherlands some years; that when Monmouth's expedition sailed thence he had shipped as surgeon, being told that they were bound for western seas, and had not found out the truth until they had been two days at sea. At Sedgemoor he had worked zealously among the wounded of both sides--and this was his reward!

"I am old," said he, "and if death comes it finds me well upon the road to meet it. But you are young and strong, and it troubles me to see you here."

Far into the night we two sat talking, until at last, in spite of stifling heat and groans, we fell asleep.

I dreamt prodigiously, and, strange as it may seem to you, my dreams were not unpleasant--being for the most part of old, happy days long passed--but, oh, the grim awakening!

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