“Do not fear me, sir,” said Wildrake, whose natural boldness and carelessness of character was for the present time borne down and quelled, like that of falcon’s in the presence of the eagle. “Hear me, then,” said Cromwell, “and let no syllable escape thee. Knowest thou not the young Lee, whom they call Albert, a malignant like his father, and one who went up with the young Man to that last ruffle which we had with him at Worcester—May we be grateful for the victory!” “I know there is such a young gentleman as Albert Lee,” said Wildrake. “And knowest thou not—I speak not by way of prying into the good Colonel’s secrets, but only as it behoves me to know something of the matter, that I may best judge how I am to serve him—Knowest thou not that thy master, Markham Everard, is a suitor after the sister of this same malignant, a daughter of the old Keeper, called Sir Henry Lee?” “All this I have heard,” said Wildrake, “nor can I deny that I believe in it.” “Well then, go to.—When the young man Charles Stewart fled from the field of Worcester, and was by sharp chase and pursuit compelled to separate himself from his followers, I know by sure intelligence that this Albert Lee was one of the last who remained with him, if not indeed the very last.” “It was devilish like him,” said the cavalier, without sufficiently weighing his expressions, considering in what presence they were to be uttered—“And I’ll uphold him with my rapier, to be a true chip of the old block!” “Ha, swearest thou?” said the General. “Is this thy reformation?” “I never swear, so please you,” replied Wildrake, recollecting himself, “except there is some mention of malignants and cavaliers in my hearing; and then the old habit returns, and I swear like one of Goring’s troopers.” “Out upon thee,” said the General; “what can it avail thee to practise a profanity so horrible to the ears of others, and which brings no emolument to him who uses it?” “There are, doubtless, more profitable sins in the world than the barren and unprofitable vice of swearing,” was the answer which rose to the lips of the cavalier; but that was exchanged for a profession of regret for having given offence. The truth was, the discourse began to take a turn which rendered it more interesting than ever to Wildrake, who therefore determined not to lose the opportunity for obtaining possession of the secret that seemed to be suspended on Cromwells lips; and that could only be through means of keeping guard upon his own. “What sort of a house is Woodstock?” said the General, abruptly. “An old mansion,” said Wildrake, in reply; “and, so far as I could judge by a single night’s lodgings, having abundance of backstairs, also subterranean passages, and all the communications under ground, which are common in old raven-nests of the sort.” “And places for concealing priests, unquestionably,” said Cromwell. “It is seldom that such ancient houses lack secret stalls wherein to mew up these calves of Bethel.”