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 Test Bank for Advanced Assessment Interpreting
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Chapter 1. Assessment and Clinical Decision-Making: Overview

Multiple Choice
Identify the choice that best completes the statement or answers the question.

____ 1. Which type of clinical decision-making is most reliable?

A. Intuitive
B. Analytical
C. Experiential
D. Augenblick
____ 2. Which of the following is false? To obtain adequate history, health-care providers must be:
A. Methodical and systematic
B. Attentive to the patient’s verbal and nonverbal language
C. Able to accurately interpret the patient’s responses
D. Adept at reading into the patient’s statements
____ 3. Essential parts of a health history include all of the following except:
A. Chief complaint
B. History of the present illness
C. Current vital signs
D. All of the above are essential history components
____ 4. Which of the following is false? While performing the physical examination, the examiner must be
able to:
A. Differentiate between normal and abnormal findings
B. Recall knowledge of a range of conditions and their associated signs and
symptoms
C. Recognize how certain conditions affect the response to other conditions
D. Foresee unpredictable findings
____ 5. The following is the least reliable source of information for diagnostic statistics:
A. Evidence-based investigations
B. Primary reports of research
C. Estimation based on a provider’s experience
D. Published meta-analyses
____ 6. The following can be used to assist in sound clinical decision-making:
A. Algorithm published in a peer-reviewed journal article
B. Clinical practice guidelines
C. Evidence-based research
D. All of the above
____ 7. If a diagnostic study has high sensitivity, this indicates a:
A. High percentage of persons with the given condition will have an abnormal result
B. Low percentage of persons with the given condition will have an abnormal result
C. Low likelihood of normal result in persons without a given condition
D. None of the above
____ 8. If a diagnostic study has high specificity, this indicates a:
A. Low percentage of healthy individuals will show a normal result
B. High percentage of healthy individuals will show a normal result
C. High percentage of individuals with a disorder will show a normal result
D. Low percentage of individuals with a disorder will show an abnormal result
____ 9. A likelihood ratio above 1 indicates that a diagnostic test showing a:
A. Positive result is strongly associated with the disease
B. Negative result is strongly associated with absence of the disease
C. Positive result is weakly associated with the disease
D. Negative result is weakly associated with absence of the disease
____ 10. Which of the following clinical reasoning tools is defined as evidence-based resource based on
mathematical modeling to express the likelihood of a condition in select situations, settings, and/or
patients?
A. Clinical practice guideline
B. Clinical decision rule
C. Clinical algorithm
D. Clinical recommendation
Chapter 1. Assessment and Clinical Decision-Making: Overview
Answer Section

MULTIPLE CHOICE

1. ANS: B
Croskerry (2009) describes two major types of clinical diagnostic decision-making: intuitive and
analytical. Intuitive decision-making (similar to Augenblink decision-making) is based on the
experience and intuition of the clinician and is less reliable and paired with fairly common errors.
In contrast, analytical decision-making is based on careful consideration and has greater reliability
with rare errors.

PTS: 1
2. ANS: D
To obtain adequate history, providers must be well organized, attentive to the patient’s verbal and
nonverbal language, and able to accurately interpret the patient’s responses to questions. Rather
than reading into the patient’s statements, they clarify any areas of uncertainty.

PTS: 1
3. ANS: C
Vital signs are part of the physical examination portion of patient assessment, not part of the health
history.

PTS: 1
4. ANS: D
While performing the physical examination, the examiner must be able to differentiate between
normal and abnormal findings, recall knowledge of a range of conditions, including their
associated signs and symptoms, recognize how certain conditions affect the response to other
conditions, and distinguish the relevance of varied abnormal findings.

PTS: 1
5. ANS: C
Sources for diagnostic statistics include textbooks, primary reports of research, and published
meta-analyses. Another source of statistics, the one that has been most widely used and available
for application to the reasoning process, is the estimation based on a provider’s experience,
although these are rarely accurate. Over the past decade, the availability of evidence on which to
base clinical reasoning is improving, and there is an increasing expectation that clinical reasoning
be based on scientific evidence. Evidence-based statistics are also increasingly being used to
develop resources to facilitate clinical decision-making.

PTS: 1
6. ANS: D
To assist in clinical decision-making, a number of evidence-based resources have been developed
to assist the clinician. Resources, such as algorithms and clinical practice guidelines, assist in
clinical reasoning when properly applied.
 PTS: 1
7. ANS: A
The sensitivity of a diagnostic study is the percentage of individuals with the target condition who
show an abnormal, or positive, result. A high sensitivity indicates that a greater percentage of
persons with the given condition will have an abnormal result.

PTS: 1
8. ANS: B
The specificity of a diagnostic study is the percentage of normal, healthy individuals who have a
normal result. The greater the specificity, the greater the percentage of individuals who will have
negative, or normal, results if they do not have the target condition.

PTS: 1
9. ANS: A
The likelihood ratio is the probability that a positive test result will be associated with a person
who has the target condition and a negative result will be associated with a healthy person. A
likelihood ratio above 1 indicates that a positive result is associated with the disease; a likelihood
ratio less than 1 indicates that a negative result is associated with an absence of the disease.

PTS: 1
10. ANS: B
Clinical decision (or prediction) rules provide another support for clinical reasoning. Clinical
decision rules are evidence-based resources that provide probabilistic statements regarding the
likelihood that a condition exists if certain variables are met with regard to the prognosis of
patients with specific findings. Decision rules use mathematical models and are specific to certain
situations, settings, and/or patient characteristics.

