o'clock a horseman comes up to us as we were giving our
cattle water at an inn--and says, All is done. The Ecossois declared an
hour too soon--General Ginckel was down upon them. The whole thing was at
an end.

" 'And we've shot an officer on duty, and let his orderly escape,' says my
lord.

" 'Blaise,' says Mr. Holt, writing two lines on his table-book, one for my
lady, and one for you, Master Harry; 'you must go back to Castlewood, and
deliver these,' and behold me."

And he gave Harry the two papers. He read that to himself, which only
said, "Burn the papers in the cupboard, burn this. You know nothing about
anything." Harry read this, ran upstairs to his mistress's apartment,
where her gentlewoman slept near to the door, made her bring a light and
wake my lady, into whose hands he gave the paper. She was a wonderful
object to look at in her night attire, nor had Harry ever seen the like.

As soon as she had the paper in her hand, Harry stepped back to the
chaplain's room, opened the secret cupboard over the fireplace, burned all
the papers in it, and, as he had seen the priest do before, took down one
of his reverence's manuscript sermons, and half burnt that in the brazier.
By the time the papers were quite destroyed it was daylight. Harry ran
back to his mistress again. Her gentlewoman ushered him again into her
ladyship's chamber; she told him (from behind her nuptial curtains) to bid
the coach be got ready, and that she would ride away anon.

But the mysteries of her ladyship's toilet were as awfully long on this
day as on any other, and, long after the coach was ready, my lady was
still attiring herself. And just as the viscountess stepped forth from her
room, ready for departure, young Job Lockwood comes running up from the
village with news that a lawyer, three officers, and twenty or
four-and-twenty soldiers, were marching thence upon the house. Job had but
two minutes the start of them, and, ere he had well told his story, the
troop rode into our courtyard.

Chapter VI. The Issue Of The Plots.--The Death Of Thomas, Third Viscount Of
Castlewood; And The Imprisonment Of His Viscountess

At first my lady was for dying like Mary, Queen of Scots (to whom she
fancied she bore a resemblance in beauty), and, stroking her scraggy neck,
said, "They will find Isabel of Castlewood is equal to her fate." Her
gentlewoman, Victoire, persuaded her that her prudent course was, as she
could not fly, to receive t