THE KENTISH REBELS.

43

The merchants suggested that they should proceed to the Falstaff Estate. It was possible that the incendiary spark had not yet reached so far. The fact was, these two gentlemen were rather anxious for a glimpse of the princely domain, of which they had heard such glowing accounts, under any circumstances. Even its blazing ruins would be a consolation, as proving that they had not been utterly taken in.

Falstaff appeared to brighten at the proposal. Yes, he declared, there was hope in it. The people had been wronged and oppressed, and there was some excuse for their violence in certain quarters. But when he reflected what indulgent, beneficent masters-if, indeed, parents were not the fitter word his ancestors had always been to their tenants: — no! for the sake of human nature, he could not believe in such black ingratitude as to suppose Falstaff had come to any harm. It would still be in his power to give his friends a cordial welcome. He led the way almost cheerfully, deploring only that the journey must be performed on foot.

At the first opportunity he whispered Bardolph

Slip on before us, borrow a horse, steal an ass, or run like mad. The lads may have spared the old den for my sake. If you find it standing, set a light to every room. I'll detain these gulls so as to give you time. Burn every stick and rag except Wykeham's tower.

Exit Bardolph in advance at a brisk trot.

His master explained.

Fire won't touch that."

"I have sent him on to herald us, and to meet us with horses; if, as I still hope, honesty and good faith be not extinct upon earth."

Our hero was taken ill frequently on the road; the result of his agitation and irrepressible misgivings. It was found necessary to solace him with repose by the wayside, and refreshments from the private stores of his companions.

"Oh, my friends!" said Jack, in a voice wherein gratitude struggled bravely against exhaustion; "How shall I ever repay you for this kindness? And if it should be too late-too late!"

"Come! come! Don't give way.

shall soon know the worst."

We cannot have far to go now. We

"True! let me strive to be a man, and remember that I am answerable for the safety of others."

They reached Maldyke, six miles from Falstaff.

Here the sight of a goodly castellated mansion, gutted and smoking in the centre of a forest of charcoal, reduced our hero to a state of prostration. He threw himself on his face, imploring, as a last act of friendship, that his companions should despatch him with their knives.

The gateway of this mansion was situated on the public road. From the raised portcullis of this gateway swung a human body, dead, and half-naked. Yesterday, this estate had belonged to Sir Simon Ballard. To-day, Sir Simon was its sole remaining occupant. But the rebels had hanged him by the neck, and he was dead.

Falstaff groaned piteously.

"Rouse, man, rouse!" said the Fleming. Surely this is not your castle?" "It's—it's—" sobbed Jack, spasmodically; "IT'S ONE OF THEM!!!" Then, falling upon his knees before the corpse of his old enemy, he clasped his hands, and exclaimed, piteously,

'My poor uncle! my poor uncle George! And is this the reward for your devotion to my interests ?"

The two merchants led him away compassionately.

For several roods they passed through the crops and woodlands of the illfated Ballard. The rebels had spared nothing.

"You see, gentlemen," said Falstaff, appealing to the devastation on either hand, "to what they have reduced me."

There could be no harm in Jack's assuming right of property in the defunct Ballard's possessions. In the first place, those possessions were no longer particularly worth having. In the second, it were unreasonable to suppose that their late proprietor could possibly have any further use for them.

The Fleming and the Lombard felt extremely sorry for their unfortunate guide and debtor. Nay; they even hoped that, in the upshot of things, he might prove still to be in the possession of something valuable, as an excuse for their assisting him with further advances.

As they neared the Falstaff Valley, Jack's uneasiness increased visibly. "It is my home, gentlemen," he explained, "where I first saw light.* It may be that they have spared me that. I scarcely dare hope it. But we shall know anon."

They reached the summit of the hill overlooking the valley,-down which, fourteen years ago, Sir Thomas Mowbray, now Earl of Nottingham, had come, laughing and cantering with his friend Maître Jean, the Chronicler, now curé of Lestines, and a most respectable clergyman.

Falstaff gave a rapid glance in the direction of his paternal mansion, then drew a long breath.

"Enough! I know the worst," he said; and seemed all the easier for the knowledge.

* See Book I. Chapter I. in explanation of this glaring breach of veracity.

DESTRUCTION OF FALSTAFF CASTLE.

45

Not a trace of Falstaff Castle was standing except William of Wykeham's Tower. The rest was mere smouldering dunghill.

Bardolph had been spared the crime of arson.

The rebels had been before

him. He had found the castle in the state I have described it, and Master Lambert, the Reve, hanging by the heels from a beech tree, with his skull cleft. The travellers discovered the faithful messenger contemplating this edifying spectacle with mingled philosophy and satisfaction.

At the sight of the steward's corpse Falstaff uttered a piercing cry, and fled.

"Follow him!" cried Bardolph, eagerly (he had caught and appreciated a flying wink from his broken-hearted patron), "or he will do himself a mischief."

The ruined landowner, after some search, was discovered in the orchard with his girdle slung to the arm of a pear tree. Into a noose, at the nether extremity of this, he was about to slip his neck, when his privacy was invaded. The rescuing party uttered a cry of thanksgiving for their timely arrival. They needed not to have hurried themselves. Our hero's inherent good breeding would have induced him to wait for them under any circum

stances.