PTS: 1
 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
and sent us supply of money by the trusty old drawer here. Ridydale
durst venture to us only once, for fear of being tracked. ’Twas when
he was new released and he had had no word how it was faring with
you. So he came and he brought news of Captain Gwyeth.”
Hugh made no reply.
“If you have the strength to hear it, I’d fain ease me of it,”
Strangwayes went on. “This is what he had done, Hugh: When he
got my word that man had forced a fight upon you because you
were your father’s son, and when I prayed him to meet the hacking
cutthroat—Heaven forgive me! Bellasis is dead now. Well, you know
the answer Captain Gwyeth sent you. Having shown his proud
temper in that, he set out, not to join us and intercept the man upon
the field, but to seek him in the city. Now Bellasis, like a wise man,
had withdrawn himself on a suspicion of that, so Alan Gwyeth did
but meet Bellasis’ cousin, Herbert, who drew him into a scuffle under
the very shadow of the Castle. They were promptly put under arrest
therefor. Then the captain found the hour of the duel coming on,
and he laid by the heels for his folly, and then—” Strangwayes
paused, and tried to laugh himself into a less earnest tone. “Well,
Hugh, he prayed to see the officer of the watch, and conveyed unto
him full information of the place and time of the duel.”
“Then ’tis he that is to thank for bringing the watch upon us?”
“Yes, and for making us hale you into the ditch and near rack your
poor body to pieces. I swear the rough handling we had to give you
had as much share in bringing on the fever as your wounds. And as
you lay in the very heat of the fever came this fine proud message
from him that his will was to come unto you. And I wrote back unto
him so he has not come. But if you wish him, Hugh, I’ll—well,
doubtless I can crave his pardon, and then he will come to you.”
“I do not wish to see him,” Hugh answered coldly. “What did you
write him, Dick?”
“’Twas not just a temperate letter, I’m fearing. For your fever had
run four days, and there seemed no change save the worst change.
Oh, well,” Strangwayes laughed, “I wrote him that his cursed ugly
pride had never brought anything to you but disgrace and pain, and
now he had killed you he should leave you to me. I told him his
blundering stupidity in sending the watch would have wrecked your
honor, had they come ten minutes earlier, and now it had wrecked
your life. And I told him he had been no father to you while you
lived, and he should not play that part in your death. I said if he
came hither I would bar the door in his face. Truth, I must have
been near mad to write so uncivilly, but—I had been watching with
you three nights, and I was worried for you, lad. So he did not
come. And you do not wish him to?”
“No, never,” Hugh said, then lay silent so long that Strangwayes,
slipping his arm from beneath his head, had risen, when Hugh broke
out, “Dick, you must have sent him a message the day of the duel.”
“Hm,” said Strangwayes, heading for the fireplace.
“You promised me—”
“Only not to speak to him,” the other put in hastily. “I did not. I
wrote him a letter there in the bakeshop, and sent it by a stray
trooper. Dear lad, I was trained for a lawyer. How could I resist a
quibble? You’re going to forgive me, Hugh.”
“’Tis a very little fault in you, Dick,” Hugh answered. “Though if
another had done it—”
“Well, I’ll never attempt to incline Captain Gwyeth to his duty
again, rest assured,” Strangwayes ended their talk earnestly.
So, while he still had barely strength to lift his head from off the
pillow, Hugh came to full knowledge of how his affairs stood. He was
glad to be told the worst, not be played with like a child, yet the
realization of the desperate state to which the word and the blow at
the Oxford ordinary had reduced, not only his own fortunes, but
those of his friend, made his slow convalescence doubly hard to
bear. Day followed day, all alike, save that on some the fire was
heaped high for warmth, while on others, more frequently as time
passed, the narrow window was flung wide open, and a breath of
spring-like air sweeping in made confinement all the less endurable.
Then Hugh fretted miserably, till he looked at Dick, and thought
what it must mean to a man to be pent up in a sick room while he
had all his limbs and strength at his command. For Strangwayes
never left him, save for a half-hour or so at night, when he used to
slip out by the back way and tramp about the bowling green, to
bring in with him so fine a breeziness that Hugh used to lie awake
for his coming. At first Strangwayes did not quit the chamber even
for his rest, but, wrapping his cloak about him, stretched himself
across the hearth, till Hugh, with gaining strength, assured him he
could fare well enough without constant watching, and begged him
to get a room and a bed. After that Hugh passed long, sleepless
hours of the night in loneliness, while through the little window he
watched the varying shades of the sky and the stars that had so
many times looked back at him.
During the day the chief diversions were to eat, and to note how
many minutes more he contrived to sit up than on the preceding
day. In the intervals he and Dick played cards, till the pack was
wofully thumbed, or chess, which Hugh found easier, for he need
only lie on his back and look sidewise at the board. Later Dick
unearthed the whole library of the “Sceptre,” a fat “Palmerin of
England,” whose “gallant history” he patiently read aloud to Hugh,
who did not find the story enlivening, but got to appreciate Dick’s
sarcastic comments. Still better he liked to hear his friend talk, half
nonsense, half truth, of the things he had seen and done when he
served in the Low Countries and made his stay in Paris. “How should
you like to go thither yourself?” Strangwayes asked abruptly one
March morning, when for the second time Hugh was sitting up in a
chair.
“With you?” the boy asked quickly.
“No, not with me now,” Strangwayes answered; “I cannot quit the
kingdom, Hugh, while there’s a blow to be struck. Even though I be
a volunteer—”
“Dick!” Hugh cried, “you’ve lost your commission through me?”
“No, no, no,” Strangwayes said hastily. “Only ’twould be awkward
to come to the front and claim it while this duel is still remembered.
Sir William will always keep me a place in his regiment. And when
you are cured, ’tis my purpose to go into the North to fight. I’ll not
be easily recognized now my beard is grown, and I’ll put another
name to me. There in the North I may chance to do something that
will bring us a pardon for what we had a share in.”
 All of which Hugh only half heeded as he sat with his head in his
hands. For it was worse than the realization that he had killed a man
to know that he had wrought Dick’s fortunes such a terrible shock.
Strangwayes said what he could that was generous, and ended
with the old proposition to send Hugh, so soon as he was recovered,
into the Low Countries, where he would be safe from all pursuit. But
Hugh shook his head. “I cannot, Dick; I’d rather be hanged here on
English ground, or whatever else they would do to me. Why, I could
not speak their queer language yonder. And you’ve pampered me so,
I durst not venture out among strangers again. I’ll do as you do,
change my name, and volunteer somewhere else.”
It was at this time he made a resolution, which he had a chance
to carry out perhaps a week later, when Ridydale paid him a cautious
visit. Sir William’s regiment marched northward in two days, the
corporal explained, bound to garrison Tamworth, and he had
thought it well to come see Master Hugh ere he went, and bring him
his accoutrements from his quarters at Oxford. Hugh watched his
chance till Dick had left them alone, then prayed Ridydale get Bayard
from Turner’s stable and sell him. “I have been a heavy charge unto
my friends, and am like to be heavier,” he explained painfully. “And in
any case I cannot keep the horse, for he is known as mine, and
might draw suspicion to me. He’s a good beast and should fetch a
fair price. Only try your best, Corporal, to sell him unto some one
will use him kindly.”
Ridydale demurred, then yielded; and before he left Oxford,
brought Hugh five sovereigns, the purchase money. Then there was
an explanation with Strangwayes, who was downright angry, but
finally laughed at himself. “Only a fool would quarrel with such a
remnant of a fellow as you look now,” he concluded.
Hugh felt the term was justified the first time he dragged on his
clothes, which seemed cut for a lad of vastly greater brawn, and,
contriving to hobble into the adjoining chamber, got sight of himself
in the glass. Eyes, mouth, and a raw scar sheer across his left cheek,
seemed all that was left of his face, and his close-cut hair added to
the unfamiliarity of his look. “Scars are good adornments for a
soldier,” he said bravely, but he tried in vain to find a complimentary
phrase for the painful stiffness that lingered in his thigh.
By dint of stumbling about his chamber, however, the lameness
wore off, till he could walk with some surety of not falling against the
furniture; and then there came a night he never forgot, when
Strangwayes helped him carefully down the stairs, and, pacing
slowly across the bowling green, they sat down on a bench that
Hugh remembered. It was a clear spring evening, with the stars
numerous and bright, and an earthy smell in the soft air. Hugh felt
the ground beneath his feet once more, and stared at the poplars
that still looked bare in the nighttime, while his heart grew full at the
thought that he was alive to enjoy the spring and all the deeds that
were yet to do. He spoke it all out, as he leaned against
Strangwayes, by saying: “I am well again now, Dick. When shall we
be off to the North?”
“North? Not for you at present, lad,” Strangwayes replied. “You’re
no figure for a camp yet. So I am going to carry you to a farm called
Ashcroft, somewhat toward Warwickshire, where dwells a distant
kinswoman of Sir William Pleydall and of my mother. ’Tis a good,
bluff widow, whom I shall bid keep you well hidden, and see you go
to bed betimes, and do not run off to kill Roundheads till I give the
word. When you have back your strength again, you shall join me in
Yorkshire, and we’ll go a-soldiering together again.”
For the next week Hugh felt he had something to look forward to,
though expectation made the days even more tedious. With long
intervals of rest, he furbished up his sword and spurs, and, when
that interest failed, spent much time in devising a name to assume
till his peace was made with his Majesty. Strangwayes had
announced early that he meant to go by the name of Henry
Ramsden, and there was an end of it; but Hugh had an
unaccountable feeling that he did not wish to take any one of the
common names that men he knew had borne, and bestow it on a
hunted duellist. He finally ended by calling himself Edmund Burley,
but it was a long process of selection, and the choice was made only
on the day he left the “Sceptre.”
 They made their start about midnight, when the road was quiet,
and the houses in the fields beyond the alehouse were all black. Two
horses were fetched them at the side door, the drawer held a lantern
half screened with his hand as they mounted, and the host wished
them God-speed in a guarded, low voice. Then they paced softly into
the highway and headed northward under the starlight. At first Hugh
sat straight, and would gladly have talked with Dick to tell him how
easy, after all, he found the exercise. But Dick would have no
speaking till almost cock-crow, when they were riding through a
stretch of lonely fields, and by then no jauntiness was left in Hugh,
only dull pain and faintness, so he had no will to say anything
except, “Thank Heaven!” when Strangwayes, fairly lifting him off his
horse, half carried him into a dwelling-place.
There he spent the day, sleeping some and for the rest lying still
as he was bidden, till twilight came on and once more they got to
saddle. A little fine rain was sifting down now, and the cold wet on
his face refreshed Hugh somewhat, but even then, when they halted
at last at the gate of a lonely farm enclosure, he was drooping over
his saddle-bow. He noted of the house only that there was a green
settle in the living room, the arm of which was of just the right
height to rest his head upon, and the loud-voiced woman who had
roused up to greet them held a guttering candle so he was assured
the dripping wax must soon burn her fingers.
After that he remembered Dick helped him to bed in a little upper
chamber; the sheets felt good, and he shut his eyes to keep out the
troublesome candlelight. “Rain or no, I’m going to push on for Sir
William’s house in Worcestershire,” Dick was saying. “You’re safe
here with Widow Flemyng, Hugh. And ere long I’ll have you with me
again. God keep you till then, old lad!” He bent down and kissed
Hugh, who hugged him with a sudden childish feeling that he could
not let Dick go.
So he turned over with his face in the pillow, broad awake now,
and he heard Dick’s boots creaking down the stairway. He lay
listening alertly for more, but he heard only the spatter of rain upon
the window.
 CHAPTER XV
THE LIFE OF EDMUND BURLEY

