CHAPTER LIII.
THE PURSUIT.
But when did the wicked escape? So will a man's sins follow him, and find him out at last, be they what they may. And whoever has sinned against love, whoever has injured a neighbor, whoever has been vindictive, cruel, unfeeling, or revengeful, the bloodhound of his own conscience will pursue him, and superstition, under the garb of religion, can never more shield him beneath her altars.
Abdil fled to his home. His wife, his sons, his neighbors were all gone to lend a hand, if possible, to quench his fiery work. He had been seen. He must be known. He must be taken. He could not stay there. What must he do? The very solitude of his cottage, and the distant noise of the people, all conspired against him, and the wretched man exclaimed--
'O Father Duncan! O Lady Alice! now--now--now give me absolution. I must fly to you. You must hide me in the sanctuary of your church. You must console me, or my fiery brain will burn more furiously than De Freston's Hall.'
The wretched man rested not a moment, save to drink one bitter draught of liquor which he had in his house, and then fled for Goldwell, or Cold Hall.
He had a long start--an hour's start and more of his pursuers. Ten young men, with undaunted courage, firm hands and feet, led on by Reuben Styles, and the noble bloodhound of De Freston, followed on the track. So still was the night, that Saracen's deep note could be heard for a long while by the mournful listeners at the castle.
The brave dog arrived at the door of the infatuated carpenter.
'He is right,' exclaimed Reuben, 'he is right, my bold companions, Abdil Foley is the man. He is the wretch. Find him, good Saracen, find him, boy!'
In vain they searched the house. They had well nigh been left in the lurch, for Saracen had again tracked that now well-known foot from the house, and was making his way towards the lodge.
Thither they followed with fresh excitement, as the bold dog gave but little further tongue, but seemed to settle down into a certain steady pace of pursuit. It was a longer and a stronger chase than they expected, but the spirit of Reuben was above fatigue, and he exclaimed at the lodge:
'Now, boys, go no further, you who cannot endure a long run; for my belief is, the town' (then four miles off) 'is our destination.'
Never huntsman had a braver field to follow him. Never hound less came to check. As they entered upon the strand they found the snow was less, and the scent more new and powerful, and consequently the fierce delight of Saracen was more lively. His head was higher up, as if he expected to see his victim, or else the scent of the man more recently impregnated the very air with his demoniacal stench.
A bloodhound is not swift, but he is very sure, very untired, always persevering; and though his gallop is slow, comparatively speaking, it is inexpressibly grand. So is vengeance in following the guilty.
On! on! on! Forward! forward! forward! and forward went the party, and at every step they took they could see the heavens brighter and brighter, until the light from behind, where De Freston's castle was blazing, and the lights before them illumining the whole town, might fairly be said to act almost like sunshine.
They approached the town, but Saracen halted not. Though foot-marks crossed, commingled, and became a regular path; on, on, on he kept, nor paused, nor spake, but every now and then dashed his rudder-like tail from side to side to steer him safely to the wind. But now came the proof of his sagacity.
Abdil had been ferried over the ford. In dashed the dog, and, as soon as could be, followed the hunt. Up St. Peter's Street, past the Cardinal's College, through Silence Street, Wolsey's house in St. Nicholas, past Wolsey's Shambles in the market.
On, over the Butcher's Hill, through St. Lawrence, past the Magdalene Hospital, the Pest House, St. Margaret's, St. Helen's: and now the bloodhound opes his mouth; and keeps his jaws working as if he was actually eating the scent. Hundreds joined the cry. 'Pursue the incendiary! Pursue the incendiary!' were the exclamations: and half the town appeared on fire, from the mighty glare of the noble house in Brook Street.
At the gates of Goldwell Hall, Saracen came to a check. He actually seized the handle of the porter's bell, and bit it as if it were the hand of the incendiary. That hand had been but a few minutes on and off the handle; and the rage of the bloodhound might now be seen in contrast with his previous steadiness. He gnawed at the threshold. His deep-toned voice must have echoed in the hearts of the guilty souls within; but no one answered the multitude.
That multitude, in pursuit of a then exciting and righteous cause, tried all they could to obtain a peaceable entry. They were sternly denied, though they heard voices in the Lodge.
Force was resorted to, and at last an entrance gained; but here all track was lost, for the fugitives had been drawn up into a lofty room, and thence conveyed into a secret cavern which led to the little chapel of St. John the Baptist; but the Lady Alice, with an hauteur and cold dignity, confronted and confounded the pursuers, by her calm denial, coolness, and composure.
They could search no further; for that day Abdil and Father Duncan had both escaped, and Saracen returned with his brave huntsmen and field to Freston Tower.
The castle was gone--it was a ruin. The Tower alone remained, and its sorrowful inmates were, for a season, inconsolable.
Friends came from Ipswich, the lodges and cottages were full of the Hall dependants, and the death of De Freston on Christmas Day, on the summit of Freston Tower, was the conversation of thousands until the very name became extinct.
William Latimer and the Lady Ellen lived two years in Ipswich, in the house of Edmund Daundy; Freston Tower became a noted place; Alice de Clinton, soon forgotten. The united couple, who loved each other through all their trials, retired into Worcestershire. William Latimer became a firm Protestant, the estates of De Freston were disposed of and the faithful Saracen went with his mistress to their Midland Counties home.
Cold Hall is now but a farm-house, as many of the old baronial mansions of past ages have become.