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Updated: September 23, 2025
Many generations of schoolboys had cut and worn a series of big notches on each side of the wall, and by long practice I could run up and down in a trice to fetch ball or tipcat which had been knocked over. From the bridge at the Hanyards onwards, Mistress Waynflete had always acted promptly and exactly to my wish. I felt a boor, and was in truth a boor, in comparison with her.
Not a soldier, not a living soul, was in sight. "We might have had to skulk here for hours, waiting for an opportunity to cross unseen," said I, on rejoining her, "but our gods above are victorious, and we share their victory. So now for the 'Ring of Bells. There's a gate at the bottom of the hill. Come along, Mistress Waynflete!" She followed me down the hedge-side.
Mistress Waynflete and I had a stiff walk of about nine miles in front of us. For the first three miles our way ran east by north, and then bent almost due east to the ale-house. Our difficulty would come at the bending point, for there we should have to cross the main road from Stafford along which the troops would be filtering north to get into touch with the Prince and his Highlanders.
But I had Mistress Waynflete to consider, and if any appeal was to be made for his assistance, she must make it. I'm afraid that I hoped she wouldn't, since I was jealous of any interference in my temporary responsibility for her welfare. "Master Freake," I said, "some account will, I suppose, have to be given of yon ruffian's death.
Spreading these three or four deep in the far corner of the barn, I covered them thickly with hay, and having reserved a sack on purpose, I stuffed it loosely with hay to serve for a pillow. All this busy time Mistress Waynflete stood on the moonlit door-sill, silent as a mouse, and when I stole quietly up to tell her all was ready, I saw that her hands were clasped in front and her lips moved.
No one stirred, not even a dog barked, as I softly opened the gate and crept, followed by Mistress Waynflete, to the nearest building. I pushed open the door, we entered a barn, and were safe for the night. The moon shone through the open door, and I saw that the barn was empty, probably because the year's crops, as I knew to my sorrow, had been poor indeed in our district.
I bounded up to her and touched her on the arm. "All's well, Mistress Waynflete," said I. "I am as yet no gallows-bird." "But " Her eyes were still staring wide on the road, and she trembled violently, so I stepped between her and the ghastly sight, and said, "Courage, dear lady. The dead man is your father's worst enemy, Major Tixall, and yon horse killed him, not I."
Not an unsuitable frame, perhaps, this ancient, goodly house-place, for the beautiful picture now in it, on which I looked as often as I dared with furtive eyes of admiration. She told her story with simple directness. Her father's name was Christopher Waynflete, a soldier by profession, who had seen service in many parts of the Continent and had attained the rank of Colonel in the Swedish army.
"And where is Joe?" "In the kitchen, Master Noll." "Give him a good supper, not much ale, and that small, and tell him to stop there. I shall want him." Then, turning to Mistress Waynflete, I went on: "There's one way, and only one, into Stafford that's perfectly safe to-night. Joe and I will row you there. Now, mother, I'm hungrier than the great jack ever was."
On this third commission the Prince and Colonel Waynflete had laid great stress. An independent and trustworthy report was, it appeared, of the utmost importance. Finally, as a dependent commission arising out of the first of the duties imposed on me by the Prince, I bore a letter to my Lord Ogilvie from her ladyship. She had summoned me willy-nilly to her room privily.
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