“Miss Hilary, such news!” cried the housekeeper, her fat face wreathed in smiles. “Haste, my dear, and hear it all from the Bishop’s secretary who is talking to the mistress at the front door. He is going to ride straight over to Whitbourne and tell his lordship.” “But what is it, Durdle? What has happened?” “Why, thank God! the Roundheads have been beaten near Worcester--go and hear what Mr. Jenkinson is telling of the rout.” Hilary clapped her hands with delight. “Good new’s, indeed! come, Gabriel, let us hear all about it,” and she ran into the house eagerly. “Let me take the basket, sir,” said Durdle, expecting Gabriel to follow her. But he shook his head, and himself carried the fruit to the still-room, leaving the housekeeper to bustle after Hilary, all agog to hear the details of the fight. The still-room was cool and shady; great bunches of lavender were hanging from the ceiling, and a tray full of dead rose petals spread to dry was on the window seat. He set the basket of apricots on the spotless deal table and began to pace to and fro in miserable agitation. All desire to know the details of this battle was held in check by the perception that the parting of the ways had come, and that from henceforth the sympathy between him and the woman he loved was gravely broken. Who could have thought that Hilary of all people would be so deeply stirred by any public news? She had never been roused to take interest in the wrongs and grievances under which England had so long groaned. How was it that the news of fighting should awake, not only her interest, but her keen partisanship? It was with a pang that he saw her radiant face as she rejoined him. He had known her too long and too well to imagine that she was faultless, but her rapture now gave the first shock to his belief in her perfect womanliness. “Why did you not come and hear for yourself?” she cried, gaily. “Prince Rupert has beaten the Roundheads at Powick Bridge, near Worcester. None of our men are killed, but fifty of theirs, and the rest have fled helter-skelter, like the cowardly traitors they are.” “Nay, an you gloat in that fashion over the slaughter of your own countrymen, I will not stay to listen,” said Gabriel, his eyes flashing with anger. Hilary had thrown aside her sun-bonnet, and was drawing a chair to the table that she might sit down and begin the stoning of the apricots. She paused, however, aghast at his look and tone. “I disown them for my countrymen,” she said quickly; “they are traitors.” “If you knew more about them you would see that they desire only to save the country from ruin and to save the King from his evil counsellors,” said Gabriel. “Do you think men like Mr. John Hampden and my Lord Brooke and Sir Robert Harley and the other leading Parliamentarians are to be dubbed traitors and overcrowed by a young German prince, who doth not in any way understand the liberties of England?”