At a sign from the Lord-General, Wildrake approached him as before. “Comrade,” he said, “your old friends the cavaliers look on me as their enemy, and conduct themselves towards me as if they desired to make me such. I profess they are labouring to their own prejudice; for I regard, and have ever regarded them, as honest and honourable fools, who were silly enough to run their necks into nooses and their heads against stonewalls, that a man called Stewart, and no other, should be king over them. Fools! are there no words made of letters that would sound as well as Charles Stewart, with that magic title beside them? Why, the word King is like a lighted lamp, that throws the same bright gilding upon any combination of the alphabet, and yet you must shed your blood for a name! But thou, for thy part, shalt have no wrong from me. Here is an order, well warranted, to clear the Lodge at Woodstock, and abandon it to thy master’s keeping, or those whom he shall appoint. He will have his uncle and pretty cousin with him, doubtless. Fare thee well—think on what I told thee. They say beauty is a loadstone to yonder long lad thou dost wot of; but I reckon he has other stars at present to direct his course than bright eyes and fair hair. Be it as it may, thou knowst my purpose—peer out, peer out; keep a constant and careful look-out on every ragged patch that wanders by hedge-row or lane—these are days when a beggar’s cloak may cover a king’s ransom. There are some broad Portugal pieces for thee—something strange to thy pouch, I ween.—Once more, think on what thou hast heard, and,” he added, in a lower and more impressive tone of voice, “forget what thou hast seen. My service to thy master;—and, yet once again, _remember_—and _forget_.”—Wildrake made his obeisance, and, returning to his inn, left Windsor with all possible speed. It was afternoon in the same day when the cavalier rejoined his round-head friend, who was anxiously expecting him at the inn in Woodstock appointed for their rendezvous. “Where hast thou been?—what hast thou seen?—what strange uncertainty is in thy looks?—and why dost thou not answer me?” “Because,” said Wildrake, laying aside his riding cloak and rapier, “you ask so many questions at once. A man has but one tongue to answer with, and mine is well-nigh glued to the roof of my mouth.” “Will drink unloosen it?” said the Colonel; “though I dare say thou hast tried that spell at every ale-house on the road. Call for what thou wouldst have, man, only be quick.” “Colonel Everard,” answered Wildrake, “I have not tasted so much as a cup of cold water this day.” “Then thou art out of humour for that reason,” said the Colonel; “salve thy sore with brandy, if thou wilt, but leave being so fantastic and unlike to thyself, as thou showest in this silent mood.” “Colonel Everard,” replied the cavalier, very gravely, “I am an altered man.”