At one end of the bench outside the garden door of Ashcroft,

Widow Flemyng’s great black cat lay sunning himself; at the other
end Hugh Gwyeth sat hugging one knee, while he wondered
drowsily which were the lazier, he or the cat. In the alert blue spring
weather the tips of green things were bursting through the soft
mould of the garden; the birds were making a great ado in the
trees; and in the field beyond the hedge the widow’s man, Ralph,
was ploughing, and whistling as he ploughed. Only Master Hugh
Gwyeth lingered idly on the garden bench and meditatively handled
the flabby muscles of his arm till he grew impatient with himself.
Three weeks and more he had been at Ashcroft, yet this was all the
strength he had gained or was likely to gain with sitting still. He
dragged the cat, heavy and reluctant, up from its nap, and was
trying to coax the creature to jump over his hands, which at least
required a little exertion, when Nancy, the serving-maid, came out to
potter about the garden. Spying him, she called: “Don’t ’ee vex poor
Gib, now. Better get thee into the kitchen; the mistress is at her
baking.”
Hugh laughed, and, rising leisurely, made his way down the
garden to the rear door. Women were droll creatures, he reflected;
his mother, of course, had always treated him with tenderness, but
why these strangers should pamper him like a child, and concern
themselves about his every movement, was more than he could
puzzle out. From the first Nancy had made no end of commiserating
him for the scar on his face, and even the widow herself, for all her
sharp ways, had been melted to pity, when she came to examine his
wardrobe. “Well, well, well! when did a woman put hand to these
shirts?” she had cried, whereat Hugh informed her blushingly that
’twas his custom to have his shirts washed till they grew too tattered
to serve even under a buff jacket, and then he threw them away.
“You poor thriftless child!” sighed the widow, “sure, you’re not fit to
be sent to the wars.” So she mended his shirts and stockings, and,
when that way of showing her motherly care failed, brewed him ill-
tasting concoctions of herbs, which Hugh swallowed courteously,
though with inward protests against this expression of good-will. He
was far more grateful when her kindness finally took the form of
cooking him such food as he liked, and pressing him to eat at all
times, for his illness had left him with an alarming appetite, which
without such connivance could never have been decently satisfied.
He halted now, as he had often done, with his elbows on the sill of
the opened window in the long kitchen, and took a sweeping survey
of the dressers and the fireplace and the brick oven. Just by the
window stood a table at which the Widow Flemyng, with her sleeves
tucked up and her broad face flushed, was rolling out pastry. “I
marvel you’ve not been here before,” she said gruffly, as she caught
sight of him; “where have you been all this morning now?”
“Teasing the cat,” Hugh answered. “Before that I was down
through the meadow—”
The widow paused with her rolling-pin suspended. “That meadow
again? And no doubt you wet your feet!”
“On my word, good widow,” Hugh laughed, “my kinsfolk have
trusted me abroad without a nurse for several years now.”
“The more fools they!” she replied, smacking the pastry smartly
once more.
Profiting by the pause, Hugh reached one arm in at the window
and helped himself to a strip of pie-crust, all hot and newly baked,
that lay there; he might repress his early fondness for honey and
jam, but crisp pastry was still too great a temptation for him to
resist.
“That’s a right Roundhead trick to come thieving at a poor
woman’s window!” said the widow.
 “Was there never such a thing as a Cavalier thief?” Hugh
suggested.
“I never speak treason, sir. There do be some that say there is a
garrison yonder at Woodstead Manor that never was known to pay
for what it lives by, but I speak no ill of the king’s men, you’ll note.”
Hugh had cause enough to note and remember the conversation a
few days later. Of a dull gray afternoon he had taken himself to his
chamber, dutifully to practise thrusts with his sword at a round mark
on the wainscot, an exercise which proved tedious, so he was glad
enough when a noise of horses stamping and men calling in the yard
below gave him an excuse for running to the window. At the front of
the cottage nothing was to be seen, so, flinging on his coat, he ran
downstairs into the kitchen, whence came the sound of high talk.
Bursting into the room, he found Nancy crouched by the fireplace,
and Ralph skulking by her, while at the door stood Widow Flemyng,
arms akimbo, in hot discourse with a cross-eyed trooper, who wore
the king’s colors.
“I tell you, it shall not be put up!” the man was blustering. “We’d
scarce set foot in your stable when your rascal would be breaking a
stave across Garrett’s head.”
“And I tell you, you shall put up with it!” retorted the widow. “Do
you think to come plundering decent loyal bodies, you minching
thieves? Not a step do you stir into this house. Reach me hither the
kettle, you white-livered Ralph.”
Hugh prudently got the kettle into his own hands, then presented
himself at the door with the query, “What’s amiss?”
“Here are three rogues from Woodstead who seek to plunder the
very horses from my plough,” replied the widow, clapping hands on
the kettle. “Now come in if you dare, the pack of you!”
But Hugh stayed her arm, while he looked out and got the
situation. In the open space between the rear door and the stable
three horses drooped their heads, and by them lingered two
dragoons, one heavy and surly, the other a thin-faced fellow, who,
looking sharply at Hugh, nudged his comrade. It seemed just an
ordinary small foraging band, who were going beyond their
authority, so Hugh stepped out and confronted the cross-eyed man
with a stern, “What’s your warrant for this?”
“King’s service, sir,” the other replied, gazing at him a little
doubtfully.
“’Tis service that will profit you little if it come to your captain’s
ears,” Hugh answered. “There are none here but loyal people and
friends to the king. Best take advice and go back empty-handed.
’Twill be for your good in the end.”
Just there a hand was clapped heavily upon his collar; instinctively
Hugh was ducking to wrest himself clear, when the cross-eyed man,
too, caught him by the throat of his jacket, and, realizing the
uselessness of a struggle, the boy held himself quiet. “We’ll go back
to Woodstead right enough, sir,” spoke the thin-faced trooper, who
had first seized him. “But you’ll go with us, Master Gwyeth.”
“My name is Edmund Burley,” Hugh replied stoutly, though the
heart seemed all at once to have gone out of his body.
“Well, you’ve enough the look of the other gentleman for Lord
Bellasis to pay ten pound for the sight of your face. You can explain
to him who you are, sir,” scoffed the thin-faced man. “Fetch a horse
from the stable for him, Garrett.”
After that, as in an ugly dream, matters went without Hugh’s
agency. He felt his arm ache in the hard grip of the cross-eyed man,
which he had no hope to shake off; he heard the widow in heated
expostulation with the thin-faced trooper, assuring him the
gentleman had dwelt with her near six months, and could not have
had a hand in the mischief they charged him with; he saw Nancy
come out, all blubbering, to bring him his hat, and he said, “Why,
don’t cry over it, wench,” and wondered at the dull tone of his voice.
It seemed an interminable time, but at length one of the plough
horses was led out, all saddled, and, mounting as they bade him, he
rode away with them in the gray of the afternoon. As they passed
out from the yard he heard the door of Ashcroft slam, and by that
he knew the widow was much moved.
Then, turning eastward, they trotted slowly across gray fields, a
trooper on either side Hugh’s horse, and he went as they guided. For
