Produced by Al Haines [Illustration: Cover art] [Frontispiece: Astbury found himself looking into the black muzzle of a great horse pistol. Frontispiece] [page 102.] A LOST LEADER _A TALE OF RESTORATION DAYS._ BY DOROTHEA TOWNSHEND. "And I but think and speak and do As my dead fathers move me to." R. L. STEVENSON. ILLUSTRATED BY HAROLD PIFFARD PUBLISHED UNDER THE DIRECTION OF THE GENERAL LITERATURE COMMITTEE. LONDON: SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE, NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, W.C.; 43, QUEEN VICTORIA STREET, E.C. BRIGHTON: 129, NORTH STREET. NEW YORK: E. & J. B. YOUNG AND CO. CONTENTS. CHAPTER Prologue--"Under which King?" I. Vae Victis! II. A Noble Enemy III. The End of a Regicide IV. The Pleasant Isle of Avès V. Hidden Worth VI. An Old Acquaintance VII. Fate at Work VIII. The Queen returns to Hunstanton IX. A Precious Thing discovered late X. Escape XI. A Candid Minister XII. The Ghost of Hunstanton Place XIII. A Visionary XIV. Fate's Sequel Notes A LOST LEADER. PROLOGUE. "UNDER WHICH KING?" One December evening, in the year 1648, the little town of Farnham showed unusual signs of life. Troopers were dismounting and leading their horses away to their stables, or were lounging at the doors of the houses where they were quartered, and a crowd of curious country folk and villagers gathered to stare at them, and even to put questions to the more affable-looking of the steel-coated soldiers. The press was greatest round the entrance of a house of the better class that stood back from the street with all the dignity that a flagged forecourt and a couple of high brick gate-pillars could lend it. There the sentries, who were stationed at the door, had some ado to keep back the curious throng, and many a sturdy country farmer shouldered his way into the house in the wake of his squire to catch a glimpse of his king, the ill-fated King Charles, who was to rest that night at Farnham on his last journey from the prison at Hurst Castle to the scaffold at Whitehall. "Be there no chance of seeing his blessed Majesty this even, Master Clarke?" whispered an old woman, clutching the arm of a good-natured neighbour. "No, dame, no, he be a-going to his supper, folks say, and they won't let none into his parlour but gentry, save these here lobsters as go where they please, and hold themselves as good as gentlefolk, rot 'em!" These uncomplimentary remarks were not said in a loud enough tone for the sentry to overhear, but they gave great satisfaction to the old woman who nodded agreement, and wiped her eyes with her apron. "Do'e think now they'll let us get a sight on him in the morning?" she quavered. "Ay, ay, they can scarce stop it; he must needs pass out this way to come to his horse. But I reckon they must feel mighty vexed to see how the folk press to get a sight on him, God bless him."