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 Quick Functional
Programming
Why learn functional programming? Isn’t that some compli-
cated ivory-­tower technique used only in obscure languages like
Haskell?

In fact, functional programming is actually very simple. It’s also

very powerful, as Haskell demonstrates by throwing away all the
conventional programming tools and using only functional pro-
gramming features. But it doesn’t have to be done that way.

Functional programming is a power tool that you can use in addi-

tion to all your usual tools, to whatever extent your current main-
stream language supports it. Most languages have at least basic
support.

In this book, we use Python and Java and, as a bonus, Scala. If you
prefer another language, there will be minor differences in syntax,
but the concepts are the same.

Give functional programming a try. You may be surprised

how much a single power tool can help you in your day-­to-­day
programming.
Quick Functional
Programming

David Matuszek
First edition published 2023
by CRC Press
6000 Broken Sound Parkway NW, Suite 300, Boca Raton, FL 33487-2742
and by CRC Press
4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN
CRC Press is an imprint of Taylor & Francis Group, LLC
© 2023 David Matuszek
Reasonable efforts have been made to publish reliable data and information, but
the author and publisher cannot assume responsibility for the validity of all
materials or the consequences of their use. The authors and publishers have
attempted to trace the copyright holders of all material reproduced in this
publication and apologize to copyright holders if permission to publish in this
form has not been obtained. If any copyright material has not been acknowledged
please write and let us know so we may rectify in any future reprint.
Except as permitted under U.S. Copyright Law, no part of this book may be
reprinted, reproduced, transmitted, or utilized in any form by any electronic,
mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including
photocopying, microfilming, and recording, or in any information storage or
retrieval system, without written permission from the publishers.

For permission to photocopy or use material electronically from this work,

access www.copyright.com or contact the Copyright Clearance Center, Inc.
(CCC), 222 Rosewood Drive, Danvers, MA 01923, 978-750-8400. For works
that are not available on CCC please contact mpkbookspermissions@tandf.
co.uk
Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered
trademarks and are used only for identification and explanation without intent
to infringe.
ISBN: 978-1-032-41532-1 (hbk)
ISBN: 978-1-032-41531-4 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-003-35854-1 (ebk)
DOI: 10.1201/9781003358541
Typeset in Minion
by SPi Technologies India Pvt Ltd (Straive)
 To all my students,
past, present, and future.
Contents

About the Author, xi

Preface, xiii

Chapter 1   ◾    What Is Functional Programming? 1

Chapter 2   ◾    Methods and Functions 5

2.1 Methods 6
2.1.1 Methods in Python 6
2.1.2 Methods in Java 7
2.1.3 Methods in Scala 9
2.2 Function Literals 10
2.2.1 Function Literals in Python 11
2.2.2 Function Literals in Java 12
2.2.3 Function Literals in Scala 13
2.3 Sorting Examples 14
2.3.1 Sorting in Python 14
2.3.2 Sorting in Java 16
2.3.3 Sorting in Scala 18

vii
viii   ◾   Contents

Chapter 3   ◾    Higher-Order Functions 21

3.1 Higher-Order Functions in Python 22
3.2 Higher-Order Functions in Java 25
3.3 Higher-Order Functions in Scala 27

Chapter 4   ◾    Functional Interfaces in Java 31

4.1 Single Abstract Methods 31
4.2 Anonymous Inner Classes 32
4.3 Defining Functional Interfaces 33
4.4 Method References 34
4.5 The Other Method Reference 37
4.6 Provided Functional Interfaces 38
4.6.1 IntPredicate 38
4.6.2 Function Composition 39
4.6.3 Predicates Again 41
4.6.4 Unary Operators 42
4.6.5 More Functions and Operators 43
4.6.6 Suppliers and Consumers 44

Chapter 5   ◾    If Expressions 47

5.1 If Expressions in Python 47
5.2 If Expressions in Java 48
5.3 If Expressions in Scala 49

Chapter 6   ◾    Comprehensions 51

6.1 List Comprehensions in Python 52
6.2 Comprehensions in Java 54
6.3 For Expressions in Scala 54
6.4 For Comprehensions in Scala 57
 Contents   ◾   ix

Chapter 7   ◾    Closures 59

7.1 Closures in Python 60
7.2 Closures in Java 61
7.3 Closures in Scala 63
7.4 Closure Example 64

Chapter 8   ◾    Currying 67

8.1 Currying in Python 69
8.2 Currying in Java 71
8.3 Currying in Scala 72

Chapter 9   ◾    Function Composition 75

9.1 Function Composition in Python 75
9.2 Function Composition in Java 77
9.3 Function Composition in Scala 78

Chapter 10   ◾    Optional Values 79

10.1 Optional in Python 80
10.2 Optional in Java 80
10.3 Option in Scala 81

Chapter 11   ◾    Lists 83

11.1 Recursion 84
11.2 Lists in Python 86
11.3 Lists in Java 87
11.4 Lists in Scala 87

Chapter 12   ◾    Streams 91

12.1 Generators in Python 92
12.2 Streams in Java 92
x   ◾   Contents

12.3 Numeric Streams in Java 95

12.4 Streams in Scala 95

Chapter 13   ◾    Important Functions 97

13.1 Important Functions in Python 98
13.2 Important Functions in Java 99
13.3 Important Functions in Scala 102
13.4 Additional Functions in Scala 105

Chapter 14   ◾    Pipelines 107

14.1 Pipelines in Python 109
14.2 Pipelines in Java 110
14.2.1 Intermediate Operations 110
14.2.2 Terminal Operations 112
14.2.3 Collectors 114
14.2.4 Example 115
14.3 Pipelines in Scala 116

Chapter 15   ◾    Summary and Final Examples 119

15.1 Examples in Python 120
15.2 Examples in Java 122
15.3 Examples in Scala 123

Afterword 125

Index, 127
About the Author

I ’m David Matuszek, known to most of my students as “Dr.

Dave.”

I wrote my first program on punched cards in 1963 and immedi-

ately got hooked.

I taught my first computer classes in 1970, as a graduate student in

Computer Science at The University of Texas in Austin. I eventu-
ally got my PhD from there, and I’ve been teaching ever since.
Admittedly, I spent over a dozen years in industry, but even then,
I taught as an adjunct for Villanova university.

I finally escaped from industry and joined the Villanova faculty

full time for a few years and then moved to the University of
Pennsylvania, where I directed a Master’s program (MCIT,
Masters in Computer and Information Technology) for students
coming into computer science from another discipline.

Throughout my career, my main interests have been in artificial

intelligence (AI) and programming languages. I’ve used a lot of
programming languages.

I retired in 2017, but I can’t stop teaching, so I’m writing a series

of “quick start” books on programming and programming

xi
xii   ◾   About the Author

languages. I’ve also written two science fiction novels, Ice Jockey
and All True Value, and I expect to write more. Check them out!

