Falstaff appeared to brighten at the proposal. Yes, he declared, there was hope in it. The people had been wronged and oppressed, and there was some excuse for their violence in certain quarters. But when he reflected what indulgent, beneficent masters--if, indeed, parents were not the fitter word--his ancestors had always been to their tenants:--no! for the sake of human nature, he could not believe in such black ingratitude as to suppose Falstaff had come to any harm. It would still be in his power to give his friends a cordial welcome. He led the way almost cheerfully, deploring only that the journey must be performed on foot. At the first opportunity he whispered Bardolph, “Slip on before us, borrow a horse, steal an ass, or run like mad. The lads may have spared the old den for my sake. If you find it standing, set a light to every room. I’ll detain these gulls so as to give you time. Burn every stick and rag except Wykeham’s tower. Fire won’t touch that.” Exit Bardolph in advance at a brisk trot. His master explained. “I have sent him on to herald us, and to meet us with horses; if, as I still hope, honesty and good faith be not extinct upon earth.” Our hero was taken ill frequently on the road; the result of his agitation and irrepressible misgivings. It was found necessary to solace him with repose by the wayside, and refreshments from the private stores of his companions. “Oh, my friends!” said Jack, in a voice wherein gratitude struggled bravely against exhaustion; “How shall I ever repay you for this kindness? And if it should be too late--too late!” “Come! come! Don’t give way. We cannot have far to go now. We shall soon know the worst.” “True! let me strive to be a man, and remember that I am answerable for the safety of others.” They reached Maldyke, six miles from Falstaff. Here the sight of a goodly castellated mansion, gutted and smoking in the centre of a forest of charcoal, reduced our hero to a state of prostration. He threw himself on his face, imploring, as a last act of friendship, that his companions should despatch him with their knives. The gateway of this mansion was situated on the public road. From the raised portcullis of this gateway swung a human body, dead, and half-naked. Yesterday, this estate had belonged to Sir Simon Ballard. To-day, Sir Simon was its sole remaining occupant. But the rebels had hanged him by the neck, and he was dead. Falstaff groaned piteously. “Rouse, man, rouse!” said the Fleming. “Surely this is not your castle?” “It’s--it’s--” sobbed Jack, spasmodically; “it’s one of them!!!” Then, falling upon his knees before the corpse of his old enemy, he clasped his hands, and exclaimed, piteously, “My poor uncle! my poor uncle George! And is this the reward for your devotion to my interests?” The two merchants led him away compassionately. For several roods they passed through the crops and woodlands of the ill-fated Ballard. The rebels had spared nothing.