he took no heed to them, as he told himself that Dick Strangwayes
was far away in the North, Sir William busied at Tamworth, and in
Oxford there was not a friend to aid him. Already he seemed to feel
the chill of the cells in the old Castle at Oxford, and to see a room
full of stern men who bullied and frightened him; after that he
thought to hear the cart jolting beneath him across the stony
streets, while the people ran and pointed at him; and then he felt a
rope about his throat. He tried helplessly to battle off such thoughts,
but they still pressed upon him till his head was stupid with turning
them over, and, listening uncomprehendingly to the talk of those
about him, he rode in a sort of daze.
The afternoon grew grayer and grayer, and was merging into
twilight when they rode through a poor village, beyond which, upon
a barren swell of highland, they came to a stockade flung around a
small manor house. They crossed a rough bridge over a moat, and
so, keeping to the left of the house, drew rein at length before a
great stable. “Yon’s the captain, now,” spoke the cross-eyed man,
peering into the dark of the building.
“Looking to the cocks, I’ll be bound,” muttered he of the sharp
face.
“What dog’s mischief have you been loitering about, you knaves?”
came from within the stable, and the voice was one Hugh
remembered.
“Captain Butler!” he cried, flinging himself from the saddle, and,
stumbling through the door, near embraced the big Irishman who
came to meet him.
“Good faith, ’tis not—” Butler began.
“I am Edmund Burley,” Hugh interrupted feverishly. “Sure, you
remember me, sir?”
Butler pulled him outside, where the light was clearer, and after
that instant’s pause turned upon the troopers with a violent demand
as to what they meant. One replied, “’Tis he who killed Master
Bellasis;” but the captain cut him short with a volley of abuse, that
they durst hale thither an innocent man and a friend of his, too, and
followed it with threats of a flogging to them all and bluster and
oaths, till the three were cowed into a frightened silence.
 “Well, I’ll be easy with you this time, you rogues,” Butler resumed
after a moment, “for Master Burley is a merciful man, and I’m
thinking would be better pleased that you went free. And, faith, he
bears so little malice he wishes you all to drink his health.” Thus
admonished, Hugh pulled three shillings out of his pocket and tossed
them to his late captors before Butler led him away to the house.
“Come have a drink with me, Burley,” he said, and added, with a
chuckle, “I take it you need it.”
“That was a narrow escape, eh, Gwyeth?” he spoke later, as Hugh
was swallowing down a bumper of Spanish wine in the west parlor
of the house.
“Narrow as I ever wish,” Hugh replied truthfully.
“I think my fellows will hold their tongues now, betwixt threats
and bribes,” Butler went on. “But after this you’d best do as you
should have done at the first, shelter yourself among honest
soldiers, who’d die ere they’d let a comrade come to harm, just for
spitting a paltry civilian.”
In the end Hugh thought it best to take the advice; if he returned
to Ashcroft there was no reason that Cavalier marauders should not
stray thither again, and a second apprehension might not end so
happily. Then, besides, he was glad, after his weeks of illness and
dependence, to be once more among men, who accepted him as an
equal and did not fret him with constant care. Holding this feeling
rather ungrateful, he took pains to write a very civil and thankful
letter to the Widow Flemyng, which George Allestree conveyed to
her, when he rode to Ashcroft with one of the men to fetch away
Hugh’s clothes and accoutrements.
Allestree had welcomed Hugh boisterously, although he had an
alarming habit of almost forgetting to call him Burley; the blue-eyed
Irish volunteer, Mahone, received him with open arms; and even the
lieutenant, Cartwright, unbent a little toward him. Before a fortnight
was out Hugh understood, for by then he felt he could have fallen
on the neck of the meanest scamp, just for joy at sight of a new
face in the garrison. Woodstead lay close upon the borders of
Warwickshire, where the rebels were up in strength, so none were
allowed to venture forth far from the house. All day long there was
nothing to do but to walk up and down the cramped enclosure, to
converse with the troopers as to sick dogs and lame horses, or to
watch Butler’s cocks mangle each other in fight, till in sheer disgust
Hugh turned away. But within the house he found still less
amusement; there was not even a Gervase Markham or a Palmerin
to read, so he was reduced to persuading Allestree or Mahone into
fencing with him, and, that failing, could only play at cards or watch
the others at dice, and listen to Cartwright’s same old stories or the
everlastingly same chatter of the younger men.
Once, to be sure, there came a day of excitement, when a part of
the troop prepared to ride away to forage in the hostile country.
They set forth bravely in the mid-afternoon, and till they were lost in
dust Hugh, with neither a horse to ride nor sufficient strength for the
work, watched them wistfully from the entrance gate. Then he
loitered away to his lonely supper with Cartwright, who cursed the
luck that left him behind to command the garrison, and drank so
deeply Hugh must call a man to help him to bed. Next day Butler
and his men came back, noisy and victorious, with cartloads of grain
and much miscellaneous plunder that the common soldiery had
taken to themselves. They brought also a Roundhead lieutenant,
half-stripped, grimy, and sullen, whom Butler clapped into an
obscure room on a spare diet till he could find leisure from his more
serious affairs to look to him. For the captain had laid hands on a
considerable amount of strong waters, so for two days there was
high carousing at Woodstead, which shocked Hugh, used though he
had become among these comrades to the sight of hard drinking.
While Butler and his officers shouted and smashed glasses below
stairs, and the men in their turn let discipline slip, Hugh, in the hope
of getting some tidings of his Oldesworth kindred, bribed his way in
to speak with the Roundhead prisoner. The man was defiant at first,
then more communicative when Hugh smuggled him in some bread
and meat, but, being of a Northamptonshire regiment, he could give
little of the information Hugh sought, save that he had heard of
Captain Thomas Oldesworth and had had speech with Hugh’s other
uncle, Lieutenant David Millington, who was in garrison with his
company of foot at Newick in Warwickshire. For his Roundhead
kinsfolk’s sake Hugh lent the lieutenant a coat, and, when Butler, in
a shaky, white state of sobriety, packed him off under guard to
prison at Oxford, gave five shillings to the corporal who had charge
of the squad, and urged him to use the prisoner as civilly as he
could. Considering the temper of the squad, however, and the fact
that his old acquaintance, the surly Garrett, was one of them, Hugh
decided those five shillings had probably been expended for nothing.
Near a week later the men came back, and, in his joy at any new
sight in his monotonous life, Hugh turned out to meet them. He
counted them idly, as they came pacing in at the gate, till his eyes
fell upon a horse that Garrett led, a bay horse, all saddled, which put
up its head and whickered. “Bayard!” Hugh cried, plunging into the
press, and, getting the horse clear, fair put his arms about its neck in
the face of the whole garrison. “Where did you find him?” he
questioned Garrett a moment later, sharply, to preserve his dignity.
The man explained they had come home by a way that took them
near Ashcroft, for he held there might be letters Master Burley would
gladly pay a price for, and there they had found both a letter and the
horse, which had been waiting him some days.
Hugh paid generously, the more so as he saw the letter was
