But if Everard thought of anything saving the painful scene in which he had just played his part, and of which the result seemed the destruction of all his hopes, it was of the necessary guard to be observed in his night-walk. The times were dangerous and unsettled; the roads full of disbanded soldiers, and especially of royalists, who made their political opinions a pretext for disturbing the country with marauding parties and robberies. Deer-stealers also, who are ever a desperate banditti, had of late infested Woodstock Chase. In short, the dangers of the place and period were such, that Markham Everard wore his loaded pistols at his belt, and carried his drawn sword under his arm, that he might be prepared for whatever peril should cross his path. He heard the bells of Woodstock Church ring curfew, just as he was crossing one of the little meadows we have described, and they ceased as he entered an overshadowed and twilight part of the path beyond. It was there that he heard some one whistling; and, as the sound became clearer, it was plain the person was advancing towards him. This could hardly be a friend; for the party to which he belonged rejected, generally speaking, all music, unless psalmody. “If a man is merry, let him sing psalms,” was a text which they were pleased to interpret as literally and to as little purpose as they did some others; yet it was too continued a sound to be a signal amongst night-walkers, and too light and cheerful to argue any purpose of concealment on the part of the traveller, who presently exchanged his whistling for singing, and trolled forth the following stanza to a jolly tune, with which the old cavaliers were wont to wake the night owl: Hey for cavaliers! Ho for cavaliers! Pray for cavaliers! Rub a dub—rub a dub! Have at old Beelzebub— Oliver smokes for fear. “I should know that voice,” said Everard, uncocking the pistol which he had drawn from his belt, but continuing to hold it in his hand. Then came another fragment: Hash them—slash them— All to pieces dash them. “So ho!” cried Markham, “who goes there, and for whom?” “For Church and King,” answered a voice, which presently added, “No, d—n me—I mean _against_ Church and King, and for the people that are uppermost—I forget which they are.” “Roger Wildrake, as I guess?” said Everard. “The same—Gentleman; of Squattlesea-mere, in the moist county of Lincoln.” “Wildrake!” said Markham—“Wildgoose you should be called. You have been moistening your own throat to some purpose, and using it to gabble tunes very suitable to the times, to be sure!” “Faith, the tune’s a pretty tune enough, Mark, only out of fashion a little—the more’s the pity.” “What could I expect,” said Everard, “but to meet some ranting, drunken cavalier, as desperate and dangerous as night and sack usually make them? What if I had rewarded your melody by a ball in the gullet?”