oyal view of them, he fell under sore
misgiving that his grandfather on high would have a bone to pick with
him.

His other difficulty was what to say, or what to think, about Lord
Auberley. To his own plain way of judging, and that human instinct
which, when highly cultivated, equals that of the weaker dogs, also to
his recollection of what used to be expected in the time when he was
young, Viscount Auberley did not give perfect satisfaction.

Nevertheless, being governed as strong folk are by the gentle ones, the
worthy baron winked at little things which did not please him, and went
so far as to ask that noble spark to flash upon the natives of benighted
Devon. Lord Auberley was glad enough to retire for a season, both for
other reasons and because he saw that bitter fighting must be soon
expected. Hence it happened that the six great Flemish horses were
buckled to, early in September of the first year of the civil war, while
the king was on his westward march collecting men and money. The queen
was not expected back from the Continent for another month; there had
scarcely been for all the summer even the semblance of a court fit
to teach a maiden lofty carriage and cold dignity; so that Lord de
Wichehalse thought Sir Maunder Meddleby an oaf for sending him to
London.

But there was someone who had tasted strong delight and shuddering fear,
glowing hope and chill despair, triumph, shame, and all confusion of the
heart and mind and will, such as simple maidens hug into their blushing
chastity by the moonlight of first love. Frida de Wichehalse knew for
certain, and forever felt it settled, that in all the world of worlds
never had been any body, any mind, or even soul, fit to think of twice
when once you had beheld Lord Auberley.

His young lordship, on the whole, was much of the same opinion. Low
fellows must not have the honour to discharge their guns at him. He
liked the king, and really meant no harm whatever to his peace of mind
concerning his Henrietta; and, if the worst came to the worst, everyone
knew that out of France there was no swordsman fit to meet, even with
a rapier, the foil of Aubyn Auberley. Neither was it any slur upon his
loyalty or courage that he was now going westward from the world of
camps and war. It was important to secure the wavering De Wichehalse,
the leading man of all the coast, from Mine-head down to Hartland; so
that, with the full consent of all the king's advisers, Lord Auberle