was broken by a slash from a brown
bill, and he was borne to the ground. He expected immediate death, but
such did not seem to be the intention of the ruffians who had captured
him. He was placed upon the back of his own charger and borne, bound
hand and foot, over the trackless moor, in the fastnesses of which the
rebels secreted themselves.

"In the depths of these wilds there stood a stone building which had
once been a farmhouse, but having been for some reason abandoned had
fallen into ruin, and had now become the headquarters of Cade and his
men. A large cowhouse near the farm had been utilised as sleeping
quarters, and some rough attempts had been made to shield the principal
room of the main building from the weather by stopping up the gaping
apertures in the walls. In this apartment was spread out a rough meal
for the returning rebels, and our hero was thrown, still bound, into an
empty outhouse, there to await his fate."

Sir Walter had been listening with the greatest impatience to Bulwer
Lytton's narrative, but when it had reached this point he broke in
impatiently.

"We want a touch of your own style, man," he said. "The
animal-magnetico-electro-hysterical-biological-mysterious sort of story
is all your own, but at present you are just a poor copy of myself, and
nothing more."

There was a murmur of assent from the company, and Defoe remarked,
"Truly, Master Lytton, there is a plaguey resemblance in the style,
which may indeed be but a chance, and yet methinks it is sufficiently
marked to warrant such words as our friend hath used."

"Perhaps you will think that this is an imitation also," said Lytton
bitterly, and leaning back in his chair with a morose countenance, he
continued the narrative in this way:--

"Our unfortunate hero had hardly stretched himself upon the straw with
which his dungeon was littered, when a secret door opened in the wall
and a venerable old man swept majestically into the apartment. The
prisoner gazed upon him with astonishment not unmixed with awe, for on
his broad brow was printed the seal of much knowledge--such knowledge as
it is not granted to a son of man to know. He was clad in a long white
robe, crossed and chequered with mystic devices in the Arabic character,
while a high scarlet tiara marked with the square and circle enhanced
his venerable appearance. 'My son,' he said, turning his piercing and
yet dreamy gaze upon Sir Overbeck, 'all things lead to nothing, and