who rode before
them, with ragged plumes and slouched hats. The silken banners, which
they had been allowed to carry out, because of their prompt surrender,
hung limp and soiled, almost like tokens of a defeat, and if any one
of those spectators behind the hawthorns had been conversant with Roman
history, it would have seemed to them like the passing under the yoke,
so dejected, nay, ashamed was the demeanour of the gentlemen. Emlyn
whispered name after name as they went by, but even she was hushed and
overawed by the spectacle, as four abreast these sad remnants of the
royal army marched along the lane, one or two trying to whistle, a few
more talking in under tones, but all soon dying away, as if they were
too much out of heart to keep anything up.

She scarcely stirred while the infantry, who were by far the most
numerous, were going by, only naming corps or officer to Stead, then
there came an interval, and the tread of horses and clank of their
trappings could be heard. Then she almost forgot her precautions in her
eagerness to crane forward. "They are coming!" she said. "All there are
of them will be a guard for the Prince."

Stead felt a strange thrill of pain as he remembered the terrible scene
when he had last beheld that tall, slight young figure, and dark face,
now far sterner and sadder than in those early days, as Rupert went to
meet the bitterest hour of his life.

Several gentlemen rode with him, whom Emlyn named as his staff, and
then came more troopers, not alike in dress, being, in fact, remnants of
shattered regiments. She was trembling all over with eagerness, standing
up, and so leaning forward, that she might have tumbled into the lane,
had not Steadfast held her.

At last came a scream. "There's Sir Harry! There's Dick! There's
Staines! Oh! Dick, Dick, where's father?"

There was a halt, and bronzed faces looked up.

"Ha! Who's there?"

"I! I! Emlyn. Oh! Dick, is father coming?"

"Hollo, little one! Art thou safe after all?"

"I am, I am. Father! father! Come! Where is he?"

"It is poor Gaythorn's little wench," explained one of the soldiers, as
Sir Harry, a grey-haired man, looking worn and weary, turned back, while
Steadfast helped the child out on the bank with some difficulty, for
her extreme haste had nearly brought her down, and she stood curtseying,
holding out her arms, and quivering with hope that began to be fear.

"Poor child!" were the old gentleman's first words. "And wh