The man was flourishing his sword with as much apparent knowledge of how to use it as if it had been a marlin-spike.  Ralph pushed it aside with a stout stick that he carried, and was passing on, when the singing soldier came up and said, “Never mind his name; but whether he be Presbyter Jack or Quaker George, he must drink to the health of the King.  Here,” he cried, filling a drinking-cup from the bottle in his hand, “drink to King Charles and his glory!”

Ralph took the cup, and, pretending to raise it to his lips, cast its contents by a quick gesture over his shoulder, where the liquor fell full in the face of the Shadow, who had at that moment crept up behind him.  The soldiers were too drunk to perceive what he had done, and permitted him to go by without further molestation.  As he walked on he heard from behind another stave of the ballad, which told how—­

     This Oliver was of Huntingdon
       (Fa la la la),
     Born he was a brewer’s son
       (Fa la la la),
     He soon forsook the dray and sling,
     And counted the brewhouse a petty thing
     Unto the stately throne of a king
       (Fa la la la).

“What did the great man himself say?” asked the Shadow, stepping up to Ralph’s side.  “He said, ’I would rather have a plain, russet-coated captain who knows what he fights for, and loves what he knows, than what you call a gentleman.’  And he was right, eh?”

“God knows,” said Ralph, and turned aside.

He had stopped to look into the middle of a small crowd that had gathered about the corner of the Bridge Lane.  A blind fiddler sat on a stool there and played sprightly airs.  His hearers consisted chiefly of men and boys.  But among them was one young girl in bright ribbons, who was clearly an outcast of the streets.  Despite her gay costume, she had a wistful look in her dark eyes, as of one who was on the point of breaking into tears.

The dance tunes suddenly came to an end, and were followed by the long and solemn sweeps of a simple old hymn such as had been known in many an English home for many an age.  Gradually the music rose and fell, and then gently, and before any were aware, a sweet, low, girlish voice took up the burden and sang the words.  It was the girl of the streets who sang.  Was it the memory of some village home that these chords had awakened?  Was it the vision of her younger and purer days that came back to her amid the gayeties of this night—­of the hamlet, the church, the choir, and of herself singing there?

The hymn melted the hearts of many that stood around, and tears now stood in the singer’s downcast eyes.

* * * * *

At that hour of that night, in the solitary homestead far north, among the hills, what was Rotha’s travail of soul?

* * * * *

Ralph dropped his head, and felt something surging in his throat.