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“Then I cannot harbor him,” was the good man’s reply. “It is too dangerous a business. I will not venture my neck for any man, unless it be the king himself.”

“Then you will for this man, for you have hit the mark; it is the king,” replied the guide, quite forgetting the injunction given him.

“Bring him, then, in God’s name,” said Mr. Woolfe. “I will risk all I have to help him.”

Charles was troubled when he heard the story of his loose-tongued guide. But there was no help for it now. The villager must be trusted. They sought Mr. Woolfe’s house by the rear entrance, the prince receiving a warm but anxious welcome from the loyal old gentleman.

“I am sorry you are here, for the place is perilous,” said the host. “There are two companies of militia in the village who keep a guard on the ferry, to stop any one from escaping that way. As for my hiding-places, they have all been discovered, and it is not safe to put you in any of them. I can offer you no shelter but in my barn, where you can lie behind the corn and hay.”

The prince was grateful even for this sorry shelter, and spent all that day hidden in the hay, feasting on some cold meat which his host had given him. The next night he set out for Richard Penderell’s house, Mr. Woolfe having told him that it was not safe to try the Severn, it being closely guarded at all its fords and bridges. On their way they came again near the mill. Not caring to be questioned as before by the suspicious miller, they diverged towards the river.

“Can you swim?” asked Charles of his guide.

“Not I; and the river is a scurvy one.”

“I’ve a mind to try it,” said the prince. “It’s a small stream at the best, and I may help you over.”

They crossed some fields to the river-side, and Charles entered the water, leaving his attendant on the bank. He waded forward, and soon found that the water came but little above his waist.

“Give me your hand,” he said, returning. “There’s no danger of drowning in this water.”

Leading his guide, he soon stood on the safe side of that river the passage of which had given him so many anxious minutes.

Towards morning they reached the house of a Mr. Whitgrave, a Catholic, whom the prince could trust. Here he found in hiding a Major Careless, a fugitive officer from the defeated army. Charles revealed himself to the major, and held a conference with him, asking him what he had best do.

“It will be very dangerous for you to stay here; the hue and cry is up, and no place is safe from search,” said the major. “It is not you alone they are after, but all of our side. There is a great wood near by Boscobel house, but I would not like to venture that, either. The enemy will certainly search there. My advice is that we climb into a great, thick-leaved oak-tree that stands near the woods, but in an open place, where we can see around us.”

“Faith, I like your scheme, major,” said Charles, briskly. “It is thick enough to hide us, you think?”

“Yes; it was lopped a few years ago, and has grown out again very close and bushy. We will be as safe there as behind a thick-set hedge.”

“So let it be, then,” said the prince.

Obtaining some food from their host,–bread, cheese, and small beer, enough for the day,–the two fugitives, Charles and Careless, climbed into what has since been known as the “royal oak,” and remained there the whole day, looking down in safety on soldiers who were searching the wood for royalist fugitives. From time to time, indeed, parties of search passed under the very tree which bore such royal fruit, and the prince and the major heard their chat with no little amusement.