CHAPTER XVIII.-Marston Moor.

HE day after my return to Plymouth, an orderly brought Colonel Marten a sealed packet. Rumour, and then certain news, of the great battle of Marston Moor, had already reached us, and the success of the Parliament there somewhat soothed our troubled spirits, in our discomfiture in the West. Had I known then, what I know now, I should have had small reason to be comforted!

I opened the packet with as pleasurable feelings as can come to a man, who, having received a great and unexpected check in his work, hopes to find solace in the love of his family. I expected another of Lettice's pretty letters, or one of the firm, kind, manly epistles of my father. It was neither; but a letter written all over one side of a large sheet of paper, in a hand I could not recognise, with something solemn and official-looking about it. Here it is:

"Lieutenant Holbeck, Sir:

"The great battle that has been yesterday fought between the King's forces and the army of the Parliament has been very disastrous to you.

"The manner of the action was in this wise. The King's nephew, Prince Rupert, collected a considerable force to relieve York, which we of the Parliament had strongly invested; and with Sir Charles Lucas, who commanded the Marquis of Newcastle's horse, he had a force of twenty thousand men. The Parliament's army abandoning the siege, drew up on Marston Moor, five miles and a half north-east of Tadcaster, a place that may be known to you. Our force consisted of the Scots, under Leven; those of the Earl of Manchester, under my own command; and the army under the Lord Fairfax. At break of day yesterday, July 2nd, we were drawn up in order of battle, facing each other with a long hedge between us, but the ground was clear in front of our right and left wings. Our army covered a space of three miles on the slope of an eminence called Marston Field. In the left wing, serving bravely under me, was my wellesteemed friend and your honoured father, Colonel Benjamin Holbeck."

I paused in my reading, and my heart stood still. A terrible certainty of what more I had to read was in my soul as I resumed.

"In a conflict where abundant gallantry was manifested on both sides, your father was yet conspicuous for his bravery. The opposing forces were on this day so singularly alike in appearance as to necessitate a badge of distinction between them. The King's troops unanimously laid aside their bands and scarves; our men wore a piece of white paper or a handkerchief round their hats or helmets. Your father suggested this mark. Though we began to get into position early, it was past noon before this was accomplished. Through the afternoon we had little fighting, the Prince, apparently, being somewhat awed by our stern front; and it was not until the hour of six that the real conflict commenced. Seeing such tardy work on the part of the Prince, we opened fire, and soon the scene of carnage and battle

presented that terrible appearance which is not unknown to you in your own experience. From our position, the forces I had the honour to command were necessitated to make a long detour; we could not, therefore, come into action at once, but were commissioned by the Lord to sweep down upon the field when our friends most needed our assistance. On the other wing the Royalists had the advantage; but we turned the day-to God be all the glory, for if He had not fought with us, vain were all our endeavours.

"I spent the night after the battle upon the field, fearful lest the Prince should return; and anxious to solace, as I might, the dying men, of whom there were very great numbers of both parties. My own nephew, son of my sister, a brave, bold youth, very dear to me, was carried off early in the battle, mortally wounded. The Lord's will be done! I had missed your honoured father at the head of his men, and could obtain no news of him, save that he had his horse shot under him twice, and was seen after that upon a third charger, dauntless as before. But, as I busied myself at night amongst the wounded on the battle-field, I heard a voice from a mangled body, that I believed to be a corpse; a weak, feeble voice, and I thought it spoke my name. I bent to listen. 'General Cromwell!' and a hand was raised a little. Colonel Holbeck!' I answered, as I grasped it in mine. The earth is the Lord's, and the fulness thereof,' said the weak voice then. I responded. "This is a grand victory, General; the words. were gasped rather than uttered; 'the Lord's victory; His outstretched hand;-let not man ascribeit to his own feeble arm.'

