This excellent man at last succeeded in hiring a ship
to carry away the king, and so Charles made another journey to
Brighthelmstone, where he met the captain of the vessel and the merchant
that had hired her on behalf of Colonel Gunter, both of whom had been
kept in ignorance of their future passenger's identity. Arriving at
Brighthelmstone, they entered an inn and ordered supper, during which
the captain more than once looked hard at the king. And the meal being
ended, the captain called the merchant aside and said he was not dealt
with fairly, inasmuch as he had not been told the king was the person to
be conveyed from thence. The merchant, not being so wise as the master,
denied such was the case; but the honest fellow told him not to be
troubled. "For I think," said he, "I do God and my country good service
in preserving the king: and by the grace of God I will venture my life
and all for him, and set him safely on shore, if I can, in France."

Nor was this the last of his majesty's numerous risks, for being
presently left alone, he stood thoughtful and somewhat melancholy by
the fire, resting one hand on a chair; and the landlord, coming in and
seeing him engaged in this manner, softly advanced, suddenly kissed
the king's hand, and said, "God bless you, wherever you go." Charles
started, and would have denied himself; but the landlord cried out,
"'Fore God, your majesty may trust me; and," he added, "I have no doubt,
before I die, to be a lord, and my wife a lady."

That night, the last his majesty was to spend in England for many years,
he was sad and depressed. The scenes of bloodshed he had witnessed, the
imminent dangers he had escaped, were vividly present to his mind. The
past was fraught with horror; the future held no hope. Though a king, he
was about to become an outcast from his realm. Surmising his thoughts,
his companions sought to cheer him. Now the long-desired moment of
escape was at hand, no one thought of repose. The little vessel in which
he intended sailing lay dry upon the shore, the tide being at low water.
The king and his friends, the merchant, the captain, and the landlord,
sat in the well-lighted cosy parlour of the seaport inn, smoking,
playing cards, telling stories and drinking good ale.

With all such diversions the hours wore heavily away. Their noisy
joviality had an undercurrent of sadness; jokes failed to amuse;
laughter seemed forced; words, mirthful in leaving the lips, sounded