Never had the house-place at the Hanyards looked so fair. The firelight
danced on the black oak wainscot which age and polishing had made like
unto ebony, and the row of pewter plates on the top shelf of the dresser
glimmered in their obscurity like a row of moons. Our special pride, a
spice-cupboard of solid mahogany, ages old, glowed red across the room,
and from the neighbouring wall the great sword and back-and-breast with
which Smite-and-spare-not Wheatman, Captain of Horse, had done service at
Naseby, seemed to twinkle congratulations to me as one not unworthy of my
name. 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. Her mother she had never known, for she had died when
Mistress Margaret was but a few months old, and her father had maintained
an unbroken reticence on the subject. Some six months ago, Colonel
Waynflete had returned to England to settle, desiring to obtain some
military employment, a plan which his long service and professional
knowledge seemed to make feasible. In London he made the acquaintance of
the Earl of Ridgeley, to whom, indeed, he bore a letter of introduction
from a Swedish diplomat in Paris. Through the Earl he had met Lord
Brocton, the Earl's only son and heir. The Colonel's hope of employment in
the army had not been realized, and this and certain other reasons, which
she did not specify, had embittered him against the Government. Not having
any real allegiance to King George, whom he had never served, and who now
refused his services, he easily entered into the plans of certain
influential Jacobites in London whose acquaintance he had made. Three days
previously he had set out from London to join Prince Charles. For certain