directed in Dick’s black hand; that made the sending of Bayard no
longer a mystery, for doubtless Dick would have him come
northward now and so had sent him the horse. He could hardly wait
to see the beast stabled before he ran up to the chamber he shared
with Allestree, and tore open the letter that should summon him.
Then he read:—
Sweet Friend:
It doth grieve me to bring you aught of disappointment, but
patience perforce, lad. Sir W. hath need of ammunition and of
fieldpieces, so he hath commissioned me, because of old
acquaintance in those parts, to go into the Low Countries and see
what may be procured. I would I could take you with me, but my
time is short, for the ship only waits a prosperous wind. When my
task yonder is done I shall come quietly to the place you know of to
confer with Sir W. I will convey you a word, and if you will join me
there we will try another bout with Fortune together. Till then you
were best keep yourself close. There is a rumor that the lord you
know of hath no such big voice in the king’s counsels as he used.
Time, then, and patience may bring all right with us. Commend me
to good Mistress Flemyng, and be assured at longest I shall send for
you ere the end of summer.
Your very loving friend,
Henry Ramsden.
Newcastle, May 20th, 1643.
That night Hugh ate no supper. Sitting on the broad window-
bench he watched the sunlight wane upon the floor, and the twilight
fill in the chamber, and from time to time, till it was quite dark, he
re-read the letter. In those hours he came to realize how much he
had lived on the expectation that any day Dick might call for him,
and he sickened at the thought of the dull, hateful days of inactivity
before him, for now he must school himself to endure the long three
months of summer with Butler’s crew. Below he could hear the
officers singing over their wine, and, fearing lest Allestree might
come half-drunk to urge him to the table and jeer at his sorry
silence, he slipped out by the back way to the stable, where till
bedtime he tried to find some comfort in petting Bayard.
Next day life was running its old round, save that the hope which
before had made it tolerable was gone. That week Hugh
discontinued fencing; the weather was over-hot, and besides, what
use to drill himself for action, when Dick had no need of him, and his
present companions were content to idle? Instead of using the
rapier, he set himself to watching Allestree and Mahone at dice, and
at length came to take a hand himself. It was an ill memory to him
afterward, those feverish summer mornings when, sitting in their
shirt-sleeves, they threw and threw, sometimes with high words and
oaths, sometimes in silence, save for Allestree’s half-laugh when he
made a winning cast. Fortune varied, but in time there came a day
when Hugh got up from the table, and, thrusting his hands into two
empty pockets, slouched off with his head down. He heard Allestree
say, “I hate a fellow who loses with ill grace,” and Mahone call, “Hi,
Ed! Come back. Don’t give over, man, as long as you’ve a shirt to
stake. Put up your horse now.”
But Hugh shook his head. Though he had diced away every penny
he possessed, and with it every hope of setting out by himself to
seek other harborage than Woodstead, he would not risk his horse
and sword. Not twenty-four hours later he had cause to rejoice at
having kept his equipments, for at the mess table Butler announced
briskly that next day the troop would ride a-foraying into
Northamptonshire, to a little village called Northrope, where corn
could be got in plenty. “And wine from a brave tavern there,”
Allestree whispered Hugh; “Else the captain would not be so forward
in this business.”
But in his joy at having a hand in active service once more, the
end of the expedition mattered nothing to Hugh. Before noon next
day he had his buff jacket on and his sword slung over his shoulder,
then fretted away the long hours of expectation by tramping about
the enclosure, settling Bayard’s saddle, and listening to Allestree’s
proffered bets on the success of the night’s work. The sun had set
behind the low green hills, when at last Butler led half his troop forth
from Woodstead, with Allestree to keep the rear and Mahone and
Hugh to put themselves wherever they were bid. In spite of the
gathering twilight the air was still heavy with the sweltering heat of
the day, and the dust that was beaten up by the feet of the horses
prickled and stung. Before the first mile was out Hugh had flung
open his coat, and was more disturbed at Bayard’s sweating than at
the thought of the skirmish that was to come.
The night air was cooler and the stars were out thick, when at
length the word ran through the line that Northrope lay over the
next swell in the plain. Falling in with the squadron behind Butler,
who was to sweep around and attack the village from the east while
Allestree rode in at the west side, Hugh drew away noiselessly from
the rest of the troop, and at a swift canter passed through a field
into a piece of spicy-smelling woodland. Beyond that they rode softly
along a stretch of sandy road, and at last halted upon the brow of a
hill, beneath which the dark roofs of cottages could be seen. At a
whispered command from Butler Hugh ranged himself among the
corporal’s guard who were to keep the hill and stop whoever fled
that way, while the rest of the dragoons fell into place behind the
captain. Then the leader turned to a trooper, who, swinging his
dragon to his shoulder, fired into the air. An instant, and far to the
west another shot replied, Butler shouted to charge, and with his
men at his heels galloped away down the hill.
Below in the village Hugh heard the sound of clattering hoofs, of
shouts of attack, and shriller cries. A moment later, and, as he
gazed, he saw over to the west a reddish gleam that broadened and
brightened. “They’ve fired the village,” muttered one trooper, and
the rest grumbled subduedly that all within the scurvy place would
be burned ere they came to share the plunder.
The moments ran on, while the fire rose and sunk again, till Hugh
judged the night more than half spent. Still none had fled in their
direction; the men were restless at their useless stay, and Hugh
himself had grown to hate this waiting, for it left him time to reflect,
and to compare this raid with the daylight fighting he had had under
Turner. For all the ugly sights of plunder to be seen he felt it a relief
when the corporal gave the word to descend into the village, and
gladly as the rest he trotted forward.
Once in among the houses his comrades scattered to plunder, but
Hugh, left alone, rode on down the street, which grew lighter with
the flare of the burning houses. He had sight of household stuff that
littered the roadway; in the lee of a wall he saw a man sitting with
his hand pressed to his breast; and down toward the blaze, where
was a great yelling and confusion, he made out against the glare the
black shapes of men running to and fro. He saw, too, nearer at
hand, a flapping sign-board before what seemed an inn, where a
noisy crew had possession, and he halted a moment, while he
wondered grimly if Butler were not there and if he should report to
him. As he hesitated he heard some one shout from an upper
window of the cottage on his right, and he let his eyes travel thither.
The place looked dark and blank, but as he gazed the door was
kicked open and a man came forth, holding by the arm a girl, who
dragged back with all her slender strength. “What devil’s trade are
you about?” Hugh called angrily. “Bring the wench hither.”
 The man hesitated, then unwillingly slouched nearer. As the
firelight flared along the street Hugh saw it was his old enemy, the
cross-eyed trooper; then his gaze dropped lower to the pallid face of
the girl. At that Hugh sprang from his saddle with a cry, “Lois, Lois!”
 CHAPTER XVI
ROUNDHEADS AND CAVALIERS

