GO, LOVELY ROSE. BY EDMUND WALLER. [1605-1687.] Go, lovely Rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, In deserts, where no men abide, Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee; How small a part of time they share MICAH CLARKE. BY A. CONAN DOYLE. [ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE, Scotch novelist, was born in Edinburgh, May 22, 1859. He is the son of Charles Doyle, an artist, and nephew of Richard Doyle of Punch. He received his early education at Stonyhurst, in Lancashire, and in Germany; studied medicine at Edinburgh four years; and practiced at Southsea from 1882 to 1890, when he gave his whole attention to literature. He first became popular with the detective stories, "A Study in Scarlet," "The Sign of the Four," and "Adventures of Sherlock Holmes." His other works include: the historical novels " Micah Clarke," "The White Company," "The Refugees," "Rodney Stone," and "Uncle Bernac"; "The Captain of the Polestar"; "Stark Munro Letters"; "Round the Red Lamp"; "Tragedy of the Korosko." He is also the author of the one-act play, "A Story of Waterloo," produced by Sir Henry Irving in 1894.] MONMOUTH'S VOLUNTEERS FIGHT WITH THE REGULARS. SOME little distance from us a branch road ran into that along which we and our motley assemblage of companions in arms were traveling. This road curved down the side of a well-wooded hill, and then over the level for a quarter of a mile or so before opening on the other. Just at the brow of the rising ground there stood a thick bristle of trees, amid the trunks of which there came and went a bright shimmer of sparkling steel, which proclaimed the presence of armed men. Farther back, where the road took a sudden turn and ran along the ridge of the hill, several horsemen could be plainly seen outlined against the evening sky. So peaceful, however, was the long sweep of countryside, mellowed by the golden light of the setting sun, with a score of village steeples and manor houses peeping out from among the woods, that it was hard to think that the thundercloud of war was really lowering over that fair valley, and that at any instant the lightning might break from it. The country folk, however, appeared to have no difficulty at all in understanding the danger to which they were exposed. The fugitives from the west gave a yell of consternation, and ran wildly down the road or whipped up their beasts of burden in the endeavor to place as safe a distance as possible between themselves and the threatened attack. The chorus of shrill cries and shouts, with the cracking of whips, creaking of wheels, and the occasional crash when some cart load of goods came to grief, made up a most deafening uproar, above which our leader's voice resounded in sharp, eager exhortation and command. When, however, the loud brazen shriek from a bugle broke from the wood, and the head of a troop of horse began to descend the slope, the panic became greater still, and it was difficult for us to preserve any order at all amid the wild rush of the terrified fugitives. "Stop that cart, Clarke," cried Saxon, vehemently, pointing with his sword to an old wagon, piled high with furniture and bedding, which was lumbering along drawn by two rawboned colts. At the same moment I saw him drive his horse into the crowd and catch at the reins of another similar one. Giving Covenant's bridle a shake, I was soon abreast of the cart which he had indicated, and managed to bring the furious young horses to a standstill. 66 Bring it up!" cried our leader, working with the coolness which only a long apprenticeship to war can give. "Now, friends, cut the traces!". A dozen knives were at work in a moment, and the kicking, struggling animals scampered off, leaving their burdens behind them. Saxon sprang off his horse and set the example in dragging the wagon across the roadway, while some of the peasants, under the direction of Reuben Lockarby and of Master Joshua Pettigrue, arranged a couple of other carts to block the way fifty yards farther down. The latter precaution was to guard against the chance of the royal horse riding through the fields and attacking us from behind. So speedily was the scheme conceived and carried out, that within a very few minutes of the first alarm we found ourselves protected front and rear by a lofty barricade, while within this improvised fortress was a garrison of a hundred and fifty men. "What firearms have we among us?" asked Saxon, hurriedly. "A dozen pistols at the most," replied the elderly Puritan, who was addressed by his companions as Hope-above Williams. "John Rodway, the coachman, hath his blunderbuss. There are also two godly men from Hungerford, who are keepers of game, and who have brought their pieces with them." "They are here, sir," cried another, pointing to two stout, bearded fellows, who were ramming charges into their