gradually weakened in his attack, and at length fell
mortally wounded, leaving no one now to hinder them from marching
victoriously on to Ashby.

CHAPTER XXVI.

A DISGUISED LOVER.

Imperious beauty,
Treading upon the neck of understanding,
Compelled me to put off my natural shape
Of loyal duty, to disguise myself.

MASSINGER

The autumn winds were howling among the trees and scattering the later
leaves in all directions, when, with the fall of twilight, a gentle
knock was heard at the door of the hut of the chief forester of
Haddon.

A lonely traveller stood outside, shivering in his rough and scanty
garments as he stood in the still evening breeze, and as he waited
expectantly at the unopened door he heard a gruff voice inside the
cottage trolling forth a simple ballad of the chase.

He waited patiently until the song was finished, and then, taking
courage, he tapped again much louder than before, and was rewarded by
hearing footsteps advance towards the threshold, and a moment later
the crazy portal was standing open, and the unkempt head of the
forester peered inquiringly out.

"What now, what now," he inquired, as his eye lighted upon the strange
figure before him; "who and what art thou?"

"Art thou Roger the forester?" asked the wanderer in reply.

"Roger Morton, at your service, yes."

"Then, by the love of heaven, I beseech thee let me in."

"Well, there are few ask that favour off me, but none shall ever say
I turned an empty mouth away at night, e'en though it were a beggar's.
Come in."

Thankful indeed to receive so ready an invitation, the traveller
entered the hospitable cottage.

"I am not a beggar, though, forsooth," he began, as he seated himself
upon the log which did duty for a seat. "You do not recognise me,
Roger, I perceive."

"Roger Morton, I repeat it, at your service."

"Well, then, Roger Morton, be it so, but yet you seem to know me not."

"Odds, troth," ejaculated the forester, "I seem to know thee somewhat;
we have met before."

"A many times, Roger."

"Roger Morton."

"Well, well, Roger Morton, I am apt to forget myself."

"Ha! you are Nathan Grene," interrupted the man, as he laid before his
guest some cheese and a mug of new milk. "I know your voice."

"Are we alone?" whispered the traveller.

"We are," replied Roger, as he picked up a stout stick with which to
defend himself, "but he would be a bold man to tackle me alone, for I
can take c