"True it is now, your Highness. But there'll be a moon this side midnight, and that will be time enough to start. We can make Berkeley before morning--prisoners, crossing the Severn, and all delays notwithstanding. Next night your Highness may sleep in your own bed within the walls of Bristol Castle, with a sweet creature to share it-- whom I need not designate by name." "She _shall_ share it!" rejoined the Royal reprobate, in reckless, but determined tone, his wicked passions fired by the wine he had been drinking. "And we go that way, Colonel. So see that all be ready for the route soon as the moon shows her sweet face. Meanwhile, let us back to our comrades and be merry." Saying which he returned to the chair he had vacated at the head of the table, the other along with him; then, grasping a filled goblet, he called out the Cavalier's orthodox sentiment "The Wenches!" adding,-- "Colonel Lunsford will respond with a song, gentlemen!" Which the Colonel did; giving that they liked best, with a chorus they could all join in,-- "We'll drink, drink; And our goblets clink, Quaffing the blood-red wine. The wenches we'll toast, And the Roundheads we'll roast, The Croppies and all their kind." The coarse refrain, with the ribald jests that followed it, could be heard all over the house, reaching the ears of its imprisoned owner. Even those of his daughters, more distant, did not escape being offended by them. No wonder at both having in their hearts, if not on their lips, the prayer,--"God speed Win upon her errand!" CHAPTER SIXTY ONE. A COURAGEOUS WADER. The Severn was in flood, its wide valley a sheet of water, which extended miles from either bank, and far up north towards Worcester. Viewed from an eminence, it looked as if the primeval sea which once washed the foots of the Malvern Hills had rolled back over its ancient bed. The city of Gloucester seemed standing on an island, some of its houses, that lay low, submerged, and only approachable by boats; while the causeways of the roads leading from it were under water, in places to a depth of several feet. This it was which had hindered Ambrose Powell arriving at Hollymead House many hours earlier than that on which he was taken to it a prisoner. For, soon as receiving news of the re-capture of Monmouth, instinctively apprehending danger to the dear ones so unwisely left alone, he had hurriedly started homeward; to be delayed by the obstructing flood. Nearing home with heart a prey to anxiety, harassed by the thought of his own imprudence; at length reaching it to find his worst fears realised; himself no longer free. The waters still prevailing in the Severn Valley and around Gloucester, it seemed impossible to enter that city, save by boat. Yet on that same night a pedestrian could have been seen making towards it from the direction of Mitcheldean; one who meant it as the objective point of her journey--for it was a woman.