Holles moved on. He had heard odd allusions to this pestilence which was said to be making victims in the outskirts and which it was alleged by some fools was a weapon of warfare wielded by the Dutch--at least, that it was the Dutch who had let it loose in England. But he had paid little heed to the matter, knowing that scaremongers are never lacking. Apparently the citizens of London were of his own way of thinking, if he might judge by the indifferent success attending the hoarse rantings of that preacher of doom. As he moved on, a man of handsome presence and soldierly bearing, with the dress and air of a gentleman, considered him intently with eyes of startled wonder. As Holles came abreast of him, he suddenly stepped forward, detaching from the crowd, and caught the Colonel by the arm. Holles checked, and turned to find himself gravely regarded by this stranger. “Either you are Randal Holles, or else the devil in his shape.” Then Holles knew him--a ghost out of his past, as he was, himself, a ghost out of the past of this other; an old friend, a brother-in-arms of the days of Worcester and Dunbar. “Tucker!” he cried, “Ned Tucker!” And impulsively, his face alight, he held out his hand. The other gripped it firmly. “I must have known you anywhere, Randal, despite the change that time has wrought.” “It has wrought changes in yourself as well. But you would seem to have prospered!” The Colonel’s face was rejuvenated by a look of almost boyish pleasure. “Oh, I am well enough,” said Tucker. “And you?” “As you see.” The other’s grave dark eyes considered him. There fell a silence, an awkward pause between those two, each of whom desired to ask a hundred questions. At last: “I last heard of you in Holland,” said Tucker. “I am but newly home.” The other’s eyebrows went up, a manifestation of surprise. “Whatever can have brought you?” “The war, and the desire to find employment in which I may serve my country.” “And you’ve found it?” The smile on the dark face suggested a scornful doubt which almost made an answer unnecessary. “Not yet.” “It would have moved my wonder if you had. It was a rashness to have returned at all.” He lowered his voice, lest he should be overheard. “The climate of England isn’t healthy at all to old soldiers of the Parliament.” “Yet you are here, Ned.” “I?” Again that slow, half-scornful smile lighted the grave, handsome face. He shrugged. He leaned towards Holles, and dropped his voice still further. “My father was not a regicide,” he said quietly. “Therefore, I am comparatively obscure.” Holles looked at him, the eager pleasure which the meeting had brought him withering in his face. Would men ever keep green the memory of this thing and of the silly tie with which they had garnished it? Must it ever prove an insuperable obstacle to him in Stuart England?