“‘Fore God!” he cried, wonder-stricken, “we’re on the outposts of Oxford.”
A ragged soldier barred the way, with musket held horizontally. An officer in a uniform that had once been gaudy, but now showed signs of hard usage, came out from the cabin at the side of the road when he heard the sentinel’s challenge. Though his costume was so threadbare, he carried it with a swagger that had almost a touch of insolence in it, but this bearing melted to a debonair deference when he saw a handsome young woman before him. He lifted his hat and addressed her companion.
“No. I am from Scotland and bear a message to his Majesty the King.”
“From Scotland? May I glance at your credentials?”
“I carry none. I have come through a hostile country; have been searched once or twice and arrested as often. Had there been writing on me I should not now be standing at the doorstep of Oxford.”
“I shall do myself the honour of conducting you to the Chamberlain of his Majesty. And the lady?”
Armstrong took the girl’s hand, this time without opposition on the part of its owner; it was cold as ice.
“The lady is my wife,” he said boldly; then added, in a whisper heard only by herself,--“that is to be.”
The officer bowed and led the way to the town.
“I wish we were in Scotland,” said the young man very quietly.
“Because what I said at the outworks would then have constituted a marriage between us, if you had replied yes.”
The girl withdrew her hand from his and turned away her head.
The one on foot and the two on horseback entered the fortress which had hitherto proved impregnable, and traversed its streets until they came to “The Crown” inn. Oxford was no longer the home of learning for any art save that of war. A few students still strolled its thoroughfares, but the military man was everywhere. The colleges had been turned into barracks and arsenals; the King himself lived in Christ Church, over the towers of which floated the royal standard, now almost the only red spot in all England.
As the party came to a halt the officer turned to Armstrong. “A propitious meeting,” he said, “here comes the Lord Great Chamberlain himself.”
Armstrong noted the approach of a man with a countenance so remarkable that it might have been taken as typical of war. From brow to chin was drawn a long red scar, while another ran transversely across the forehead just over the eyes, so that there flamed from his face an angry cross that gave a most sinister expression to a visage which, lacking these time-healed wounds, would have been handsome. The Chamberlain stopped abruptly in his advance, his gaze riveted upon the girl, and there came into his eyes a look of such malignity that Armstrong instantly turned his glance upon his travelling companion. The girl’s cheeks had gone deathly white, and she swayed blindly in her saddle, perilously near to falling. The young man sprang from his horse and caught her just in time. Bitterly he blamed himself for this unexpected collapse, cursing his persistence on the road, when he had plainly seen that some strong emotion tormented her. This mental perturbation, combined with the physical strain she had undergone during their long journey, fully accounted for the prostration of the moment at the end.