And hey, if you’re a former student of mine, drop me a note. I’d

love to hear from you!

david.matuszek@gmail.com
Preface

Y ou probably think that functional programming (FP) is

something dreamed up by ivory-­ tower academics using
obscure languages that few people understand.

You’re right.

You probably think that those weird languages such as Haskell,

Standard ML, and OCaml are never going to be very popular with
ordinary programmers.

Right again.

But did you notice…

• That ivory-­tower academics are some pretty smart people?

• That the programming language you use every day, what-
ever it is, is getting more FP features?

“Pure” functional programming, abandoning all the conventional

programming techniques, really is difficult. But you don’t have to
do that. Think of it this way: Conventional programming consists
of a collection of hand tools, and FP adds a power tool to the mix.
Just one—it doesn’t do everything, and you still need all the other
tools (unless you’re an ivory-­tower academic), but where you can
use it, it saves a lot of work.
xiii
xiv   ◾   Preface

Here’s a spoiler: FP will let you replace many of your loops with
shorter, simpler, easier to understand function calls. Yes, there’s
some unfamiliar syntax involved, but it’s just syntax, and you can
get used to it very quickly. The new concepts, the parts you might
think are the most difficult, turn out to be trivially simple.

You may be surprised how much a single power tool can help you
in your day-­to-­day programming.

FP is coming into prominence now because it is a far better way to

write concurrent programs, suitable for multi-­core computers.
However, this is only a book about functional programming, not
about concurrent programming; that would require a far larger
volume.

Each chapter after the first begins with an explanation of some

particular concept of functional programming. After that, there
are sections exemplifying that concept in each of three languages.

• Python, because it is a simple, widely known language.

Python has only a few of the most basic FP features.
• Java, because it is widely known and has many of the FP
features. The developers of these features have done an
awesome job in fitting these features into a language that
was never designed to hold them.
• Scala, which has been designed from the ground up to be
both object oriented and functional, and therefore provides
the cleanest and most complete set of FP features.

I have tried to make this book accessible to programmers who

do not know Python or Scala. The FP features of these languages
can be understood without an in-­depth knowledge of the language
in which they occur. Unfortunately, no such claim can be made
for Java.
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 "Then let us thither if you can find the way," replied Chartley.
"Should we be pursued, we can play at hide and seek there, or, at
the worst, make good some tower or staircase till help comes. Were
I sure that there is any officer or man of repute with these bands, I
should not fear for you, but so fair a flower must not be trusted in
the rude hands of lawless soldiery."

Iola did not, or would not, notice the last words. Indeed, it is rare,
when a phrase contains several parts, that more than one is
attended to by any individual. She fixed at once upon what he had
said regarding the old castle, and answered, "Oh, we can play at
hide and seek with them there, for a year, if we can but reach it
safely; and I think I can lead you thither by a path they will never
dream of; for still, while approaching, it seems to be turning away
from the object at which it aims."

"Somewhat like woman's wit, dear lady," answered Lord Chartley,

laughing, "which I must say often takes the prettiest ways
imaginable to its ends, in gay meanderings round and round. But
come. There is no fear of their attempting to search the wood, this
night at least, though they may try to watch all the outlets. We shall
pass safe enough, if we enter upon no high roads."

"No, no," answered Iola, with a little spice of vengeance. "They

shall be all crooked, narrow, and obscure, like man's policy. Here, we
must turn up here, and take up your Moor by the way."

"Lean upon my arm then," said Chartley, drawing hers through his
own. "You will need some support on this long journey."

"It will be like the journey of life," she answered, "where

sometimes we must tread the narrow path singly and unsupported;
sometimes guiding and helping each other."

Thus saying, she walked on with him, leaning lightly on his arm,
but musing as she went. Chartley spoke a few words to Ibn Ayoub,
bidding him follow a few steps behind, and keep a watchful ear for
any sounds of pursuit; and thus he and his fair companion
proceeded for about five minutes in silence, till at length Iola broke
from her fit of musing, saying abruptly, "Heaven help me! What
would my poor aunt think if she knew that I was wandering here
alone with you, my lord?"

Lord Chartley thought he perceived in those words a certain

portion of doubt and fear, which he could not but own was natural,
but yet he was very anxious to remove. "I trust she would be glad,"
he replied, "that you had met with one, by a strange accident, in
whom you and she can fully trust, to guard and defend you against
all wrong. I think you know that such a one is by your side."

"Oh that I do," she answered, looking up towards his face, though
she could not see it. "Do not suppose I have any fears of you, my
lord; for I feel as if I had known you many a year; and, though they
say we should judge no man rashly, yet I am right sure you would
neither wrong me nor see me wronged, for any good the world
could give. My aunt, however, might be more suspicious; for she has
strange notions of the world, and I trust not true ones."

Chartley was silent for a moment or two, and then laughed gaily.

"It were easy," he replied at length, "to say as I was just going to
say--Trust me, and doubt all other men; but I had better say nothing
of the kind, however, for I can neither tell you rightly why you
should suspect others, nor give you a good reason why you should
trust me. Happy is it, in my case, that you have no choice. Trust me
you must, sweet girl, whether you will or not; but believe me," he
added, thinking he felt a certain tendency to withdraw her arm from
his, "believe me, that trust is not misplaced, and never will be. So
now I will make no more professions. There is another blast of the
trumpet; but it is farther off than before."

"It comes down the hill," answered Iola. "They have got farther
on than we have; but yet we shall beat them, I trust; for the many
are ever outwitted by the few, I hear, though, good sooth, I know
nothing of life, and but repeat such sage sayings as an old nurse's
songs, without being sure if they be to the right tune or not.--Oh,
prudery," she continued gaily, "what would the dear nuns, and sister
Bridget especially, say, if they could hear me thus chattering with a
young lord, in a dark wood, when there is so much sad and sober
earnest going on near?--You too, perhaps, think it strange; but I
have had so little practice in concealing what I think, that my
foolishness ever rushes to my lips before my slow wit can start forth
to stop it."

"Nay, I think no such thing," replied Lord Chartley, "for, by my

faith, the case is much the same with me. Besides, did we not make
a bargain at supper time, that the casket was not to be closed, but
all the jewels of the heart were to be left unveiled?"

"True," she answered. "It was a rash promise; but like all
promises, I suppose, it must be kept; and indeed, had it not been
made, I am afraid the course would have been the same; for the key
of that casket which you talk of is seldom to be found when needed;
and the lock is somewhat rusty, from being left always open.--Think
not, however, I would act or speak thus to all men; for had you, as
did the only young man I ever saw twice before yourself, talked of
my beautiful eyes or my charming fingers--or even, like the friend
who was with you, had you thrown out a pretty neat-turned
compliment upon bright and beautiful looks, to be picked up by any
one who thought it worth the stooping for, I should have been as
grave and silent as a deaf canoness, or have run away from you as
fast as my feet could carry me; but you spoke of better things,
though gaily, and seemed to me to know what is due, from knight
and gentleman, to a woman and a lady, and therefore, my good
lord, I trust you as a friend, and speak to you as a brother."

