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“This is the king,” he said to William Penderell; “you must have a care of him, and preserve him as you did me.”

Thick woodland adjoined the mansion of Whiteladies. Into this the youthful prince was led by Richard Penderell, one of the brothers. It was now broad day. Through the forest went the two seeming peasants, to its farther side, where a broad highway ran past. Here, peering through the bushes, they saw a troop of horse ride by, evidently not old soldiers, more like the militia who made up part of Cromwell’s army.

These countrified warriors looked around them. Should they enter the woods? Some of the Scottish rogues, mayhap Charles Stuart, their royal leader, himself, might be there in hiding. But it had begun to rain, and by good fortune the shower poured down in torrents upon the woodland, while little rain fell upon the heath beyond. To the countrymen, who had but begun to learn the trade of soldiers, the certainty of a dry skin was better than the forlorn chance of a flying prince. They rode rapidly on to escape a drenching, much to the relief of the lurking observers.

“The rogues are hunting me close,” said the prince, “and by our Lady, this waterfall isn’t of the pleasantest. Let us get back into the thick of the woods.”

Penderell led the way to a dense glade, where he spread a blanket which he had brought with him under one of the most thick-leaved trees, to protect the prince from the soaked ground. Hither his sister, Mrs. Yates, brought a supply of food, consisting of bread, butter, eggs, and milk. Charles looked at her with grateful eyes.

“My good woman,” he said, “can you be faithful to a distressed cavalier?”

“I will die sooner than betray you,” was her devoted answer.

Charles ate his rustic meal with a more hopeful heart than he had had since leaving Worcester’s field. The loyal devotion of these humble friends cheered him up greatly.

As night came on the rain ceased. No sooner had darkness settled upon the wood than the prince and his guide started towards the Severn, it being his purpose to make his way, if possible, into Wales, in some of whose ports a vessel might be found to take him abroad. Their route took them past a mill. It was quite dark, yet they could make out the miller by his white clothes, as he sat at the mill-door. The flour-sprinkled fellow heard their footsteps in the darkness, and called out,–

“Who goes there?”

“Neighbors going home,” answered Richard Penderell.

“If you be neighbors, stand, or I will knock you down,” cried the suspicious miller, reaching behind the door for his cudgel.

“Follow me,” said Penderell, quietly, to the prince. “I fancy master miller is not alone.”

They ran swiftly along a lane and up a hill, opening a gate at the top of it. The miller followed, yelling out, “Rogues! rogues! Come on, lads; catch these runaways.”

He was joined by several men who came from the mill, and a sharp chase began along a deep and dirty lane, Charles and his guide running until they were tired out. They had distanced their pursuers; no sound of footsteps could be heard behind them.

“Let us leap the hedge, and lie behind it to see if they are still on our track,” said the prince.

This they did, and lay there for half an hour, listening intently for pursuers. Then, as it seemed evident that the miller and his men had given up the chase, they rose and walked on.

At a village near by lived an honest gentleman named Woolfe, who had hiding-places in his house for priests. Day was at hand, and travelling dangerous. Penderell proposed to go on and ask shelter from this person for an English gentleman who dared not travel by day.

“Go, but look that you do not betray my name,” said the prince.

Penderell left his royal charge in a field, sheltered under a hedge beside a great tree, and sought Mr. Woolfe’s house, to whose questions he replied that the person seeking shelter was a fugitive from the battle of Worcester.