He had thrust the trooper aside and drawn the girl close to him.
“Sure, you do not fear me, Lois?” he urged, for she stood with her
hands to her face and her body braced tensely against the pressure
of his arm. “I’m Hugh Gwyeth. You’ve not forgot—”
At that she uncovered her face and stared at him with so piteous a
look of fright that Hugh hated himself and all who had had a share
in that night’s work. “Be off with you.” He swung round upon the
cross-eyed trooper with some of Allestree’s favorite oaths. “The
gentlewoman is kin to me. Get you hence and be thankful I let you
go with a whole skin.”
Then he looked again to Lois, and, noting now that she had no
outer covering upon her shoulders, unstrapped his cloak from the
front of his saddle and wrapped it about her, drawing the folds up to
hide her face somewhat. He felt her hands clutch tremulously at his
wrist, and her voice broke into a choking sob: “O, Hugh! In sober
truth, ’tis you? You will take care of me?”
“To be sure I will,” he said, and, slipping Bayard’s bridle over one
arm, put the other about the girl. “Just come with me now.”
They walked toward where the cottages were burning, slowly, for
Lois staggered as she went, and Hugh, for all his brave speech, was
dazed with the necessity of thinking what he was to do for her
protection. Woodstead was no place to which to fetch a girl, nor was
any other harbor open to him. He halted short in his perplexity, then
turned to her with a sudden idea: “Look you here, Lois; would you
wish me to convey you unto Newick, to Lieutenant Millington?”
“’Tis thither I was going,” she answered faintly.
 “Well, you shall be safe there ere to-morrow noon,” he assured
her. “Just a little time here, and be not afraid.”
Thereupon he faced across the street to the house with the sign-
board, where he guessed might be wine and Captain Butler. Within
were lights and men stamping to and fro, while without at the
entrance door lingered others, among whom Hugh caught sight of
Garrett, still sober, and seized on him. “I want your help,” he said
brusquely; “I’ll pay you for it ere I die. Procure some sort of white
flag, and find me out a pillion for this gentlewoman. Put it on my
horse and be ready to ride with me when I bid.”
Leaving the man with mouth and eyes open in astonishment, he
led Lois into the tavern. Across the corridor a trooper was sprawling,
drunk, Hugh saw, as he thrust him aside with his foot to give the girl
passage. Inside the common room the floor crackled with broken
glass, on the chimney-piece two candles sputtered unevenly, and by
the table, a bottle in one hand, a great mug in the other, stood
Butler. Hugh felt Lois press closer to him, but he resolutely left her
on a settle by the wall and went up to the captain. “I pray you, sir,
give me a safe-conduct to pass through the lines with one of your
dragoons,” he blurted out his business.
Butler cursed him roundly, and Hugh, standing stiffly, heard him
out without reply, while in his heart he prayed the ugly fit of
drunkenness might speedily give place to the maudlin fit. A heavy
stamping made him turn in sudden hope as Allestree reeled in from
superintending the seizure of the tavern stores. But one look at the
guidon told Hugh he was too far gone to aid him now, so he could
only fall back beside Lois, and, taking hold of her hand, bid her wait
a little longer and not fear.
Presently, after Allestree had pitched into a chair with his head on
the table, Hugh once more made his request to Butler, and once
more was gruffly refused. But then, chancing to spy ink and paper
on a shelf, he blotted off a safe-conduct, and, again presenting
himself to the captain, begged him sign. There were refusals of
varying sternness, but with all the obstinacy of his square chin Hugh
followed the man up and down the chamber, pen in hand, and,
holding his temper well in check for the girl’s sake, bore the other’s
abuse and only prayed him sign. At last Butler, snatching the pen
from his hand, splashed a great signature across the sheet. “Take it,
in the devil’s name, you hell babe!” he cursed.
Hugh thrust the paper inside his coat, and, running to Lois, jostled
a way for her out to the open air. By the tavern door Garrett, holding
a pike with a white napkin bound to it, was sitting his horse, and by
him stood Bayard with a cushion fixed behind the saddle. Hugh
helped Lois to her place, then, leaping up before her, rode briskly
out from the village.
Not till the sight of the fire and the noise of the shouts of the
plunderers were quite lost to them did Hugh let Bayard’s eager trot
subside to an amble. He turned a little to ask Lois how she fared,
and bid her keep the cloak close about her against the damp of the
early morning; then he called to Garrett, and, in talking with him of
the road they must take for Newick, time enough passed for the
stars to grow few in the sky. After that they rode a long space in
silence, save for the soft scuff of the horses now and again as they
came upon a stretch of sandy road. The sky grew a fainter dun color,
and in the east a slit of pale light showed, while in the west a white
shred of moon yet lingered on the horizon line. The morning breeze,
coming damp on Hugh’s face, made him heavy with desire to sleep;
only at a splashing sound of water did he rouse up with a jerk to
find Bayard knee-deep in a ford and drinking greedily. To right and
left the bushes above the stream were dusky, but flecks of lighter
gray showed in the water where the road ran down to meet it. “’Twill
be sunrise soon,” Hugh said, and shook himself awake.
“Think you, presently, I might have a drink of water?” Lois asked
hesitatingly.
“Why, here and now you shall have it!” he cried, and, flinging his
bridle to Garrett, lifted Lois from her place and led her a little
upstream within the shadow of the bushes.
As she knelt on the brink and drank slowly from her hand, Hugh
had space to note how white her face was and how weary her every
gesture. So when she rose he drew her back a little to the roots of
an oak tree, where he bade her sit and rest a time. Garrett shrugged
his shoulders, when the word was passed to him, then tied the
horses and went to stretch himself on the bank farther down-
stream. Hugh returned to Lois, and, seating himself beside her,
persuaded her to lean against him, till her eyes closed and he hoped
that she might sleep. He sat very still and looked sometimes at her
brown head against his shoulder, and sometimes at the branches of
the oak above him and the clear sky beyond that was growing
brighter and taking on a bluish tinge. He listened to the hurry of the
brook and the restless stamp of the horses; then, shutting his eyes,
he seemed only to see Everscombe manor house and the sunlight
upon the eastern terrace.
“Are you asleep, too?” The words were spoken softly, but they
startled him through all his body.
“I am awake now, in any case,” he replied, and laughed a little
with a foolish sort of satisfaction as he looked down at Lois. For the
tense look of the night before had left her eyes, and she had again
the face of his old comrade at Everscombe.
“Your poor arm will sleep next, Hugh. I am leaning too heavily
against it.”
“I had not felt it,—if you are content.”
Lois smiled slightly and tremulously, then, slipping out one hand,
drew her fingers through the wet grass. “There has been a heavy
dew,” she said irrelevantly, “and it has soaked my shoes,—my shoe, I
mean.” She let her feet just show beneath her petticoat, and Hugh
had sight of one stout shoe and the toe of a small gray stocking.
“You’ve been tramping with one foot half bare?” he broke out.
“Nay, nay, I have been riding. I knew it not till this morning, so I
did not mind. I must have left that other shoe in the closet where I
hid away.”
“Tell me, Lois, how came you there at Northrope?” he asked, after
an instant.
The girl’s face lost its flash of gayety. “Why, ’tis only—” she began,
and, pulling some blades of grass, twisted them between her fingers
without looking at him. “Last October ’twas, Aunt Delia said
perchance I were best now go visit my mother’s kinsfolk in
Northamptonshire. And last week they said I had best visit her
again. O me, I know not why they will not have me! I do not eat so
much, Hugh, and I am ready to be of service.” She pushed aside his
arm and leaned forward with her head upon her knee; by the
movement of her shoulders he knew that she was crying.
He realized well why she wept, and he knew, too, there was no
help that he could offer; so he only bent forward, and, speaking her
name gently, patted her shoulder. He heard her swallow a sob, then,
with her head still bowed, she went on defiantly, “So there is nothing
to tell, Hugh. A neighbor was riding to Northrope for the day, so they
sent me with him and he left me at that cottage. They thought
perhaps some carrier might be going to Newick, and would convey
me thither; then Lieutenant Millington would find means to despatch
me to Everscombe. That is all.”
Hugh bit his nails and made no reply. If his own father rejected
him, how could he reproach the uncles and aunts who grudged
shelter to an orphan girl? Only she was a girl and weak, and
somehow they seemed worse than Alan Gwyeth. He fell back on his
stock piece of comfort: “You should ha’ been a boy, Lois, and then it
had all been easy.”
“But I have no wish to be a boy,” Lois said sorrowfully, as she
turned away her face to wipe her eyes.
“Perhaps ’twould not be so pleasant,” Hugh admitted, and added,
with a thought of Frank, “Young boys are sometimes vexatious.”
Lois gave a laugh that was a bit hysterical. “You have grown very
arrogant. Prithee, now, tell me all about yourself and how you got
that sorry scar.”
Hugh hesitated, to collect himself, then set forth at great length
what pertained to Strangwayes, and very hastily told her that his
father had disowned him. At that her face grew so grave he hurried
back to Strangwayes again, and forbore to tell her of the duel. So
they talked on till a shaft of sunlight dazzled upon the brook, and
the trees cast clean dark shadows on the pathway. “We must ride for
Newick,” said Hugh, jumping to his feet. “You’re not so weary, Lois?
Wait till the next village and you shall have wine to hearten you.
Perchance you could eat, too?”
“Perchance, if ’twere offered,” Lois replied demurely, as she
smoothed her hair with her hands.
 “It shall be looked to, I promise you,” he answered gayly, and
walked away. Before he had gone ten paces, however, his gayety
was at an end, for he tucked his hands into a brace of bare pockets.
He fidgeted a moment by the horses; then, taking his only course,
walked over to the surly trooper. “Garrett,” he began, in a low tone,
“have you money about you?”
“Ay, sir.”
“Will you lend unto me?”
“You swore the giving should lie all on your side,” the other
answered suspiciously.
“I tell you I’ll pay,” Hugh said angrily; and, seizing on the two
shillings the other reluctantly proffered, walked away with his face
burning.
It had been a petty incident, but the ill taste of it lingered with
him, and took all pleasure from the getting to horse once more.
