ndary
wall. Not a living thing did I see upon my way, save a herd of
fallow-deer, which scudded away like swift shadows through the
shimmering moonshine. Looking back, the high turrets and gables of the
Boteler wing stood out dark and threatening against the starlit sky.
Having reached the seventh tree, I clambered along the projecting bough
which shot over the park wall, and dropped down upon the other side,
where I found my good old dapple-grey awaiting me in the charge of a
groom. Springing to my saddle, I strapped my sword once more to my side,
and galloped off as fast as the four willing feet could carry me on my
return journey.

All that night I rode hard without drawing bridle, through sleeping
hamlets, by moon-bathed farmhouses, past shining stealthy rivers, and
over birch-clad hills. When the eastern sky deepened from pink into
scarlet, and the great sun pushed his rim over the blue north Somerset
hills, I was already far upon my journey. It was a Sabbath morning, and
from every village rose the sweet tinkling and calling of the bells.
I bore no dangerous papers with me now, and might therefore be more
careless as to my route. At one point I was questioned by a keen-eyed
toll-keeper as to whence I came, but my reply that I was riding direct
from his Grace of Beaufort put an end to his suspicions. Further down,
near Axbridge, I overtook a grazier who was jogging into Wells upon his
sleek cob. With him I rode for some time, and learned that the whole
of North Somerset, as well as south, was now in open revolt, and that
Wells, Shepton Mallet, and Glastonbury were held by armed volunteers
for King Monmouth. The royal forces had all retired west, or east, until
help should come. As I rode through the villages I marked the blue flag
upon the church towers, and the rustics drilling upon the green, without
any sign of trooper or dragoon to uphold the authority of the Stuarts.

My road lay through Shepton Mallet, Piper's Inn, Bridgewater, and North
Petherton, until in the cool of the evening I pulled up my weary horse
at the Cross Hands, and saw the towers of Taunton in the valley beneath
me. A flagon of beer for the rider, and a sieveful of oats for the
steed, put fresh mettle into both of us, and we were jogging on our way
once more, when there came galloping down the side of the hill about
forty cavaliers, as hard as their horses could carry them. So wild was
their riding that I pulled up, uncertain whether they wer