This conversation, with which there was no interference on the part of their captors, was brought to a conclusion by their arrival at the main road. Here a halt was called and the bugle was sounded, again to be answered, as before, from different directions. “Dismount,” said the officer to Armstrong, whereupon the latter, without a word, sprang to the ground. Against the next move he protested, but his opposition was unavailing and indeed unreplied to. The officer gave the lady and the two horses in charge of a party of six, with orders to take them to Lichfield and install them in the cathedral. A guard was to be set at the door, and no communication was to be allowed with any one outside. Orders from headquarters were to the effect that the lady was to be treated with every deference, and these orders were impressed upon the six men. The detached squad disappeared down the road in the fog, and Armstrong stood disconsolate and angry, but helpless, surrounded by troopers. The monotony of waiting was relieved by the frequent arrival of companies from the east and from the west, who did not stay at the cross-roads, however, but marched south toward Sutton Coldfield and Birmingham. Thus the little company standing at arms was continually augmented, and continually reduced to its original size. It was waiting for some one higher in command than the mild lieutenant, and nearly two hours passed before this man, set in authority, arrived. Armstrong heard the trampling of horse to the south, and presently the sound of voices became quite audible through the fog. There seemed to be a dispute going forward, which was something unusual in the Parliamentary forces, where, if discipline appeared lax, instant obedience was invariably required. “I tell you, Colonel, I am to take charge of the lady and escort her to Cromwell.” “I have no orders to that effect.” “I have come direct from Cromwell, and those were his orders.” “I do not take orders from you. I hold written instructions relating to both the man and the woman, and these I shall carry out.” “You will be wise to hang the man on the nearest tree, and take his papers to Cromwell.” To this there was no reply, and Armstrong now knew that De Courcy had not been so badly hurt as he had pretended, for he had taken a long ride to the North since then. The prisoner recognized his voice long before his cavalier costume emerged from the mist. De Courcy had not changed his apparel, and it formed a strange contrast to the Parliamentary uniform, as indeed did Armstrong’s own dress. “Ah, my young friend,” cried De Courcy, the moment he recognized the prisoner, “you had your laugh in the morning, and I have mine in the evening.” “There is a time for everything,” replied Armstrong indifferently, “and my time for laughing is in the morning. It is brighter then.” “Yes, it looks rather dark for you at the moment, and you seem less merry than when I met you earlier.”