but there was a postscript in which he bade
his mother give a munificent reward to the
messenger who had brought the letter.

"And this is Thursday," cried the lady.
"He will be here to-night, and the red-coats
know it, and they will carry him off and
hang him!"

"Trust in me," responded Ezra Paul. "He
shall be saved. I will have scouts posted all
round the place all night, to watch for him;
but, dear lady, you must disarm suspicion
you must receive your usual visitors to-night."

"But the dragoon—the dragoon! He will
be here."

"Curse the dragoon," cried Ezra, in his
piping voice, "we will watch him. I'll get
drunk, I'll poison him, I'll kill him."

Passing down the main street, by the
threshold of the town-brewery, which had been
converted into a temporary barrack, he was
hallooed to by Captain Seagreest, who was
smoking a pipe and watching one of his
troopers clean his famous horse Turenne
with a wisp of straw, cursing the man
heartily, and kicking him bewhiles.

"You've done your errand I see, old
Slyboots," he roared out condescendingly. "See
here, what a pretty paper-hanging I mean to
cover my barrack-yard with."

Paul looked up. There was a proclamation
offering the reward for the apprehension of
Gervase Gabion, twenty-two years of age,
light curly hair, blue eyes, six feet in height,
a scar on the left hand.

The cloth-merchant shuddered, and, in as
civil terms as he could command, notified to
the dragoon that a slight indisposition, under
which the Lady Gabion had been suffering,
having yielded to two days' quiet nursing, she
was willing to receive as usual that evening,
and begged the favour of his company. To
his unspeakable joy and relief the captain
informed him, with a sarcastic bow, that duty
would call him away the whole of that night
from Bridgemoor, "and as for the little bit of
business I have with my Lady Grandeur," he
sneered forth, "that may as well be settled
to-morrow evening as this." With this, Paul
took leave of him.

"And yet," he said to himself musingly,
as he bent his steps towards the abode of
Captain Limberup, "there are some devil's
thoughts under that campaigning wig of his.
Is he going to scour the country with his
marauding, tapstering butchers? Yet his
plan must evidently be to catch the bird in
its nest. To have it taken elsewhere would
spoil his plans. Perhaps he is only off on
some drinking bout with the other Philistines
at Kendal."

The Gabion "Thursday night" was held as
usual. The dreary game of trictrac went on
as usual. Prodigal Sons, and Sacrifices of
Isaacs were worked in parti-coloured silks for
chair covers or screens. Snuff was taken,
quiet remarks hazarded, half-crowns
decorously won and lost. Lady Gabion sat paler
than she had been that morning, with forced
conventional smiles playing on her wan lips.
The ticking of the clock smote on her tympanum
like a hammer on an anvil, the wind
outside screamed as in pain, the twisted bell-pulls
seemed as hangman's halters, the great
oak parlour seemed to her as the Valley of
the Shadow of Death. And, though the
dreaded Seagreest was not there, his very
absence increased instead of allaying her terrors.

Towards eleven of the clock of this same
Thursday night, a young man riding a grey
horse, with a docked military tail—as troop
horses were docked then—and splashed, man
and horse, up to the eyes, was making his way
doggedly from Kendal to Bridgemoor. He
seemed to know the country, for he avoided
the main route, and came by a devious and
circuitous path. For all his caution, though,
he was challenged once or twice by
horsemen, but a few words, and the sight of a
paper he carried in his breast, were a
sufficient passport for him. He clattered down
the main street of Bridgemoor, as far as the
brewery barrack, in front of which stopping
boldly and resolutely, he called to the sentry
to call the serjeant of the guard.

In a minute or two the officer in question
came forth from the guard-house, holding a
lantern, and offering, in his unsteady gait,
rolling head, and blinking eye, an interesting
problem to the philosopher as to whether he
were more drunk than sleepy, or more sleepy
than drunk.

"I am on the King's business," said the man
on horseback. "I am Corporal Harris of
Hawley's dragoons, on my way to Lancaster.
Here are my pass, papers, and billet. The
mayor of Kendal has given me a billet on one
Lady Gabion, of Gabion Place here. Which
is the way to it?"

The serjeant held up his lantern to examine
the papers which the horseman offered for
his inspection.

"Good!" cried the serjeant, lowering his
lantern. "Good night, comrade. Jolly good
quarters you'll get at the popish woman's.
Corporal Foss, Gabion him the way to Gabion
Place!" Upon which the serjeant nodded, and
returned, lantern and all, into the  guard-
house.

Corporal Foss did as he was bid, and, after
watching the retreating figure of the horse-
man till it disappeared at the curve of the
street, returned to the guard-house also.

"Serjeant Scales," he remarked to his
superior officer, as the two resumed the
consumption of two pipes and two mugs of
beer, "wasn't that young fellow very like
the chap proclaimed for, dead or alive,
with two hundred shiners reward for nailing
him?"

"Hang you for a fool, Corporal Foss!"
responded the serjeant. "Didn't I see the
Duke of Cumberland's own fist at the bottom
of the pass? We should have more stripes on