his friend. The young people started when Wenlock was summoned. They were sorry the visit had so soon come to an end.

“We shall see you again,” said Mary, frankly putting out her hand, “and then I will speak to you more of these matters.”

Wenlock of course promised that he would very soon come again. Christison and his son took their way along Cheapside, past old Saint Paul’s, and proceeded down Ludgate Hill.

“You seemed pleased with young Mistress Mead, Wenlock,” said his father.

“Indeed I was,” answered Wenlock. “Though so quiet in manner, she has plenty to say. I never felt more inclined to talk in my life. I have promised to pay another visit as soon as I can, and when we go away, to write to her and give her an account of our adventures.”

“You seem to have made progress in her good graces, Wenlock,” said his father; and as he was a man of the world, it might possibly have occurred to him that when his son should desire a helpmate, fair Mistress Mary might prove a very suitable person. That perfect confidence existed between father and son which induced Wenlock to speak his mind on all occasions and on all subjects. They at length reached their destination, and the old soldier found his friend Lawrence Hargrave at home. In their conversation, which was chiefly on matters political, Wenlock took but little interest, his thoughts indeed being just then occupied chiefly by Mary Mead. He was glad, therefore, when his father announced his intention of returning home. They walked on rapidly, for the night was cold. It was dark also, for the sky was overcast. As they were going along Fleet Street, they heard the sound of horses’ hoofs approaching at a somewhat rapid rate. They drew on one side, when a faint cry of “Help! help!” reached their ears.

“Come on, Wenlock,” shouted the captain, rushing on. Directly before them they saw the outlines of two horses and several persons apparently struggling on the ground. The sounds of “Help! help!” again reached their ears.

“Here is help to whoever is in the right,” cried Christison, drawing his sword.

“I am in the right; the others wish to kill me,” said the same voice.

“No, no; he is a prisoner escaping from justice,” growled a man in a rough voice.

“It is false! Help! I am the Duke—”

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