ath. It was on the tenth day of February, in the year of
our Lord 1685, I was busy with my dear friends, the youths under my
charge, in the Campus Martius (which was a level space of ground in
one of the glebe fields by the side of the river, whereon we performed
our exercises of running, jumping, wrestling, and other athletic
exercitations), when we were startled by the hearing the sound of many
horses galloping up the hill above the village; and looking over the
hedge on to the road, we saw a cavalier going very fast on a fine
black horse, which had fire in its eyes and nostrils, as the poet
says, followed by a goodly train of serving-men, all well mounted, and
proceeding at the same rate. We went on with our games for an hour or
two, when all at once I was peremptorily sent for to go to my house
without delay; and accordingly I hurried homewards, much marvelling
what the summons could portend. I went into my study, and sitting in
my arm-chair I saw the great Lady Mallerden; but she was so deep in
thought, that for some minutes she kept me standing, and waiting her
commands. At last she started to herself, and ordered me to be seated,
and in her rapid glancing manner began to speak--

"I have been visited by my son, who rode post haste from London to
tell me the king was dead. He has been dead four days."

I was astonished and much saddened at the news.

"Sorry--yes--but there is no time for sorrow," said the noble lady;
"we must be up and doing. We are betrayed."

"Did your son, the noble Viscount Mallerden, tell you this?"

"He is one of the betrayers--know you not what manner of man he
is?--Then I will tell you." And here a strange light flashed from
her eyes, and her lips became compressed till all the colour
disappeared--"He is a viper that stung me once--and would sting me
again if I took him to my bosom, and laid it open for his poisonous
tooth. I tell you the Lord Mallerden is a godless, hopeless, faithless
man--bound hand and foot to the footstool of the despotic, cruel
monster--the Jesuit who has now his foot upon the English throne. He
is a Papist, fiercer, bitterer, crueller, because he has no belief
neither in priest nor pope--but he is ambitious, reckless, base, a
courtier. He prideth himself in his shame, and says he has openly
professed. It is to please the hypocritical master he serves. And he
boasts that our late king--defender of the faith--was shrived on his
deathbed by a Popish friar."

"I