A dozen horsemen splashed their way across the stream, and with swords and pistols drove through the King’s assailants and surrounded his coach. The ruffians made an attempt to rally and resist the onset, but presently broke and ran, pursued by a half-dozen of his Majesty’s defenders. Five of the assailants were killed and several were wounded. As Lord Rippingdale turned to Charles to raise him, the coach-door was opened upon the other side, a light was thrust in, and over the unconscious body of the King my lord recognised John Enderby. “His Majesty”--began John Enderby. “His Majesty is better,” replied Lord Rippingdale, as the King’s eyes half opened. “You lead these gentlemen? This should bring you a barony,--Sir John,” my lord added, half graciously, half satirically; for the honest truth of this man’s nature vexed him. “The King will thank you.” “John Enderby wants no reward for being a loyal subject, my lord,” answered Enderby. Then with another glance at the King, in which he knew that his Majesty was recovered, he took off his hat, bowed, and, mounting his horse, rode away without a word. At Sutterby the gentlemen received gracious thanks of the King who had been here delivered from the first act of violence made against him in his reign. Of the part which Enderby had played Lord Rippingdale said no more to the King than this: “Sir John Enderby was of these gentlemen who saved your Majesty’s life. Might it not seem to your Majesty that--” “Was he of them?” interrupted the King kindly; then, all at once, out of his hurt vanity and narrow self-will, he added petulantly: “When he hath paid for the accolade of his knighthood, then will we welcome him to us, and make him Baron of Enderby.” Next day when Enderby entered the great iron gates of the grounds of Enderby House the bell was ringing for noon. The house was long and low, with a fine tower in the centre, and two wings ran back, forming the court-yard, which would have been entirely inclosed had the stables moved up to complete the square. When Enderby came out into the broad sweep of grass and lawn, flanked on either side by commendable trees, the sun shining brightly, the rooks flying overhead, and the smell of ripe summer in the air, he drew up his horse and sat looking before him. “To lose it! To lose it!” he said, and a frown gathered upon his forehead. Even as he looked, the figure of a girl appeared in the great doorway. Catching sight of the horseman, she clapped her hands and waved them delightedly. Enderby’s face cleared, as the sun breaks through a mass of clouds and lightens all the landscape. The slumberous eyes glowed, the square head came up. In five minutes he had dismounted at the great stone steps and was clasping his daughter in his arms. “Felicity, my dear daughter!” he said, tenderly and gravely. She threw back her head with a gaiety which bespoke the bubbling laughter in her heart, and said: