But, unfortunately, with Easter came Dr. Rogers’s term of residence, and there is no influence so deadly as that of a bitter and unscrupulous priest who, forgetting his ordination vow to _maintain and set forwards quietness, peace, and love, among all Christian people_, fans the flame of war, or upholds a tyranny that will ultimately ruin his nation. CHAPTER XII. “I know I love in vain, strive against hope, Yet in this captious and intenible sieve, I still pour in the waters of my love.” --Alls Well That Ends Well. Gabriel Harford was not a man who made many friends, his great reserve, and a certain fastidious taste gave him an undeserved reputation for pride and exclusiveness. Moreover, all that he had gone through since Hilary’s angry dismissal had tended to bring out the sterner and sadder side of his nature. He was respected as an indefatigable worker, but few really appreciated him. Fortunately, he had found his complement in Joscelyn Hey-worth, a cheerful, buoyant and extremely sociable young officer, whose friendship had done much to save him from falling a prey to the bitterness too apt to overtake those who defend an unpopular truth. He had also one other firm friend in the regiment--Major Locke, a grey-haired, middle-aged man, who had served in the German wars. The Major was a character, and anyone looking at him as he sat one cold April evening in the chimney corner of a snug room at Gloucester would have fancied from his melancholy voice and long, grave face that he was a most strait-laced Puritan. Voice and face alike belied him, however, for he was, in truth, the wag of the regiment; and an occasional twinkle in his light grey eyes led a few shrewd people to suspect that he usually had a hand in the practical jokes which now and then relieved the tedium of the campaign. His jokes were always of a good-natured order, and had done much to keep up the men’s spirits through that hard winter, with its arduous night marches, its privations and its desultory warfare. Town after town had yielded to Sir William Waller, but the net result of the war was at present small. On this evening the officers had dispersed soon after supper, weary with thirty-six hours of difficult manoeuvring, and one or two sharp skirmishes but they had been triumphantly successful in cutting through Prince Maurice’s army, owing to Waller’s skilful tactics, and all were now inclined to snatch a good night’s rest in the comfortable quarters assigned them at Gloucester. Gabriel, dead beat with sheer hard work, had fallen sound asleep in a high-backed arm-chair by the fire long before the others had satisfied their hunger; he woke, however, with a start as they rose from the table, responding sleepily to the general “good night,” but loth to stir from his nook. “Come, my boy,” said the Major, “why sleep dog-fashion when, for once, you may have a bed like a good Christian?”