Whatever were the feelings of Lord Chartley--whether he felt

inclined to remain in the cool relationship of friend and brother, or
whether there were not growing upon him sensations towards his
fair companion of a somewhat warmer nature, he was well aware
that fraternal regard is one of the very best and most serviceable
trenches for attacking the citadel of a woman's heart, and
consequently he thanked Iola gracefully for her trust, and did
nothing in the world to scare the timidity of early confidence.
Perhaps his was a character to win it more quickly than that of most
men; gay, cheerful, brave, apparently thoughtless, but in reality
considerate and reflective, light-hearted from strong corporeal
health, fair fortunes, and self-reliance, as well as from a hopeful and
sanguine heart, one seemed at once to see clear and distinct from
the act to the motive, from the words to the emotions in which they
originated. There was none of that misty clouded policy, none of that
obscure and twilight art, which is sure to create suspicion and place
the minds of others on their guard; but all was frank, open, free;
and though people might judge him to be more rash than he really
was, and heedless of consequences when he was in reality quite the
reverse, no one ever for a moment suspected half the deep feeling
that was in his heart, or the cool though rapid reflection which went
on in his mind.

We are inclined to imagine that when a man acts quickly and

decidedly, even in cases where there is no need of haste, that he
acts imprudently and without due consideration. We say--"he might
have taken time for thought."

But thought is a very different thing in the minds of different men.

With one, it is the cart-horse which plods slowly along with its heavy
load from one point of the road to another. With others, it is the
race-horse, darting like an arrow shot from a bow to the object in
view. The distance and the path are the same, but only they are
travelled more rapidly in the one instance than in the other.
Undoubtedly the race-horse was the illustration of Chartley's mind. It
would have foamed and fretted to be restrained to the slow progress
which many another man preferred; and when forced to proceed
tardily, in order to keep the same pace as others, like the same
horse, it would curvet and passage, showing its impatience by a
thousand wild gambols.

Short specimens of conversations are enough upon all ordinary

occasions; and therefore I will only say, that the young nobleman
and his fair companion, followed by the Arab, at the distance of
eight or ten yards, threaded their way through the wood paths,
lightly and easily, talking as they went. It may seem strange that
they so soon lost the sense of apprehension, and could converse on
other things, while dangers were round about; but it was a part of
the characters of both, to be little and but transiently impressible by
any thing like fear. Hope was ever predominant in the heart of each,
and hope is certainly a great element of courage. Danger was
thought of only while it was actually present; and imagination was
fonder of plucking flowers than looking out for thorns. True, they
stopped and listened from time to time, to make themselves sure
that no enemies were near. True, that when Iola had to lead the way
through one of those narrow paths, where two could not go abreast,
she sometimes looked back to assure herself that Chartley was near
her; but when they were together, they generally conversed gaily,
and often even laughed, although Iola felt some apprehensions for
her good aunt and her cousin, which could not be altogether
removed, even by Chartley's assurances that the burning of the
houses upon the green was the strongest proof of Richard's bands
not having got into the abbey.

"Besides," he said, "I am quite sure that the commanders of these

men, as long as they have the troops under their own eye, would
not suffer them to commit any violence in a religious house; for the
king himself is devout, as we all know, and though he might wink at
a violation of sanctuary, for his own purpose, he would punish
severely any unnecessary injury done in effecting it."

These arguments certainly were consolatory to Iola, and left the

fears which still lingered, only as passing shades, coming across her
mind for a moment, and soon disappearing, like those cast by light
clouds floating over the sun in a summer's day.

Onward they walked then, amidst the branches of the wood, and
along the paths out in the thick underwood, still covered by the
brown leaves of the preceding year. The thaw which had prevailed
since the night before had penetrated even into the depths of the
wood; and the grass was covered with unfrozen drops which
rendered it almost as white as under the hoar frost. This was
peculiarly the case upon what may be called the first step of the hill;
but the path soon began to ascend, at first winding gently about
upon the upland slope, and then, spreading out to a greater width,
ran along under some high cliffy banks, somewhat too steep to
surmount in a direct line. Here, from time to time, a beautiful view
of the abbey, with the lower grounds surrounding it, might have
been obtained, had there been daylight; and even in the darkness of
the night, aided by a faint light from the smoking ruins of the
cottages on the green, the eye could distinguish the sombre masses
of the old pile, rising above all the surrounding objects.

"You see the abbey is safe," said Chartley, in a low tone; "and the
fires are going out. I hear no sound.--Perhaps these troops are
withdrawn."

"We could soon see," said Iola, "if we turned to the westward, for
there is a little point, which commands a view of the road."

Perhaps Chartley did not very much wish to see; for, to say the
truth, he had no great inclination to part with his fair companion so
soon. He had made up his mind, by this time, to the not unpleasant
task of passing the rest of the night with her in the old castle. There
was a spirit of adventure in it--a touch of that romance which is
agreeable to almost every young man's mind. Nevertheless, he
thought it more proper to follow the suggestion, although the result
might be to convey her back to the abbey, and send him onward on
his way to Hinckley. They turned then in the direction she indicated,
and, at the distance of about a hundred and fifty yards, came to a
spot where a small stream welled from the high bank, and the
waters were gathered, before they crossed the road, into a small
clear pool; a beautiful object and beautifully situated. The rugged
cliff from which the spring flowed, like a parent looking into a child's
eyes, bent over the fountain, and caught the image of itself. The
stars were mirrored in it; and a light birch that grew beside it bent
its head down to drink.

"I will sit here," said Iola, "upon this stone, where I have often sat
before, if you will run up the bank by that little path, which will lead
you to a spot where a greater part of the road can be seen. Stop
where the path stops; and do not be long, for I shall be frightened. I
do not know whether you can see anything upon the road in this
dark night; but the sand is light of colour, so as to show anything
dark moving upon it, I think."

"I will leave the Arab with you," said Chartley. "You can trust him
fully. Stay with the lady, Ibn Ayoub," he continued, "and guard her
as you would the prophet's tomb."

The man folded his arms upon his breast, and remained precisely
in the same attitude, at the distance of three or four paces, while his
lord ran lightly up the path; and Iola, seating herself by the fountain,
gazed down upon the limpid water, from which a dim shadowy form
looked up at her again. What were her thoughts then? Perhaps, she
too contemplated the result of all obstacles to her return to the
abbey being removed, the consequent parting with her young and
kind companion, and the probability of her never meeting with him
again. It was not without a feeling of regret. She almost wished that
she had not proposed to Chartley to see whether the troops were
still there or not; and then she was angry with herself for
entertaining such feelings. Then she meditated upon the passing the
night with him in the ruins; and certainly she did not regard such a
thing in the same way that he did. She felt a little alarmed, of she
knew not what, a hesitation, a doubt. It would feel very strange, she
thought--almost wrong. While there had seemed no other choice,
such feelings had never presented themselves, but now they were
strong. It would be very pleasant, she could not deny, to have his
society for some time longer--with friends and companions about
them; but alone, in a remote place, with the world's eye afar--that
eye which acts as a bond but a safeguard, a restraint but a
justification--the matter was very different. Yet--strange human
nature!--when, a moment after, she heard a blast of a trumpet
coming from the road, and a loud voice shouting forth some orders,
it was a relief to her. Perhaps she feared the parting with Chartley so
soon, even more than passing of a night with him in the old castle.
Dear girl, she could not help it. It was no fault of hers. Nature taught
her to cling to that which had protected her. Nature taught her to
love that which came upon her hitherto dull existence like the first
gleam of summer's returning sunshine into the wintry sky.