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"I attempted to raise him then, and offered to carry him away, but he refused; 'I could ask nothing more from the Almighty than to have thy ministrations, General,' he said, with tears gathering in his eyes, unless I could have those of my poor wife and family at Brier Grange. Let them know, and Ben-"

"These were his last words. A braver, more godly man has not fallen in this fight. Truly, young sir, in giving you such a father the Lord has given you a goodly heritage; see that you are worthy of it. The sad news shall be conveyed to Brier Grange. Duty forbids you to solace your mother and sisters by your presence; see to it that above all things your conduct, as well as your written letters, do this, in so far as may be. The Lord bless you and make you strong to do His will upon the earth, in the room of your father. Your friend,

ΑΠ

"OLIVER CROMWELL" Dead! I could not realise it for a moment. my memories of him were instinct with full, strong, active life. The first up in the morning at the farm, out and about; singing and praising God amongst his corn-fields, and his beeves, and his barns. A fully rounded life from earliest dawn to dewy eve had been his, from my infancy until now. Could it be altered? Was it all ended? and he lying amongst a heap of slain, dead? the fine handsome form and face pulseless-colourless, save for the awful lines of the grave, and motionless. I sat stunned, as truly as if shot by a cannon-ball, my powers benumbed, all save the busy thoughts which went around and about the field of battle on Marston Moor. How proudly we had gazed on my father a year ago, when he first

put on his military dress and mounted to ride to the war. How well his athletic form, his manly countenance bore the military garb, the armour; how grandly he sat his proud horse!

I mind well that the serving women looked at him as they might have gazed at a fine picture, with unbounded admiration and surprise that their good master could make so splendid a soldier. And Lettice, our sweet pretty darling Lettice, looked at him with awe and surprise for a moment, and then ran to him smiling, and lightly sprang before him on the saddle, his hand helping her, and tried to kiss him under his helmet, and exclaimed, gaily and archly, "Why, 'tis our dear, dear father, after all!" And still memory would be busy. I thought of long past days, when we were little children playing amongst the hay, and father only a bigger child amongst the little ones, going on all fours, while we loaded him for a hay-cart, heaping up upon his back the fragrant burden, with our fat arms for pitchforks, and laughing till we could laugh no longer, as the great hay-cart upset and came rolling over us.

Or in the golden harvest-fields, when he would come amongst the gleaners, and bid us follow him and glean likewise for some poor old man or woman or fatherless little child, into whose glad, trembling arms he would put the rich produce of his and our work; or else, still more often, bid them let his children help carry home the welcome store.

And if poor dear mother, as was her wont sometimes, showed some little doubt in regard to this wholesale gleaning, he would look at her tenderly, as he could often look, and say, with something of apology in his tone, "Remind me of it when we starve, dear Miriam." It was seldom, indeed, that his words did not bring in to her face an answering look of love.

How is it I never thought of all this before? How is it that Death has been the key to unlock the door into this gallery of pictures, each, as I gaze, seeming to me more beautiful than the last ?

What a man my father was for climbing into the cherry trees and apple trees in our orchard, and shaking down the delicious fruit! And there never was an autumn that he did not have a gleaning for the poor here also, as well as in his corn-fields, getting his authority for this duty in the latter verses of the 24th chapter of Deuteronomy, which he often read to us, commencing at the 19th: " When thou cuttest down thine harvest in thy field, and hast forgotten a sheaf in the field, thou shalt not go again to fetch it-it shall be for the stranger, for the fatherless and for the widow; that the Lord thy God may bless thee in all the work of thine hands. When thou beatest thine olive-tree, thou shalt not go over the boughs again; it shall be for the stranger, for the fatherless, and for the widow. When thou gatherest the grapes of thy vineyard, thou shalt not glean it afterward; it shall be for the stranger, for the fatherless, and for the widow. And thou shalt remember that thou wast a bondman in the land of Egypt, therefore I command thee to do this thing." "This is my thank-offering for my deliverance from the bondage of the land of Egypt 'spiritually,"" he would say to us children, I understand him now.

What laughing, what shouting, what enjoyment his bounty gave to the poor little ones and great ones

who came amongst us, gleaning the orchard! And how lovingly Lettice, who was always at father's side at such times, would gather the rosy fruit into her little pinafore for the baby children, or the old men and women who could not stoop, because they bent already so low towards the ground.

