Nor was all this cunning of his wasted upon chimerical possibilities and feverish fancies, as the event soon proved. It was the day of John Gore’s ride into Battle Town with Mr. Jennifer, and Stephen Gore had fallen asleep on the couch in the kitchen, for he could sleep in the day if not at night. About two o’clock in the afternoon he awoke to find that the fire had burned itself out, for the erstwhile philosopher had much to learn in the simple matter of building a wood fire so that it should not be out in an hour. He scrambled up rather sourly, and was about to cross the court to the wood-lodge when he heard a faint “halloo” coming from the misty stillness of the wooded slopes of the valley. Stephen Gore turned back into the kitchen like a man who has escaped walking over a cliff in the dark, and stood listening a moment with his hand to his ear. Then he pushed the couch away toward the window, and, kneeling, swept the ashes of the fire on to the hearth-stone with his hands, thanking Heaven for the providential perverseness of the thing in burning out while he was asleep. Climbing the lower story of the tower, he looked cautiously through the narrow window to see nearly twenty mounted men coming down over the grass-land at a fast trot. My lord’s knees rubbed together as he recognized the red coats of the two troopers, and the more sombre and magisterial look of the gentry who followed. Days ago Stephen Gore had searched out a hiding-place for himself, and his choice had lighted on nothing cleaner and more distinguished than the chimney in the kitchen. He had climbed up by the chain, despite the soot—he who could hardly wear the same shirt twice in a week—till the throat of the chimney narrowed so that he could use his hands and feet. About fifteen feet from the ground he had discovered a little recess in the brickwork where a man might stand and not be seen by any one looking upward. He had eased the ascent to this possible niche of refuge by knocking in an old nail or two that he had found in one of the out-houses. A great amount of majestic cant has been written about the stately courage of the Gentleman. There are very few Sir Richard Grenvilles in the world, but far more Falstaffs ready to take refuge in the washing-basket at a pinch. To have played the proper heroic part my lord should have gone out calmly to the gate of Thorn and courteously dared these gentry to take him while he lived, or at least to have awaited them with aristocratic composure and delivered up his arms like a great captain surrendering a fortress that he has no longer the power to hold. Such should have been the picturesque setting of the scene, but the meaner impulses of human nature triumphed, and the gentleman Went up the chimney like any sweep’s boy, barking his knees and elbows, and coloring his dignity with most satanic soot.