A moment after, Chartley's step was heard returning; and,

running down the bank, he said:

"They are upon the road still, and moreover, preparing to

surround the wood by patrols, probably with the intention of
searching it thoroughly to-morrow. Let us on, sweet Iola, and seek
our place of refuge, for we have no choice left; and they may
perchance push some of their parties along these broader paths to-
night. I should not like to come into collision with them, if I can help
it. Here, let me stay your steps;" and once more he drew her arm
through his.

"I had hoped," answered Iola--little hypocrite--"that they were all

gone, and that you might be spared farther trouble on my account
to-night."

"Trouble!" said Chartley; and he laughed. "I know not what you
feel, dear lady; but I cannot, for my life, think all this night's
adventure so very disastrous. I grieve, of course, that you should be
alarmed or pained in any way; but yet a few hours of such sweet
society, the power of protecting, assisting, supporting you, the
linking of feelings, and sympathies, and associations with yours,
even for so short a space, has something very pleasant in it.
Whatever may be our fate hereafter, Lady Iola, we shall both
remember this night, as one of those high points of time, which raise
their heads out of the ocean of the past, and glitter afar in the light
of memory."

"I must tell him about myself and my fate," thought Iola; but
Chartley pursued the subject no farther; and turning back upon their
steps, they renewed their ascent towards the castle, winding along
amongst the trees, which were there farther apart and less
encumbered by underwood.

How rapidly the wild encroaches upon the cultivated, when the
hand of man is once withdrawn. In former years--not very long
before, certainly not a century--the detached elevation in the wood,
on which the castle stood, had been covered with smooth clean-
shaven green turf, without tree or shrub, which could cover an
approaching enemy from the shafts of the garrison. It had its road
winding round it from the principal gate, and passing, till it
approached the edge of the neighbouring forest, within bow shot of
some loop-hole or battlement, at every turn. Now the trees had
grown over the whole mount, as thick and close as anywhere in the
wood--over road and all; and nothing but a pathway remained,
where bands of retainers had formerly ridden up and down on
horseback. The self-sown oaks, indeed, were small and thin; but
there were some enormous ash trees, and large fine elms and
beeches, which no one would have supposed of so late a growth. A
great number of birches--"the ladies of the wood,"--mingled their
slight silvery stems with the sturdier and more lordly forest trees,
and the winged seeds of the ash, wafted to the walls, had planted
themselves here and there, wherever a fallen stone had left a vacant
space in the mortar, and had shot up into feathery shrubs, fringing
the ancient battlements and cresting the tall tower. Thus, in the
early summer time, when leaves are green, the castle at a distance
could hardly be distinguished from the forest.

Up the small path I have mentioned, Iola and Chartley took their
way, and at length stood under the old arch of the barbican. One of
the towers which had flanked it had fallen down, and, filling up the
fosse, afforded a firmer path than the drawbridge, which, partly
broken down, I know not whether by age or war, offered but an
insecure footing. One of the long beams indeed, and two or three of
the planks, still hung by the heavy chain used formerly to raise the
bridge; but Iola hesitated, although she had often crossed before,
fearing, in the darkness, to lose her footing on the bridge, or to
stumble amongst the stones, if she chose the path over the fallen
tower. Chartley instantly divined her doubt, and going on part of the
way over the drawbridge, held out his hand, saying: "Let me steady
your steps. It is quite firm."

Iola followed at once; and the Arab came after; but when they
reached the great gate, the lady again paused, saying, "It is so dark,
I fear we shall never find our way about the building, without the
risk of some accident, for many of the steps are broken down, and
fragments of the walls encumber the doorways, although some of
the rooms in the keep are almost as if they had been just inhabited.
I wonder how long it is to daybreak."

"I have not heard the bell for lauds," replied Chartley, "and
therefore, probably, three or four hours may elapse before we see
the face of day. Perhaps, however, we can contrive to light a fire
somewhere in the court, for the high trees and walls would screen it
from the eyes of the men upon the road."

"Let us find our way into the great court first," said Iola. "There is
plenty of dry wood about the place, if we could but find a light."

"That will be soon obtained," answered Lord Chartley, "and,

perhaps, something that may serve the purpose of a torch or candle
also;" and, speaking a few words to the Arab, which Iola did not
understand, he led the way forward, stretching out his hands, like a
blind man, to make sure of the path he trod; for, if the night was
dark without, the darkness was doubly deep under the shadow of
the arch. After passing through the gateway, the great court seemed
light enough by comparison. In the centre rose the large keep or
donjon tower, frowning heavily over the scene below; and forth from
the side of the keep came a pile of very ancient buildings, now silent
and desolate like the rest.

Chartley and Iola are now alone; for the Arab had left them. But
yet she did not and she would not fear, for she had great confidence
in her companion, and woman's confidence is of a very capacious
measure. Nor did he wrong it--shame upon him who does--but,
guiding her quietly to the flight of steps leading into the keep, he
made her sit down upon the dilapidated stairs, and stood beside her,
talking about subjects which could awake no emotion, or a very
slight one, and, informing her that he had sent the slave to seek for
materials to light a fire. None of those events, however, occurred,
which continually happen to people cast upon a desert island. There
were none of those appliances or means at hand, with which
wandering sailors are usually supplied accidentally. No bituminous
pine was found to fulfil the office of a torch; and at length after the
Arab's return, the only resource of the fugitives was to light a fire,
after the most ancient and approved fashion, by a flint and steel.
This, however, was accomplished with less difficulty than might have
been expected, the young lord's dagger supplying the steel, and
flints being numerous in the neighbourhood. The old brown leaves,
and the young but well-dried shoots, soon caught the flame; and in
a few minutes the joyous light was spreading round the old court
yard, and raising Iola's spirits by the very look.

"Ah, now we can rest here in comfort," said, the young lady
gazing around her; "but the light is not yet sufficient to see the
inside of the hall."
 "But still you cannot sleep here, sweet Iola," answered her
companion. "I and the slave will go in and light a fire in the hall, if
you will tend this in the meanwhile."

"Nay," she answered, "I want not to sleep;" and she detained him
gently by the arm. "Let us sit down here. See here is a stone bench
bowered in the ivy. We can pass the night in telling tales; and first
you shall inform me how you came hither on foot in the forest, when
I thought you had gone away for Leicester."