I cannot go on; tears blind my eyes; Lettice herself is fatherless, my mother a widow ! . . . . My poor mother! And I, her only son, cannot reach. her; cannot be even sure that my letters will reach her. I ought to be near her to stand, as much as may be, in my father's place, between the world and her. Can this be duty, oh! my God, which keeps me from her in her agony and trouble?

How dreadful is this clash of men's passions, and interests, and principles, which we call war, which deprives a woman of her husbaud by cruel death, and of her son by a distance that may not be traversed, without running the risk of a death even more terrible than in battle. By degrees, many things presented themselves to my notice. The length of time that had elapsed without my hearing of my father's death, I found it less difficult to understand, after some consideration, than I did at first. The letter which Lieutenant-General Cromwell had done me the great honour to write had, doubtless, arrivea soon after we set out on the march for Cornwall, and our movements there had been too uncertain for despatches to follow any save our chief officers. But what I found most puzzled me, was the fact that no tidings from Brier Grange had yet arrived, seeing that the same gcnerous hand had informed them of the sad event. How to get a letter conveyed from me at once to my mother was now of the first importance, and I determined to consult our kind commander, and to acquaint him with my father's death. Colonel Marten received me with the greatest cordiality, and listened not unmoved to my sad narrative. looking ill and worn and troubled, and I noticed his poor health to him. He thanked me, and acknowledged he had been much tried of late, and that it appeared we should have need for even greater vigilance in the future than ever before; "for," said he, "the King with Prince Maurice and Sir Richard Grenville, are at Tavistock; and almost at this moment a trumpeter has come summoning the town to surrender."

He was

"Never, sir!" I said, impetuously; "I for one would sooner die in this great and holy cause--die as my father has died. Have you made answer?"

He smiled sadly, but kindly, at my last words. "We shall answer to-morrow, and as you would wish," he said. "" The Lord's arm is not shortened that it cannot save; neither is His ear heavy that it cannot hear.' Write your letter to your poor mother, Mr. Holbeck, and, if possible, it shall be sent to her without delay. It shall share the fate of my most important dispatches to the Parliament."

I thanked him, and left him. But never had anyone a more difficult task to write a letter. How could I comfort her? I could only use words that seemed cold and commonplace, when my heart was aching sorely for her and for all of us. I could only promise to try, more than ever I had tried, to be increasingly worthy of my father's love and to honour my father's memory.

But while I was writing, our Colonel's orderly came again to me, and with another packet in his hand.

The letters from Brier Grange! It was a heartrending task to read them. My poor mother had dictated a letter for me to Lettice; for writing is a great task to her; and even grandmother had written a beautiful little letter, like herself, so good and true. But how can I speak of these things? For all of us there must come, at some hour or other, a descent into the valley of the shadow of death; happy for us then, if we, like grandmother, see the light shining all along it, the light from the Sun of Righteousness, with "healing in His wings."

As I wrote my answers, through all the terrible hours of grief since the news of my father's death had reached me, I had been conscious of one strong impulse, which as yet I could not gratify: the longing to inform Lucy Woollcombe of my trouble, and to have her near to comfort me.

But the knowledge that my father had been killed

by her friends, and that Mr. Woollcombe, would rejoice, even if Lucy did not, that we had been driven back from Cornwall with so much humiliation and disappointment, checked my impulse, which was at first very strong, to visit her at once, and to seek, in her gentle and sincere sympathy, some alleviation of my sorrow. I took a kind of miserable satisfaction in thus purposely abjuring the company even of the sweetest of malignants, because it was through their action that the dark cloud of sore affliction was resting upon my Yorkshire home.

The more I gave heed to such thoughts, the more hold they had upon me, till I even suffered from so strange a revulsion of my feelings towards Lucy-not truly as Lucy, but as a malignant-that I greatly aggravated my own sufferings, and doubted much how I should behave towards her in the future. (To be continued.)