Even the sight of Lois’s half-smiling face, and her droll efforts to
spare her stockinged foot, could not restore him to his old contented
mood. He led her in silence to where Bayard stood, and there she
halted suddenly with eyes upon the horse. “Why, ’tis indeed the
same,” she cried. “’Tis Peregrine’s steed they said you—”
“Stole?” Hugh asked sharply. “Ay, ’tis the same.”
Then he lifted her to her place, and without a word more set
forward.
An hour later, in the full heat of the morning sun, they rode into a
little hamlet, where the people stared at the Royalist red sashes, and
shouted saucy comments on the strangers. Hugh made his way
scowlingly to the village inn, and, helping Lois dismount, led her into
the common room, where he called on the hostess to bring wine and
white bread for the girl. “Are you going with these ruffians of your
own will, sweetheart?” he heard the good woman whisper Lois.
He was turning away impatiently, when, just at the door, he ran
upon the tapster. “Draw two mugs of ale for my man and me,” he
ordered curtly.
“Will I, sir? Who’s to pay?” retorted the other. “An you pay, ’twill
be the first of your color—”
 “Will you talk?” Hugh cried, with an oath; and struck the fellow so
he staggered. “Fetch what I bid now,” he swore. Then he turned to
go back into the common room; and there Lois sat, not eating, but
gazing at him with blank, dismayed face.
Without staying to drink his ale, Hugh went out and loitered at
Bayard’s head, where he kicked up spiteful little spurts of dust and
would not stroke the horse. When Lois hobbled out at last in a pair
of over-large shoes, he helped her to mount; she did not speak, and
he only looked sharply at her, but said nothing. As the roofs of the
village sank behind the hill in their rear, however, he turned in the
saddle and addressed her almost roughly, “So you are not pleased
with me?”
“Sure, Hugh, I must be pleased; you have used me so kindly—”
“That’s a right woman’s trick to bungle at a plain ‘no,’” he said,
with a curt laugh; then started, for tone and laugh sounded to him
as an echo of Allestree, whom he had left drunk at Northrope.
Putting spurs to Bayard, he pressed on at a reckless pace, so the
dust rose thick and white, and turned his throat dry, and sifted in
between his collar and his neck. He was hot and weary and
wretchedly angry against all the world, especially against Lois
Campion, why, he could not tell himself.
In such a mood he cantered into the shadow of the first of a
straggling line of cottages, where a sentinel in a yellow sash,
springing to the middle of the road, bade him pull up. “Conduct me
to Lieutenant Millington,” Hugh ordered, showing his safe-conduct;
so in a few moments he was riding down the street at an easy pace,
with a Roundhead corporal walking at his bridle.
They drew up without the gate of a large, half-timbered house,
which set back from the road in a garden of red roses that dazzled
drearily before Hugh’s eyes. “If you will accept of my aid—” he said
brusquely to Lois, and had just swung her down from the horse’s
back, when he heard the gate clatter open behind him. He turned
about, and came face to face with Peregrine Oldesworth.
For an instant they confronted each other without speaking, time
enough for Hugh to take note that his cousin wore a pompous great
pair of boots and a long sword, and had grown a scrap of dark
mustache that made him look older than his years. Then said
Peregrine, “Well, have you come to fetch back that stolen horse,
Master Thief?”
“The horse is best off with him who has the wit to keep him,”
Hugh replied quickly. “Be assured I had not come to you beneath a
white flag, if it had not been to bring Lois hither.”
“And a brave convoy you have had, Cousin Lois,” Peregrine said,
with a dull flush on his face. “The next time you must roam the
country-side, pray you, seek another protector than a scape-gallows
like this.”
“You know well, Cornet Oldesworth,” Hugh retorted, “that I would
pay it back to you, if you durst put that term to me in any other
place.”
“So you’d like to murder me as you murdered Bellasis?”
“Murdered! What do you mean?” The words came faintly from
Lois, and to Hugh’s fancy she seemed to draw a little from him.
“Maybe he will set it forth to you himself,” sneered Peregrine.
“I killed a man in a fair duel,” Hugh replied shortly. “I leave you to
your cousin’s care, Lois.” With that he seized Bayard’s bridle and
turned away, he cared not whither, only he did not wish to see the
horror in Lois’s eyes.
“Perhaps you’ll give your horse a rest here at the stable, sir?” the
Roundhead corporal at his elbow suggested civilly. Hugh slouched
down the road after him, and scarcely heeded Garrett beside him,
chuckling, “Well, sir, I knew from the start you were Master Gwyeth.”
“Now you’re sure of it, you’d best carry the news to Oxford,” Hugh
replied; “I cannot buy silence.”
After they were into the cool of the black stable and he had seen
Bayard cared for, he sat down on a truss of straw and stared at the
motes that swam in the sunlight by the open door. His eyes ached
with the light and the dust, and his throat was all choked; he
crushed the straws between his fingers as he sat, and in this
destruction found his only ease.
He roused up as a petty officer entered the stable, who prayed
him, from Lieutenant Millington, to come back to the house and dine
with the officers of the company. Hugh hesitated a moment, then
came, rather sullen and defiant, and after washing the dust from his
face entered the dining room. Millington, a heavy, slow man of near
forty, greeted him courteously, and presented him to his brother
officers, who were distant and suspicious. “You are of Woodstead,
are you not, sir?” one asked him, with an implication that made
Hugh guess the other held him to have come from a den of all
iniquities.
Then they conversed of matters that concerned them, while Hugh
swallowed his dinner in silence, with an occasional pause to stare
defiantly at Peregrine, who scowled at him from the opposite corner
of the table. It was a relief when the meal was ended and he could
rise, bent on setting out from the place at once; but Millington bade
him step apart with him into an empty parlor. “’Tis an ill report we
have had of you this winter, Hugh Gwyeth,” he began judicially, as
he seated himself by the open window; “can you give me nothing
better to bear to Everscombe?”
Hugh stood erect, with a feeling that he was a culprit brought to
sentence, and replied that he had only slain a man in a fair fight,
and he held that no wrong.
“Perhaps not;” Millington waived the question; “but I tell you,
nephew, ’tis not the part of an honest gentleman to be herding with
such drunken libertines and cowardly bullies as those that hold
Woodstead.”
“Mayhap ’tis not the company I would keep of my own will,” Hugh
admitted, “though they have been kind to me. But ’tis best I lie close
just now.”
“If you have done no wrong why need you hide yourself?”
Millington retorted, with a flicker of a triumphant smile.
“Have me a murderer and a thief, if you will,” Hugh flung back.
“Nay, ’tis that I held you a lad of good parts, in spite of your
running after these strange gods. That you have dealt so courteously
by little Mistress Campion shows you are not all lost yet. But take
heed to the associates you keep.”
Hugh felt a guilty hotness in his face, but, bracing himself, he
listened with respect to all his uncle had to say farther in the same
strain, and, when he had done, he replied honestly, “I thank you, sir;
methinks you mean all kindly.”
So he took his leave, and turned away to summon Garrett; then
remembered, and with a downcast look hesitated back to Millington.
“An’t like you, uncle,” he faltered, “I am ashamed to ask it, but I
have had to borrow money to provide for Lois, and I promised this
fellow of mine reward for aiding me. And I have no money.”
“Eh? How do you live, then, sir?”
“I had some. I lost it at dice,” Hugh admitted shamefacedly. “On
my honor, I never will again.”
There was an instant’s pause, then Millington said more coldly, “I’ll
pay the man,” and led the way from the house. Hugh, following
behind like a chidden child, saw his uncle go to Garrett, who waited
with the horses just outside the gate, and saw him fee the trooper;
by the man’s face he guessed it was done liberally, but he knew the
fact that the money came from another’s hand must always lower
him in the fellow’s eyes.
Dreading to meet the trooper’s curious look, he was lingering an
instant on the garden walk, feigning to adjust his boot-tops, when
he heard behind him some one call his name. He would not look up
till there came a touch on his arm, and he must raise his eyes to
meet Lois’s gaze. “I wanted to thank you, Hugh,” she said gently.
“You need not.”
“And I wanted to ask your pardon, if I hurt you. Truly, I will never
believe you have done anything that is base, whatever they say.
Prithee, forgive me, Hugh.”
“I should ask you to forgive it that I was so surly,” he hesitated.
“And—and next time I meet you, Lois, I’ll have mended my
manners, so you need not be dismayed. Farewell now.” He looked
her frankly in the eyes as he spoke, then bent a little and kissed her
hand.
He came out at the gate more briskly than he had hoped, and
there, by the horses, found Peregrine and Lieutenant Millington in
talk. “When you go back to Thomas Oldesworth tell him from me he
should have taught you that a white flag protects the bearer,” he
heard Millington say, and he noted Peregrine had fixed covetous
eyes on Bayard. Indeed, as Hugh swung into the saddle, his cousin
broke out, “You’ll pay me for that horse one day, sirrah.”
But Hugh deliberately turned his back upon his bluster, while he
bade his uncle a second farewell, then waved his hat to Lois, who
still stood among the roses in the garden, and so headed his horse
away from Newick.
The shadows of the two horsemen showed long in the late
afternoon sun, and lengthened and blended at last into the gray of
the twilight. Frogs piped to them in the dusk as they threaded their
way through a bit of bog land, and after that they went a long piece
in silence under the wakeful stars. Hugh suffered Bayard go slowly,
while he felt the pleasant night air upon his face and harked to the
hoof-beats, muffled by the yielding road, till at length a light upon a
distant hill showed where Woodstead lay. At that the horses
freshened their pace, and, with a good flourish, they cantered in at
the gate of the manor house and pulled up at the stables.
Bayard once made comfortable, Hugh went slowly back to the
house, where he found the officers, with their coats off and the table
well stored with glasses, loitering in the west parlor.
“So you’re back, are you, sir?” Butler greeted him. “Well, now
you’ve had a safe-conduct and all at your disposal, is there anything
else you’d command of me?”
“Nothing, sir,” Hugh replied, as he threw off his buff coat. “I’ll not
need your good offices, for—In short, sir, I’m wearied of hiding, and
I want back my own name again. So ’tis in my mind to ride for
Oxford to-morrow.”
 CHAPTER XVII
THE STRANGER BY THE WAY