The merchants tried verbal consolation.

Futile in the extreme! The intending suicide assured them that they had but frustrated his purpose for a time. He could have borne the loss of home and fortune-his friends might judge, from the sole remaining tower, of what a dwelling the rebels had deprived him (though, of course, they could have no conception of the extent of the family jewels, plate, &c.); but what he could not bear was the sight of his faithful steward, hung by the heels like an unclean beast, doubtless as a punishment for his fidelity!

"Bardolph!" sobbed the ruined man. "How we loved him!” "Don't speak of it, sir!"

Bardolph himself was so overcome that he did not venture to show his face, which he concealed within his palms. The latter, it should be stated, were more than capacious enough for the purpose.

"He loved you, Bardolph!"

"Like a mother, sir. But don't!"

The Flemish merchant then tried vinous consolation from his private flask. Falstaff rejected it. Bardolph didn't.

Falstaff- calmed in a measure, but determined-begged of his friends to make the best of their way to London, and leave him to die. He had now nothing left in the world but his sword. That, he was now too brokenhearted to turn to advantage. Would they be kind enough to go, leaving

him their forgiveness for the trouble he had so unwittingly caused them.

That was all! Stay - another boon — a dying man's request. Would they promise to be kind to his faithful Bardolph, the last of a thousand devoted retainers?

"Don't, sir!" that valuable relic gasped, kicking out his right leg spasmodically.

Now, the Lombard creditor, in spite of his being a trader in money, was a good-natured fellow. He hit upon a third and more efficacious means of consolation to wit, the pecuniary.

"Come, Master Falstaff," he said kindly, in the cosmopolite French of the period. “Things are not at the worst. You are young and strong, and, with a good name to back you, may recover lost ground. Who ever knew an outbreak of peasants last over a few days? If a few hundred marks will set you on your legs for a time, they are yours; and no questions about the past till you are ready to answer them. Remember you have promised to bring us to London and show us the Court. We are in your hands.” Jack leaped to his feet and dried his eyes. He was rebuked. This was no time for selfish considerations. His eyes were opened.

"When I reflect," he said, "that, without me, your lives are not safe; that those fierce Kentish rebels will spare nobody, unless guaranteed by the safe conduct of a true man of Kent; for, after all, they must respect my presence -come, gentlemen, I will see you safe to London, and the young king shall hear of your devotion."

What a good sort of fellow this poor ruined, broken-hearted Jack Falstaff was after all!

They led him away from the scene of devastation. At a few paces from the ruins, he declared he must return for a minute or two. His friendly gaolers, for so they had constituted themselves, looked at each other. Was their prisoner to be trusted alone?

"Gentlemen," said Jack, with much earnestness, and real tears starting from his eyes, "I give you my honour, as a man and a soldier, that I will return immediately."

They let him go, and waited for him.

Jack scrambled hastily over a heap of seething fragments, what had once formed the right wing of his father's dwelling, and found himself in a patch of ground sloping down towards the stagnant moat.

It was a wilderness of charred weeds. Nothing remained to tell that the spot had once been a dainty garden.

Yes. One thing.

A hardy Kentish rose-bush still asserted its life above a mass of filth, bricks, and potsherds. It bore one flower.

Jack tore this fiercely from its stem, and concealed it in his bosom, as if he had been stealing a diamond. He hastened to rejoin his companions with the most unconcerned look he could assume.

"What's afoot now ?" growled Bardolph, sotto voce. The worthy henchman was merely anxious to catch the new order of the day, if any.

"Hold your tongue!" said his master angrily, and looking very much ashamed of himself, "Don't speak to me !"

Lady Alice Falstaff had been dead four years. The long loved son who should have closed her bonny blue eyes, was away at the time ;-never mind where, or what doing. The last flower of her pretty garden withered and dried up beneath Jack's doublet. He never noticed its final disappearance: you see his time was so much occupied.

This was the way in which Master John Falstaff came into his property, the residue of which he disposed of some few weeks later for the price of three new suits and a couple of horses, but which he never ceased to speak of as a princely inheritance, of which the troubles in 1381 had deprived him. Of course he found great advantage in this; for such is the inestimable value of rank and possessions, that the mere recollection of them-nay, the bare assertion of imaginary claims to them-will often procure for a gentleman credit and esteem.

The manner of Sir John Falstaff's attaining to the honour of knighthood, is a sequel to the same adventure.

He conducted his foreign guests faithfully towards London, as he had promised. On their way, they were beset by several companies of rebels, amongst whose numbers Jack recognised old acquaintances, to whom he made himself known, and who were glad to let him and his company pass free, for the sake of old times. On all such occasions our hero was careful to have it impressed upon the merchants that they owed their safety entirely to his countenance; and the gratitude of those poor travellers knew no bounds. Still, great precautions were necessary. In the first place, Jack counselled them strongly to destroy all written papers they might have about them; assuring them, that of all public evils, the men of Kent looked upon the art of writing as the greatest, considering it a Norman invention, to which they owed the bulk of their misfortunes. Admitting the policy of this precaution, the merchants destroyed Jack's bonds before his eyes. Next to manuscripts, he assured them the most dangerous thing they could possibly carry about with them was money. He courageously took upon himself the onus of bearing their purses for them, of the contents of which he distributed a