e, Catholics, and devoted
to the royal family.

"This is the king," he said to William Penderell; "you must have a care
of him, and preserve him as you did me."

Thick woodland adjoined the mansion of Whiteladies. Into this the
youthful prince was led by Richard Penderell, one of the brothers. It
was now broad day. Through the forest went the two seeming peasants, to
its farther side, where a broad highway ran past. Here, peering through
the bushes, they saw a troop of horse ride by, evidently not old
soldiers, more like the militia who made up part of Cromwell's army.

These countrified warriors looked around them. Should they enter the
woods? Some of the Scottish rogues, mayhap Charles Stuart, their royal
leader, himself, might be there in hiding. But it had begun to rain, and
by good fortune the shower poured down in torrents upon the woodland,
while little rain fell upon the heath beyond. To the countrymen, who had
but begun to learn the trade of soldiers, the certainty of a dry skin
was better than the forlorn chance of a flying prince. They rode rapidly
on to escape a drenching, much to the relief of the lurking observers.

"The rogues are hunting me close," said the prince, "and by our Lady,
this waterfall isn't of the pleasantest. Let us get back into the thick
of the woods."

Penderell led the way to a dense glade, where he spread a blanket which
he had brought with him under one of the most thick-leaved trees, to
protect the prince from the soaked ground. Hither his sister, Mrs.
Yates, brought a supply of food, consisting of bread, butter, eggs, and
milk. Charles looked at her with grateful eyes.

"My good woman," he said, "can you be faithful to a distressed
cavalier?"

"I will die sooner than betray you," was her devoted answer.

Charles ate his rustic meal with a more hopeful heart than he had had
since leaving Worcester's field. The loyal devotion of these humble
friends cheered him up greatly.

As night came on the rain ceased. No sooner had darkness settled upon
the wood than the prince and his guide started towards the Severn, it
being his purpose to make his way, if possible, into Wales, in some of
whose ports a vessel might be found to take him abroad. Their route took
them past a mill. It was quite dark, yet they could make out the miller
by his white clothes, as he sat at the mill-door. The flour-sprinkled
fellow heard their footsteps in the darkness, and called out,--

"Who goes there?"