be Presbyter Jack or Quaker George, he must drink to the health of the
King. Here," he cried, filling a drinking-cup from the bottle in his
hand, "drink to King Charles and his glory!"

Ralph took the cup, and, pretending to raise it to his lips, cast its
contents by a quick gesture over his shoulder, where the liquor fell
full in the face of the Shadow, who had at that moment crept up behind
him. The soldiers were too drunk to perceive what he had done, and
permitted him to go by without further molestation. As he walked on he
heard from behind another stave of the ballad, which told how--

This Oliver was of Huntingdon
(Fa la la la),
Born he was a brewer's son
(Fa la la la),
He soon forsook the dray and sling,
And counted the brewhouse a petty thing
Unto the stately throne of a king
(Fa la la la).

"What did the great man himself say?" asked the Shadow, stepping up to
Ralph's side. "He said, 'I would rather have a plain, russet-coated
captain who knows what he fights for, and loves what he knows, than
what you call a gentleman.' And he was right, eh?"

"God knows," said Ralph, and turned aside.

He had stopped to look into the middle of a small crowd that had
gathered about the corner of the Bridge Lane. A blind fiddler sat on a
stool there and played sprightly airs. His hearers consisted chiefly