Lord Chartley easily satisfied her on that point; and seated on the
stone bench by her side, as near as possible, gazing from time to
time on her bright countenance, by the gleams of the firelight, he
related to her all that had occurred to him since he had left the
abbey.

"As to my being on foot," he said, "your good friend the woodman

judged it best that I and my Arab should leave our horses at his hut,
for fear of attracting attention. All I hope is, that they will not be
found there by these good gentlemen, who are watching the wood;
for it might be dangerous if they were recognised as my property."

"There is a great risk indeed," said Iola anxiously. "What will you
do if such should be the case?"

"As best I can," answered Chartley. "I never premeditate, dear

lady; for I always remark that those who go lightly and carelessly
through the world go the farthest. The circumstances of the moment
determine my conduct; and as I have no ties to bind me but those
of honour and truth, no ambitious schemes to be frustrated or
executed, no deeds done that I am ashamed of, so I have never any
great store of fears for the future, nor much need of forming plans
at any time for after action."

"Happy are those," answered Iola, with a sigh, "who, as you say,
have no ties to bind them."
 Her reply was a natural one, springing at once from what was
passing in her own heart. Something had whispered that it would be
better to tell her companion, that her own fate was linked to
another, that she had been contracted in fact in infancy, by her
relations, to a person of whom she knew nothing. The thought of
informing him of her fate, however, led her to think of that fate
itself; and thence came the sigh and the answer that she made. But
as soon as it was uttered, she felt that it rendered more difficult, nay
impossible, the task of telling the circumstances as she had
meditated. The words she had just spoken, the sigh she had just
breathed, expressed too clearly the regret that she really felt; but to
explain to him the source of that regret, to show him the nature of
the tie that oppressed her, would, she thought, be unwomanly and
indecent.

Her words, however, had not been unmarked; and Chartley,

reading them wrongly, pressed her gaily for explanation.

"Nay," he said, "you have no ties to regret. Your good aunt, the
abbess, told me herself, that you are not destined for the life of the
convent. If you do take the veil, it must be from some fancied
resolution of your own heart, against which it is the duty of every
knight and gentleman to war. Fie, fie! Let those who have tasted the
world and found it bitter; let those to whom it has pleased Heaven
to deny beauty, and grace, and mind, and kindly feeling; let those
who have sorrows to mourn, or evil acts to repent, seek the shades
of the convent; but do not bury there charms of person, and mind,
and heart, such as yours, intended by Heaven to be the blessing and
the hope and the comfort of another. I must not, I will not have it."

He spoke so eagerly, so warmly, and his eyes looked so bright,

that Iola felt glad the Arab was standing near piling fresh wood upon
the fire. She knew not how to answer; but at length she said, "I am
not destined for a convent; but there may be other ties as binding as
the vow to the veil."
 "You are not married," exclaimed Chartley, starting; and then he
added, with a laugh--a gladsome laugh, "No, no. You told me
yourself that you had only seen one other young man twice in life
besides myself."

"No, not married--" answered Iola, casting down her eyes, and
speaking in a low and sad tone. But her farther reply was
interrupted; for the Arab suddenly lifted his finger with a warning
gesture, and said in a low voice:

"Steps come."

"Let us into the old hall," said Chartley, rising, and taking a
burning brand from the fire. "This will give us some light at least.
Ibn Ayoub, stay you in the archway till I return. I will come directly;
but let no one pass."

The Arab drew a long sharp pointed knife from his girdle, saying;
"I will take care;" and the young lord and Iola hurried, through the
gateway of the keep, into the interior of the building.

CHAPTER XII.

In a small, but rich and beautiful, Gothic chamber, splendidly

decorated, and splendidly furnished, sat a gentleman, in the very
prime of life, at a table covered with manifold papers. His dress was
gorgeous; but the eye rested hardly for a moment on the splendour
of his apparel, for there was something in his countenance which at
once fixed all attention upon itself. The features were delicate and
beautiful, the eyes dark, keen, and expressive. The lips were
somewhat thin, and apparently habitually compressed, though when
they parted they showed a row of teeth as white as snow. The long
dark brown hair was of silky fineness and gloss, bending in graceful
waves about a brow broad, high, and majestic, which would have
been perfect in form, had not habit or nature stamped a wrinkled
frown upon it, while some long lines, the traces of deep thought,
furrowed the wide expanse which age had not yet had time to
touch. He was in the prime of life, the early prime, for he had not
yet seen three and thirty years, and not a particle of bodily or
mental energy had been lost; but yet his form did not give any
promise of great strength, for he was somewhat below the middle
height, and the limbs seemed small and delicate. One shoulder was
rather higher than the other, but not so much so as to be a striking
deformity; and the left arm seemed somewhat smaller than its
fellow. No means had been taken to conceal these defects; and yet
he might have passed anywhere for an exceedingly good-looking
man, had it not been for a certain expression of fierce and fiery
passion which occasionally came into his countenance, blending
strangely with the look of sarcastic acuteness which it usually bore.
It was upon his face at that moment, as he read a letter before him;
but it passed away speedily, and it was with a bitter smile he said--
speaking to himself, for there was no one else in the room--

"Not know? He must be made to know! We will pluck the heart of

this treason out;" and he wrote a few words hastily on the back of
the letter which he had been reading.

Then, however, he paused, laid his finger on his temple, and

thought deeply for a minute or two. "No," he said at length, "no! It
must be passed over. If they catch him in the abbey, the lad's fault
shall be passed over. He has served the purposes of a decoy--done
good service without knowing it; and we will not kill the bird that
lures the game to us, though it little thinks that it betrays its fellows-
-perhaps imagines it is serving them, not us. I have heard there was
friendship between the bishop and his father; and we must alienate
no friends just now.--Friends!" he continued, with a bitter sneer.
"What are friends? I know but one, whom men can ever count upon;
and he dwells here;" and at the same time he laid his hand
significantly on his own broad forehead.

He then took the pen again, and struck out the words he had
written on the paper, pushed it aside, raised another, and, after
glancing over it, clapped his hands, exclaiming--

"Without, there!"

A servant instantly appeared; and the king, for it was Richard

himself, demanded--

"Did you not tell me that this man, John Radnor, had been killed
by a fail from his horse?"

"Yes, sire," answered the servant, "so the posts say, who brought
your grace the news that the earls of Richmond's fleet had been
dispersed. He was found dead upon the road, but with his purse and
papers all secure, so that they could not be thieves who slew him."

"I trust there are few such left in the land," said Richard. "I have
done something already to crush the lawless spirit engendered in
this country by long turbulence and domestic strife; and I will
trample out the last spark ere I have done. By Christ, the name of
thief shall be unknown in the land if I live long enough.--I grieve for
this man," he continued, musing. "He was a serviceable knave, and
one to whose dexterity we could trust instructions somewhat difficult
to write, and yet not make him an ambassador.--Send Sir John
Thoresby to me," he continued, "and as soon as Sir Charles
Weinants comes, give him admission."

