The Buccaneer - A Tale

Vain is the bugle horn,

Where trumpets men to manly work invite!

That distant summons seems to say, in scorn,

We hunters may be hunted hard ere night.

SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT

Constantia Cecil watched with much anxiety the progress of the carriages

and horsemen which composed the train and body-guard of the Protector,

as they passed slowly along the road that led to Cecil Place. A troop,

consisting of twenty men, preceded; their bright arms, and caps, and

cuirasses, reflecting back the blaze of the setting sun, like so many

burnished mirrors. Then came Cromwell's own carriage, drawn by four

strong black horses;--they had need of strength, dragging, as they did,

a weight of plated iron, of which the cumbrous machine was composed. The

windows were remarkably narrow, and formed of the thickest glass, within

which was a layer of horn, that, if it were shattered by any rude

assault, would prevent the fragments from flying to the inside. Behind

this carriage rode four mounted soldiers; it was succeeded by another,

and at each side a horseman rode; a third conveyance, the blinds of

which were closely drawn, brought up the procession; and behind this was

only a single soldier. At some distance, perfectly unattended, and

seeming as if unconnected with the party, came the simple vehicle of the

Jew Manasseh Ben Israel. However great was Cromwell's partiality for

this learned and distinguished man, he was fully aware of the impolicy

of permitting one of so despised a race to associate with him publicly,

or to travel abroad under his direct protection.

Frances Cromwell joined her friend at the window from whence she looked,

and at once congratulated her on the tranquillity Sir Robert had enjoyed

during the last two hours.

"The physician has done much," she replied; "yet I can hardly trust

myself to cherish any feeling that tells of peace or hope. Dearest

Frances! what will be the fate of your poor friend?"

Constantia hid her face on the Lady Cromwell's shoulder, and wept; but

her grief appeared of a less feverish kind than heretofore.

"Hope for the best--my father can work marvels when he wills. He may

read all right; and as yet you are unwedded."

"He cannot restore the sweet life of one I loved so dearly,--one whose

place I can never see filled, and upon whose innocent countenance I can

ne'er again look."

"I wonder who is in my father's carriage?--Colonel Jones, I dare say,

and a couple more of the same severe cast," observed Lady Frances,

trying to divert her friend's attention from the thought of poor

Barbara; "not a joyful face amongst a troop of them; the very soldiers

look like masses of grey stone, stuck on the horses' backs with iron

paste."