“You’ve a gray day for a start and a gallows at the end,” Allestree
spoke encouragingly, as he lounged in the doorway of the manor
house.
“’Twill be profitable to you, Master Gwyeth, to turn your thoughts
as you go to composing your last good-night,” Mahone paused in
lighting his pipe to add cheerfully.
Hugh put his attention to drawing on his gauntlets and made no
reply; in the last twelve hours there had been threats and
expostulations and jeers enough to teach him that his only course
was to be silent and keep to his determination.
“I’ll lay you five shillings, George, he loses courage and sneaks
back in time for dinner,” Mahone resumed.
The blood shot up to Hugh’s face; he knew that was what Mahone
wanted, and he was the angrier that he had gratified him. He turned
sharp away and fumbled at Bayard’s headstall till he felt surer of his
self-control, then asked stiffly: “Can you tell me if the captain is in
the west parlor? I must take my leave of him.”
“I don’t begrudge you the task,” Allestree hinted. “The captain lost
his temper at Northrope, because the scurvy little tavern was so ill
supplied, and he has not found it again yet. So look to yourself,
Hugh.”
It did not need Allestree’s warning to bring the heart down into
Hugh’s boots; the mere inhospitality of the closely shut door of the
west parlor and the grim tone in which Butler bade him come in
were enough to daunt him. The captain had been writing
ponderously at the table in the centre of the room, but at Hugh’s