With a low reverence, the man withdrew; and the king busied
himself with the papers again, till the door opened and a gentleman
in black entered the room.
 "Let those be answered, Sir John," said the king, pushing some
letters to him, "and take order that lodging and entertainment be
prepared at York for the Princess Countess of Arran. Send off too, by
a private hand, which can be trusted, a letter to the king her brother,
greeting him well from us, and telling him that the secret note, sent
with the letters of the countess, has been received. Bid him set his
mind at ease, for that the matter is very sure, and that, search as
she will, search will be fruitless, so that she can come safely.--Have
you seen the queen?"

"I passed her but now, your grace, in the hall," replied the
gentleman; "and she enquired if there were any news from
Middleham. She seemed much alarmed on account of the prince's
illness."

"Oh, it is nothing, it is nothing," answered the king. "It will soon

pass. Children are well and ill in a day. The next post will bring us
news that he is better; but women are full of fears. Yet it is strange
we have not heard to-day. I will go and see her, while you write
here;" and, with a slow pace and thoughtful air, he quitted the room.

At the end of a short corridor, Richard opened a door, which gave

him admission to a large old hall, in one part of which were seated
several young ladies of high family, working busily at embroidery
frames. At one of the tall arched windows, gazing out on the
prospect below, with a look of restless anxiety on her face, stood the
fair and unfortunate daughter of the earl of Warwick, his youngest
and his best beloved, whom, with the prophetic spirit of parental
affection, he had endeavoured in vain to hide from the pursuit of
him who never set his eyes upon an object without sooner or later
attaining it. She was richly dressed, according to the mode of those
times; and her slight figure and her fair face still retained many
traces of that delicate and feminine beauty which had once so highly
distinguished them.
 The instant she heard her husband's step, she turned quickly
round with a timid and inquiring glance; but Richard was in one of
his milder moods. The subject of his thought and hers was one of
common affection; and he advanced tenderly towards her, and took
her in his arms, saying--

"I have heard nothing, Ann; but cast these fears from your mind.
I trust that this is nothing but one of those sicknesses of childhood
which come and pass away like spring showers."

The tears came into the queen's eyes, rising from very mingled
emotions. Her apprehension for her child, her husband's tenderness,
the feeling perhaps of her own failing health, the recollections of
early years, all moved her heart; and yet she feared that her
emotions might rouse an impatient spirit in Richard's breast.

It was not so, however; and, pressing her somewhat closer to

him, he said--

"Well, well, wipe away your tears, love. If we hear not better
tidings to-day, thou shalt go to Middleham, and I will go with thee."

"Thanks, my gracious lord, thanks," replied the queen. "Perhaps it

is but a weak woman's fears for her only one, that so sink my spirit;
but I feel to-day a sort of awe, as if of approaching fate."

"You give way, you give way," said Richard with a slight touch of
impatience. "However, there is good news abroad. This rash exiled
earl of Richmond, whom you have heard of, doubtless, has seen his
Breton ships--which the good doating duke now bitterly regrets he
lent him--dispersed and broken by a heavy tempest; and he himself
has slunk back to St. Maloes; but I have already limed some twigs
for this light bird, which will yet stick to his feet; and he may find
conveyance into England more speedy, though not so prosperous as
that which he has been contriving for himself.--How now, Lovel? You
look perilous grim, as if you and your cognizance had changed
countenances."
 "I grieve to be the bearer of bad tidings, gracious sire," replied
Lord Lovel, to whom these words were addressed, and who had
entered the room the moment before. "I did not know that either of
your graces were here, and was hastening to your closet."

"But the news, the news," cried Richard, eagerly. "Heavy tidings
grow doubly weighty by long carrying. Out with them, man. Is there
a new insurrection in the west?--Has Richmond landed?--Speak,
speak at once!"

"I had better have your grace's private ear for a few minutes,"
replied Lord Lovel, in a low and very sad tone, at the same time
giving a glance towards the queen. Her eyes were fixed upon his
face, and she caught the expression at once.

"My boy," she exclaimed. "He is worse. He is hopeless--I see it

there--I see it there;" and she pointed with her hand to his face.

Richard gazed at him in profound deathlike silence, with his brow

knitted over his fine keen eyes, and the thin pale lip quivering
fearfully. It was a terrible thing to see the traces of such deep and
unwonted emotion on that powerful and commanding countenance;
and Lovel felt almost afraid to proceed. Richard tried to speak, but,
for the first time in life, his voice found no utterance; and all he
could do was to make a vehement sign for his favourite to go on.

"Alas, sire," said Level, in a tone of unfeigned anguish, "your

worst fears are, I grieve to say--"

"No, no," cried Richard, in a broken voice, grasping his arm as if

he would have sunk the fingers into the flesh. "No, no, not the
worst--not the worst!--He is very ill, you would say--the physicians
have no hope--but we will find more, wiser, skilfuller! There are
simples of great power--there are--there are--no, not dead, not
dead--no, not dead, not dead!--Oh, Jesu!" and he fell headlong to
the ground.
 The unhappy queen stood with her hands clasped together, her
eyes bent upon the floor, not a trace of colour in her cheeks or lips.
She moved not, she spoke not, she wept not, she uttered no cry, but
remained standing like a statue where the words had reached her
ears with all the terrible anguish of the moment concentrated in her
heart.

In the meantime, the embroidery frames were cast away. Her

ladies gathered round her, and drew her gently to her chair of state,
in which they placed her unresisting; but there she remained,
precisely as they had seated her, with her eyes still bent down, and
her lips still motionless. At the same time, Lovel raised the king, and
called loudly for assistance. Attendants hurried in, and amongst
them the messenger from Middleham, who had brought the tidings
of the young prince's death, and had been left at the door by Lord
Lovel, when he undertook to communicate the sad intelligence. But
it was long ere Richard could be brought to himself; and then he sat
where they had placed him, rubbing his brow with his hand, and
muttering broken sentences to himself. At length he looked up, and
gazed with a curious wild expression of countenance--still shrewd,
still cunning, but hardly sane; and then he laughed aloud, and, rising
from his chair, exclaimed:

"Why, this is well. Why, this is mighty well! We'll march ten
thousand men on York, to-morrow, and then to Middleham.--We'll
have cannon too, ay, cannon too, lest the usurper should refuse to
give up the boy. Why, he is the son of a king, a prince--a prince, I
tell you, Lovel, the dog--Ha, ha, ha! That was a merry distich--

'The cat, the rat, and Lovel, the dog,

Rule all England under the hog.'