THE FALL OF JERICHO.

ORTY long years of pilgrimage over barren rock and desert sand had brought the "chosen people" to their last halting place outside the Promised Land. Behind them, lay the wilderness, stern and solitary, with its teeming memories of toil and temptation, travail and hardship-dark links in the binding chain of discipline which the Great Unseen had been forging for them all those years. Further back still, rose the gaunt heights of Abarim, and, visible still to the eye of the advancing Hebrew, the lonely crest of Pisgah. Here the aged patriarch had gone up to

city before assaulting it, and thus to gather as much information as possible as to the strength and resources of the enemy. This plan was adopted by the Israelitish captain, and two men were sent on in advance, with instructions to gain admittance to the city. This they succeeded in doing, and "lodged" in the house of one, Rahab, whose house was built on the broad walls and overlooked the surrounding country. Here they stayed for rest and food, discussing, perhaps, the advisability of making an immediate inspection of the town. But the news of their arrival had got wind, and, mistrustful of the presence of strangers, the King ordered their im mediate apprehension. With this search-warrant, the officers arrived at the house and demanded the immediate delivery of the two fugitives.

Now, Rahab had long ago heard of the strange nation and their omnipotent God, and had possibly resolved to seek the first opportunity of learning more about Him. So, anticipating this visit of the King's men, she had secured for her guests a hidingplace on the flat house-roof, beneath the heaps of flax stalks laid out to dry in the sun. Instead, therefore, of complying with the royal demand, she immediately put the pursuers on the wrong track, deceiving them by an assumed eagerness to secure the capture of the two spies. "The men went out," said she, "about the time of shutting the gate, when it was dark: whither they went, I know not: pursue after them quickly and ye will overtake them." And so, deluded by her apparent zeal for their capture and recall, the messengers hurried off to scour the country round, and the gates of the city were shut.

Then Rahab went up, and, assuring the two Hebrews that, for the present, the danger was averted, she drew from them a ready promise, solemnly made and kept, that if the city should be attacked and taken, she and all her kindred should

be spared and protected. The distinguishing token, a cord of twisted crimson thread, was to be hung from the window, and by this they were to recognise her dwelling. By means of a long rope, she then assisted them in making their escape, and lowering themselves to the ground, they obeyed her suggestion and fled to "the mountain."

This was probably a range of hills to the north of Jericho, and now known as the Quarantania. The chief portion is a cliff or rocky-wall, some 1,300 feet in height, full of clefts and caverns. Here the two spies remained for three days in hiding, and then, watching their opportunity, made their way back, across the river, to the Israelite camp. The Jewish historian, Josephus, adds that, when they had told Joshua all that had befallen them, and especially of their vow, "Joshua told Eleazar, the high priest, and the senate, what they, the spies, had sworn to Rahab, and they confirmed what had been sworn." Thus did the two Hebrews fulfil their mission, and human means having been thus employed in the first part of the enterprise, God supplied the rest.

Darkly among the acacia groves by the river lay the tents of Israel, and before them rolled the broad and swollen waters of the Jordan-the first great stream they had seen, since, as children, they had left the valley of the Nile. Descending from the higher grounds, one and all moved down to the riverside, and there abode for three days. Then came the word of the Lord to Joshua, and the perplexing problem of the river-passage was at once solved. The ark of the covenant, the symbol of the Divine presence, was to go before the people, and the priests were to "stand still" on the brink of the river till the way was made clear.

So the ark went forward till the sandalled feet of the white-vestured Levites entered the water, and, halting among the reedy shallows, they heard in the distance the signal given for the whole host to

A House on the City Wall.

advance. And then from either bank the eddying current receded: down from the flooded terraces it came, circling and retreating, past bush and tree, long covered, and rock and boulder green and dripping with matted weeds. Stone after stone lay bare in the muddy channel, and far up the stream, through all its windings, for thirty miles away, the whole river-bed was dried up.

