ldren, for whom a heavy ransom
shall yet be paid. Others, cheaper prisoners, are ransomed on the spot.
Some plunder has also been taken, but the soldiers look longingly on
the larger wealth that must be left behind, in the hurry of
retreat,--treasures that, otherwise, no trooper of Rupert's would have
spared: scarlet cloth, bedding, saddles, cutlery, ironware, hats, shoes,
hops for beer, and books to sell to the Oxford scholars. But the daring
which has given them victory now makes their danger;--they have been
nearly twelve hours in the saddle and have fought two actions; they have
twenty-five miles to ride, with the whole force of the enemy in their
path; they came unseen in the darkness, they must return by daylight and
with the alarm already given; Stoken Church-bell has been pealing for
hours, the troop from Postcombe has fallen back on Tetsworth, and
everywhere in the distance videttes are hurrying from post to post.

The perilous retreat begins. Ranks are closed; they ride silently; many
a man leads a second horse beside him, and one bears in triumph the
great captured Puritan standard, with its five buff Bibles on a black
ground. They choose their course more carefully than ever, seek the
by-lanes, and swim the rivers with their swords between their teeth. At
one point, in their hushed progress, they hear the sound of rattling
wagons. There is a treasure-train within their reach, worth twenty-one
thousand pounds, and destined for the Parliamentary camp, but the thick
woods of the Chilterns have sheltered it from pursuit, and they have
not a moment to waste; they are riding for their lives. Already the
gathering parties of Roundheads are closing upon them, nearer and
nearer, as they approach the most perilous point of the wild expedition,
their only return-path across the Cherwell, Chiselhampton Bridge. Percy
and O'Neal with difficulty hold the assailants in check; the case grows
desperate at last, and Rupert stands at bay on Chalgrove Field.

It is Sunday morning, June 18th, 1643. The early church-bells are
ringing over all Oxfordshire,--dying away in the soft air, among the
sunny English hills, while Englishmen are drawing near each other with
hatred in their hearts,--dying away, as on that other Sunday, eight
months ago, when Baxter, preaching near Edgehill, heard the sounds of
battle, and disturbed the rest of his saints by exclaiming, "To the
fight!" But here there are no warrior-preachers, no bishops prayin