longbarreled muskets. "Their names are Wat and Nat Millman." "Two who can hit their mark are worth a battalion who shoot wide," our leader remarked. "Get under the wagon, my friends, and rest your pieces upon the spokes. Never draw trigger until the sons of Belial are within three pikes' length of ye. My brother and I," quoth one of them, "can hit a running doe at two hundred paces. Our lives are in the hands of the Lord, but two, at least, of these hired butchers we shall send before us." "As gladly as ever we slew stoat or wild cat," cried the other, slipping under the wagon. "We are keeping the Lord's preserves now, brother Wat, and truly these are some of the vermin that infest them." "Let all who have pistols line the wagon," said Saxon, tying his mare to the hedge-an example which we all followed. "Clarke, do you take charge upon the right with Sir Gervas, while Lockarby assists Master Pettigrue upon the left. Ye others shall stand behind with stones. Should they break through our barricade, slash at the horses with your scythes. Once down, the riders are no match for ye." A low, sullen murmur of determined resolution rose from the peasants, mingled with pious ejaculations and little scraps of hymn or of prayer. They had all produced from under their smocks rustic weapons of some sort. Ten or twelve had petronels, which, from their antique look and rusty condition, threatened to be more dangerous to their possessors than to the enemy. Others had sickles, scythe blades, flails, half-pikes, or hammers, while the remainder carried long knives and oaken clubs. Simple as were these weapons, history has proved that in the hands of men who are deeply stirred by religious fanaticism they are by no means to be despised. One had but to look at the stern, set faces of our followers, and the gleam of exultation and expectancy which shone from their eyes, to see that they were not the men to quail, either from superior numbers or equipment. "By the mass!" whispered Sir Gervas, "it is magnificent! An hour of this is worth a year in the Mall. The old Puritan bull is fairly at bay. Let us see what sort of sport the bull pups make in the baiting of him! I'll lay five pieces to four on the chaw bacons!" "Nay, it's no matter for idle betting," said I, shortly, for his light-hearted chatter annoyed me at so solemn a moment. "Five to four on the soldiers, then!" he persisted. "It is too good a match not to have a stake on it one way or the other." "Our lives are the stake," said I. "Faith, I had forgot it!" he replied, still mumbling his toothpick. "To be or not to be?' as Will of Stratford says. Kynaston was great on the passage. But here is the bell that rings the curtain up.' While we had been making our dispositions, the troop of horse for there appeared to be but one-had trotted down the crossroad, and had drawn up across the main highway. They numbered, as far as I could judge, about ninety troopers, and it was evident from their three-cornered hats, steel plates, red sleeves, and bandoliers that they were dragoons of the regular army. The main body halted a quarter of a mile from us, while their officers rode to the front and held a short consultation, which ended in one of them setting spurs to his horse and cantering down in our direction. A bugler followed a few paces behind him, waving a white kerchief and blowing an occasional blast upon his trumpet. "Here comes an envoy," cried Saxon, who was standing up in the wagon. "Now, my brethren, we have neither kettledrum nor tinkling brass, but we have the instrument wherewith Providence hath endowed us. Let us show the redcoats that we know how to use it. "Who, then, dreads the violent, Or fears the man of pride? If He be by my side?" Sevenscore voices broke in, in a hoarse roar, upon the chorus. "Who, then, fears to draw the sword, I could well believe at that moment that the Spartans had found the lame singer Tyrtæus the most successful of their generals, for the sound of their own voices increased the confidence of the country folk, while the martial words of the old hymn roused the dogged spirit in their breasts. So high did their courage run that they broke off their song with a loud warlike shout, waving their weapons above their heads, and ready, I verily believe, to march out from their barricades and make straight for the horsemen. In the midst of this clamor and turmoil the young dragoon officer, a handsome olive-faced lad, rode fearlessly up to the barrier, and pulling up his beautiful roan steed, held up his hand with an imperious gesture which demanded silence. "Who is the leader of this conventicle?" he asked. "Address your message to me, sir," said our leader, from the top of the wagon, "but understand that your white flag will only protect you while you use such language as may come from one courteous adversary to another. Say your say or retire." |