Thus God opened out a path for the people, and they went over and set foot on ground that was henceforth to be theirs. But as a memorial of the great miracle which He had wrought for them, the Almighty bade Joshua choose out twelve men, one from each tribe: from the place where the priests stood, each man was to lift and fetch back as large a boulder as he could carry and bring it across to the camp. So down to the river went twelve stalwart Hebrews, and returned bearing the rude trophies. These were ultimately set up at the halting-place in Gilgal, some five miles off, probably in the form of the primitive altar of sacrifice, and left there to mark the place and the event.

Then the order came from Joshua to the waiting priests, "Come ye up out of Jordan? So from the yielding mire of the river-bed every foot was lifted, and up the willow-shaded slope came the sacred ark. At the same moment the rush of waters sounded far up the valley, and slowly, from every point, the tributary streams came trickling down once more, swelling and broadening, and the turbid flood swept southward along its rocky channel. Bush and tree sank once more beneath the yellow current, the blue wings of the king-fisher fluttered again over the eddying pools, and the leopard crept out to lap at the returning stream and wonder at the strange sight he had gazed at from among the reeds.

That night there was fear and trembling in the cities of the heathen, for the fame of the God-led nation had gone before them and the hearts of the warlike tribes died within them. The power that drove back and hurled together again the Red Sea billows could surely bring disaster to them too. But they looked at their lofty walls and barred gates, and hoped that they might still remain invincible:

so they waited and watched,-while the invader made ready for the fray.

In the heart of the Israelite general there seems to have been but little fear or hesitation, and the vision of the armed angel-captain must have dispelled every lingering doubt of future success.

And now the city of Jericho came in sight, its lofty. towers rising above the green tops of the palm-grove. Eight miles long and three in breadth, this vast forest waved round the walls, with here and there broad open spaces, yellow with ripening grain. Behind the city, as a grand background to the beautiful picture, rose the white jagged hills of Judæa, sharply defined against the cloudless blue. And here within their fortress-home outwardly defying attack, but inwardly quaking at the thought of their new and terrible foe, the Pagan citizens awaited the issue of the strife.

Up from the river came the vast throng with the sacred Ark conspicuous in the midst, and up through the tangled thickets of thorn and tamarisk, came marching forty thousand warriors, their steel-tipped lances glittering in the sun. Trusting implicitly in the ability of their fearless captain, and elated at the thought of coming victory, they moved on towards Jericho. Not a lip quivered, not a cheek blanched, as the huge walls rose in sight; but, awaiting the next command, the Hebrews silently surrounded the city.

With beating hearts and wondering eyes must the beleaguered townspeople have watched the manœuvres of their foes. Probably, at first, it was with no little awe and astonishment; they were mystified at the strange proceedings. If they were. going to attack, why all this dalliance? What object could they have in thus marching silently round the city to the blast of the trumpet? and what could that curious box contain, which was being carried about with so much reverence and ceremony? For six consecutive days they had witnessed this inexplicable sight, and nothing had yet come of it. Were the Hebrews doing this as a feint to throw them off their guard and then suddenly take them by surprise? Possibly many of the Pagan warriors were inclined to laugh at the apparent eccentricity of their enemies and ridicule the whole affair; but the stern and determined faces of the Israelite troops bore no signs of frivolous excitement. All was regularity and order, and the discipline was silently maintained.

And so the seventh morning dawned, and the sentinel looked out eastward from the battlements, and watched the last sunrise he was ever to behold. Higher and higher it flamed up over the grey ridges of the Moab hills, till the golden beams danced on the ripples of the river, and ran laughing up the shady valley. On riverside lawns, glorious with spring flowers, by reedy swamps, and tamarisk groves, the dawn-light flickered and fell, and then away over tangled thorn-jungles and yellow fields of barley, till the blue Judæan mountains have caught the glow, and send it onward to the western sea.

Yonder, in the Hebrew camp, all is stir and preparation; every couch is empty already, and swarthy warriors are sitting at their tent doors, polishing their weapons and trying the edge of their swords. The sinewy hand of the archer reaches down his