But we paid the poet handsomely. Kings should be always bountiful

to poets. Good Sir John Collingburn, he little thought that he should
be hanged for the cat, drawn for the rat, and quartered for Lovel the
dog--Ha, ha, ha! It is very good."
 At that moment, the queen's lips moved; and, raising her eyes
towards heaven, she began to sing a sweet and plaintive air, in a
very musical voice:

"The castle stood on a hill side,

Hey ho, hey ho,
And there came frost in the summer tide,
Hey ho, the wind and the snow.
"A boy looked from the casement there,
Hey ho, hey ho,
And his face was like an angel's fair;

Hey ho, how the violets grow.

"The snow, it fell on his golden hair,
Hey ho, hey ho,
And the wind has blighted the flower so fair,
Hey ho, the flower's laid low."

"I think I'll go to bed, ladies. It is growing dark; but this night gear is
somewhat stiff and cold, and I think it is dabbled with blood--Blood,
blood, blood! Yes it is blood!" and she uttered a loud scream.[2]

In the midst of this distressing scene Lord Lovel stood like one
bewildered; and he noted not that, while the king was speaking,
another person, none of the ordinary attendants had entered the
room. Now, however, Sir Charles Weinants pulled him by the sleeve,
saying, in a low voice: "I ought to speak with the king immediately;
but he seems in no fit state, my lord. What is all this?"

"Hush, hush," said Lovel, in a whisper. "Go into the closet. I will
come and speak with you, for I have full instructions. The king is
indisposed, with the sad news from Middleham. He will soon be
better. I will join you in a minute. Your business will bear no delay."

Thus saying, he turned to the king again; and Sir Charles

Weinants, with a slow and quiet step, crossed the hall, and,
proceeding through the short corridor I have mentioned, reached
the king's closet. He there found Sir John Thoresby, writing
diligently; and the latter merely raised his head for an instant, gave
a brief nod, and resumed his occupation. Sir Charles Weinants, ever
discreet, walked to the window, and looked out; for, as I have before
said, there were manifold papers and letters on the table, and he
knew that it was dangerous even to let the eye pause upon any of
Richard's secrets. He waited there with persevering patience, saying
not a word to Sir John Thoresby, and never turning round his head,
till Lovel entered the room, at the end of about ten minutes, and
boldly dismissed the secretary for a few moments.

"Now, Sir Charles," said the king's favourite. "His grace, thank
Heaven, is somewhat better, and will soon be well. We have
persuaded him to let blood; for his spirits are too much oppressed.
This is a severe blow, the death of the young prince, and will make
many changes in the realm. You received the king's letter?"

"In safety, my good lord," replied Sir Charles, "but not the letter
which was to have followed, informing me whether the Duke of
Bretagne would receive me on this errand or not."

"How is that?" exclaimed Lord Lovel. "We sent it to York, thinking

to find you there;" and he laid his hand upon his brow and thought.
"Ratcliff, in his last letter, received but this morning, assured me that
he had sent it on to you at Tamworth, by a trusty messenger, who
was passing from Scotland to the king. Now it should have reached
you some days ago, for Ratcliff thought we were at Coventry, and
his letter to me has gone round."

"It never reached me, my lord," replied Sir Charles Weinants, "and
yet I made known my name and quality wherever I came, and bade
my servants watch well, in order that no news from the court might
miss me."

"It must be inquired into," replied Level; "but in the mean time
you must hasten your departure; for I have seen the reply from
Bretagne, and you will be received with all favour. Monsieur Landais
is fully gained; and all that is required is some one to confirm the
king's promises, and give an earnest of his goodwill towards the
duke. You must set out this very night. I trust by that time his grace
will be well enough to see you himself and give you his last
instructions; for his is not a mind to bend long, even under the
burden cast upon it."

These words seemed intended to conclude the conversation; but

Sir Charles Weinants still stayed and mused. At length he looked up
in Lovel's face with a smile, saying, "I always love to be successful in
my negotiations; and methinks this young vapouring earl may take
fright when he hears of my coming. Were it not better to go with the
most perfect secrecy?"

"Nay, that would be hardly possible," answered Lovel; "but we

have been thoughtful. You must go in some sort as a fugitive. A
report has already been spread that you are suspected by the king.
Measures will be taken to strengthen the belief; and, while you bear
full powers as his envoy, and the money for Landais, you must quit
the court suddenly by dark; and with a small train affect to seek
refuge in Britanny. The news of your disgrace has gone before; but
good Monsieur Landais is made aware of the truth, and prepared to
receive you."

Sir Charles Weinants was not altogether well pleased with the
arrangement; but he was discreet--very discreet; and he did not
think fit to make any objection. However, he knew there could be no
harm in establishing a claim where none previously existed; for he
was well aware that great men are ever ready enough to deny a
claim, whether it exists or not. He therefore said quietly, "The king's
will, of course, I submit to without a murmur, my good lord; but it is
a very unpleasant sort of reputation for an ambassador to appear
with, that of a fugitive and a traitor; and I trust that his grace will,
remember that I take upon myself such a character solely in
obedience to his commands."
 "You shalt not be forgotten, Sir Charles," replied Lovel,
entertaining, but not uttering, precisely the same sentiment which
was afterwards boldly propounded by a vast-minded but little-
spirited man namely, that "to submit to indignities is the way to rise
to dignities."

"The king never neglects," he said, "those who place themselves

in painful situations for his service. And now, Sir Charles, prepare,
prepare--but quietly; never forgetting that your preparations are to
be those of a fugitive. The ambassador is to come after, you know.
When you have Harry of Richmond firm in your grasp, the splendour
of your train shall efface the memory of its scantiness now. Hark!
There is the king's voice, and his step coming hither. Do not wait or
take any notice. I dare say the barber is here to bleed him."[3]

The next instant Richard entered the closet, and Sir Charles
Weinants passed him, bowing low and reverently. But the king took
no farther notice of him than merely by giving a slow and inquiring
glance, from under his bent brows, at the face of his envoy; and
then seating himself in a chair, he suffered one of two persons who
followed him into the room to withdraw his arm from his doublet,
the barber-surgeon, who was close behind, directing the valet
particularly to give him the left arm, as that was nearest to the
heart. The servant then held a silver basin, while the operator made
his preparations and opened a vein. During all this time Richard
uttered not a word, but sat with his brows contracted, and his dark
thoughtful eyes fixed upon vacancy, till the sombre red bleed began
to flow forth from the vein; and then he turned his look upon the
stream, and seemed to watch it curiously. At length, he lifted his
right hand to his head, saying, "I am better--open the window. Give
me air;" and the servant instantly hurried to obey his commands.
The barber suffered the blood still to flow on, for a little while, and
then bound up the king's arm.

"I am better," said Richard. "I am better;" and, stretching forth his
hands, he added, in an imperative tone. "Leave me--all leave me! I
am better--I would be alone."

The whole party hastened to obey, and, as soon as they were

gone, Richard, the iron-spirited relentless Richard, placed his hands
before his eyes, and wept. It is a terrible sight to see a man weep at
any time. What must it have been to see tears forced from such a
heart as Richard's!

CHAPTER XIII.

