Threescore and more of the towns-people are slain, sixscore are led away at the horses’ sides, bound with ropes, to be handed over to the infantry for keeping.  Some of these prisoners, even of the armed troopers, are so ignorant and unwarlike as yet, that they know not the meaning of the word “quarter,” refusing it when offered, and imploring “mercy” instead.  Others are little children, for whom a heavy ransom shall yet be paid.  Others, cheaper prisoners, are ransomed on the spot.  Some plunder has also been taken, but the soldiers look longingly on the larger wealth that must be left behind, in the hurry of retreat,—­treasures that, otherwise, no trooper of Rupert’s would have spared:  scarlet cloth, bedding, saddles, cutlery, ironware, hats, shoes, hops for beer, and books to sell to the Oxford scholars.  But the daring which has given them victory now makes their danger;—­they have been nearly twelve hours in the saddle and have fought two actions; they have twenty-five miles to ride, with the whole force of the enemy in their path; they came unseen in the darkness, they must return by daylight and with the alarm already given; Stoken Church-bell has been pealing for hours, the troop from Postcombe has fallen back on Tetsworth, and everywhere in the distance videttes are hurrying from post to post.

The perilous retreat begins.  Ranks are closed; they ride silently; many a man leads a second horse beside him, and one bears in triumph the great captured Puritan standard, with its five buff Bibles on a black ground.  They choose their course more carefully than ever, seek the by-lanes, and swim the rivers with their swords between their teeth.  At one point, in their hushed progress, they hear the sound of rattling wagons.  There is a treasure-train within their reach, worth twenty-one thousand pounds, and destined for the Parliamentary camp, but the thick woods of the Chilterns have sheltered it from pursuit, and they have not a moment to waste; they are riding for their lives.  Already the gathering parties of Roundheads are closing upon them, nearer and nearer, as they approach the most perilous point of the wild expedition, their only return-path across the Cherwell, Chiselhampton Bridge.  Percy and O’Neal with difficulty hold the assailants in check; the case grows desperate at last, and Rupert stands at bay on Chalgrove Field.

It is Sunday morning, June 18th, 1643.  The early church-bells are ringing over all Oxfordshire,—­dying away in the soft air, among the sunny English hills, while Englishmen are drawing near each other with hatred in their hearts,—­dying away, as on that other Sunday, eight months ago, when Baxter, preaching near Edgehill, heard the sounds of battle, and disturbed the rest of his saints by exclaiming, “To the fight!” But here there are no warrior-preachers, no bishops praying in surplices on the one side, no dark-robed divines preaching on horseback on the other, no king in glittering armor,