"My Lord Feversham may have a word to say on that point," I answered coldly. "For the rest, I take my chance." Just then the drums began to beat, and so I turned upon my heel and left him, as he stood there clawing at the air with rage. Going out I mounted Kitty, and, with my back towards those scenes of butchery, galloped forth for Lyme. *CHAPTER XXII* *In which I become a Prisoner* I found all well at home, though Lyme itself was trembling with fear; as well it might, considering the active part which it had played in Monmouth’s luckless venture. The little town, which but a month before had been as blithe as any in the kingdom, now lay beneath a cloud of jeopardy. Indeed, the place seemed half-deserted, for scores of its inhabitants had fled the wrath to come; while those who still remained crept in and out with frightened looks, and trembled when a horseman clattered through the cobbled streets. Many questioned me about the late rebellion, and not a few, with tearful eyes, implored me to protect them; but, though I strove to soothe them, the comfort that I could offer was a poor, cold thing indeed. For what was I? A youth who, without zeal therein--to serve his own ends, that is--had fought upon the winning side; then, for good reasons, had thrown up the business, and thereby brought upon his head the dire displeasure of a man who, by acts of vilest, wanton cruelty, was mounting higher every day into the royal pleasure. I, who had started out from Lyme three weeks before in search of great revenge, had found it--or at least a part thereof--yet what had it availed me? Nothing. And here, as one who proved its truth to the uttermost, I put on record that revenge when won is but an empty husk. The striving after it is all that counts (that well may stir the blood and make a man a demon, as indeed it does); but the thing itself, when gained, is worse than vanity. Thus when news came that Ferguson (plotting to the end) had managed to escape from England, the tidings moved me little, and though, had I met him then, I would still have killed him, the keen desire to hunt him down at any price had vanished. The days and weeks sped by, and I (sad at heart and feeling older by some years) went to and fro, unhindered, on my business, until at last it seemed that, after all, Kirke’s threat had either been an empty one or clean forgotten. But like a thunder-clap there came the proof that this was not so; and also that one Robert Ferguson, for all his dash for life, had yet contrived to work me mischief. One day towards the end of August (on the twenty-seventh of that month, to be exact) a troop of horse drew up before The Havering, and, when I went forth to enquire the cause of it, a captain, with a paper in his hand, strode up to me. "Are you Cornet Michael Fane?" he asked.