Let us take up the history of the woodman, after he and the

bishop of Ely had quitted Lord Chartley. They crossed rapidly over
the road, hearing the sound of horses advancing, and of men
speaking, as they did so. Neither uttered a word; and the prelate
was hastily directing his steps towards a spot where, by the dim
light, he saw what seemed a continuation of the path he had just
quitted, but the woodman seized his arm, and drew him on a little
way up the road to a place where the bushes seemed so thick as to
afford no passage through them. Putting aside the branches,
however, with his sturdy arm, Boyd dragged rather than led Morton
forward; and, for some way, the good bishop fancied that they
should never find a path again, so thick and difficult seemed the
copse. It extended not fifty yards, however; and, though somewhat
scratched by the brambles, which clung round his feet and legs at
every step, Morton, at length, found himself emerging into an open
part of the wood, where the ground was covered with thick fern, out
of which, every here and there, rose an old hawthorn or the bushy
shoots of an oak or beech felled long ago.
 "'Tis a rough road," said the woodman, in a low voice, as he
relaxed his hold of the prelate's arm.

"So are all the ways of life, my son," answered the bishop.

"And the roughest often the safest," answered Boyd. "I know it by
experience. Smooth paths end in precipices."

At that instant something started up before them out of the fern,

and a quick rush was heard through the neighbouring brushwood.
The bishop started, and drew a little back, but Boyd said with a
laugh,--

"'Tis but a doe, my lord. If she find her way amongst the soldiers,
there will be more chases than one to-night. Fear not, however. I will
answer for your safety, though not for hers."

"I do not fear," answered the prelate. "Indeed, I am little given to

fear; but, as you doubtless well know, my son, the mind has not
always that command over the body which can prevent the mere
animal impulse from starting at dangers, which calm consideration
could meet unshrinking."

"True," replied the woodman. "So long as life is happy it may be

so; but with the loss of all that makes existence valuable, the body
itself loses its sensibility to all signs of danger. Hope, dread, anxiety,
and the struggle with the ills of life, make us vibrate as it were to
the touch of all external things; but when hope and fear are dead,
when there is neither care nor thought of existence, 'tis wonderful
how this blind horse of the body, ridden by that plodding wayfarer,
the mind, learns to jog on, without starting at anything that glistens
on the way.--But come on, my good lord, for I must take you first to
my cottage, and then send you forward some miles upon your
journey."

Thus saying, he walked forward; and the good bishop followed

through the more open space, musing as he went; for, to say the
truth, he was pulled different ways by different inclinations. Self-
preservation, was, of course, one great object, and that led him to
desire immediate escape; but yet there was another object, which
he had much at heart, and which would have bound him to remain.
Nor was he a man who would suffer the consideration of personal
safety alone to make him abandon what he considered a duty; but,
as yet, he knew not fully what were the risks, and what the
probabilities; and, as the only means of obtaining information, he, at
length, after some consideration, determined to have recourse to the
woodman. Boyd was striding on, however; and it cost the prelate
two or three quick steps to overtake him, so as to be able to speak
in that low tone which he judged necessary in the existing
circumstances.

"You think you can insure my safety," he said.

"Beyond a doubt," replied the woodman, laconically.

"But only, I suppose, by instant flight," said the prelate.

"By flight before daylight," replied Boyd.

"But if I tell you," continued the bishop, "that it is absolutely

necessary, for a great purpose I have in view, that I should remain
in this immediate neighbourhood for some few days, do you think it
possible for me to lie concealed here, till I receive the intelligence I
am seeking? Remember, I do not heed a little risk, so that my object
be attained."

"That is brave," answered Boyd; "but yet 'tis difficult to weigh

nicely in the balance, for another man, the estimation of his own life.
If I knew what you sought, I could judge better. However, I will say
this: the risk were very great to stay, but yet such as any one of
courage would encounter for a great and noble object."

"Then I will stay," replied the bishop, firmly. "My object is a great
and, I believe, a just and holy one, and life must not be weighed in
the balance against it."

"Would that I knew what it is," said the woodman, "for methinks I
might show you that more may be gained by going than by staying.
Of that, however, anon. Let me see if I can divine your object."

The bishop shook his head, saying--

"That is not possible. You are keen and shrewd, I see; but this
you could not discover by any means, without information from
others."

"I may have more information than you fancy," answered Boyd;
"but at all events you must tell me fairly if I am right. You were once
esteemed and promoted by Harry the Sixth. The house of Lancaster
gave your first patrons."

The bishop winced a little--

"True," he said, "true!"

"The house of Lancaster fell," continued the woodman; "and,

after the king's death, you continued in office under the opposite
faction--I do not blame you, for the cause seemed hopeless."

"Nay, but hear me," said the bishop, in a louder tone than he had
hitherto used. "You speak somewhat authoritatively; and I must
explain."

"I speak plain truth," replied the woodman. "At this hour of the
night, and under these grey boughs, we are upon a par. Elsewhere,
it is, Morton, Lord Bishop of Ely, and Boyd the woodman. But I have
said, I blame you not. What need of explanations?"

"Yes, there is need," answered the bishop. "I had my motive for
doing as I have done, and that motive sufficient for my own
conscience. As you say, the cause of Lancaster had fallen, and
hopelessly fallen. All efforts in its favour could but produce more
bloodshed, and protract a desolating civil strife. By yielding to the
conqueror, by giving him the counsel of a christian man, not
unversed in affairs of state, I did believe--I do believe, that I could,
and did, do more good than if I had withdrawn from the counsels of
the ruler of the country, and joined with those who sought to throw
him from his seat. I never advised in those affairs where York and
Lancaster opposed each other. It was part of my compact with him,
that I should take no share in acts or councils against a family I once
had served. Yet in my humble way I could do good, in moderating
the fury of men's passions, and the rancour of party strife."

"You plead, my lord, to an indictment I have never laid," replied

the woodman. "I blame you not. I never thought of blaming you.
But hear me on! You became attached to a prince who favoured you
greatly--a man of many high qualities, and also of many great vices;
brave, courteous, graceful, and good-humoured; lewd, idle,
insincere, and cruel; a consummate general, a short-seeing
statesman, a bad king, a heartless kinsman, a man of pleasant
converse, and a devoted friend. You loved him well; you loved his
children better, and would not consent to their murder."

"Nay, nay, not their murder," cried the bishop; "no one ever
ventured to speak of their death. Even now, we know not that they
are really dead; but I believe it. If you had said, I would not be
consenting to their deprivation of their rights, you had been
justified."

"'Tis the same thing," answered the woodman; "deposed princes

live not long, where they have many friends in the realm they lose.
However, committed to the Tower, and then to the custody of
Buckingham, you found means to make of your jailor your friend,
choosing dexterously a moment of disappointment to turn him to
your purposes. I speak now only from hearsay; but, I am told, you
two together framed a scheme for choosing a new king from the
race you first served, and uniting him to the heiress of your second
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