He was now, however, in hot pursuit of two men—one a Nonconformist divine, named Hicks; the other a lawyer, Richard Nelthorp, an outlaw, who had made himself obnoxious by being concerned in the Rye House plot. These men, it is needless to say, Jeffreys was resolved to pursue to the death. In a fine old mansion, encompassed by a closely wooded park of a century’s growth, dwelt the Lady Alice Lisle. She was the widow of John Lisle, who had held a commission under Cromwell, and had also sat in the Long Parliament. He had been created a Lord by Cromwell, and the title of Lady was still courteously assigned to his widow, for she was one greatly beloved by all persons and parties, both Whig and Tory, for her many excellent qualities, and was also nearly allied to many noble families. It was near the close of a beautiful autumnal day, that the Lady Alice, clad in deep mourning weeds, might be seen passing slowly beneath the dark foliage of those venerable trees, stretching in such primeval grandeur far on either side her domain. The chastened radiance of the setting sun here and there burnished the almost motionless leaves with gold, or stealing athwart the mossy trunks, and over the deep green sward, mildly illumined the forest aisles, seeming thereby as paths angels might love to tread. The only companion of the lady was a child—a beautiful boy of perhaps six years old—an orphan, whom the kind Lady Alice had taken under her protection, and who now, far from partaking in the seriousness of his benefactress, skipped and gamboled before her in wild and happy recklessness—now springing like a fawn into the path before her from behind some leafy screen, where for a moment he had lain concealed, or striving to attract attention by his childish prattle as he bounded playfully at her side. As heedless to the deepening twilight as she seemed to all else around her, the Lady Alice had proceeded further into the depths of the wood than was her usual custom, when she was suddenly aroused to the lateness of the hour by a scream from little Edwin, who, burying his face in the folds of her mantle, cried, “O run, dear lady, run—bad men—ah, they will kill us!” “What are you talking of, Edwin?” she answered, taking his hand—“who will kill us? We shall soon be at the Hall; fie, boy, are you afraid because the sun has set, and the old woods grown dark! Ah, is this my little hero!” “But, lady, I see men—bad, wicked men; there, lady, there,” pointing, as he spoke, to a clump of low oaks. “Foolish boy, it is only an owl!” said the lady, now turning to retrace her steps. At that moment two men sprung from out the thicket and stood in her path. Well might that lady tremble, alone and unprotected in the deep, dark wood, yet in tones well belieing her fears, she unfalteringly bade them stand aside, and give passage to herself and the pale, timid child she led by the hand.