He had six arrows, and knew himself for a marksman.

A less sober habit of

mind, despairing of escape, might have urged him to choose the six easiest marks

among his foes, and then the chances of a run in the failing light. But his thoughts worked ever deliberately, like the mills of the gods, and to the same purpose. Six of Hungerford's men dead were but a poor revenge; there were a score of his friends overhead. Escape was what he must work for: must seize the chance of it if it presented itself, must make the chance if he could. Once in the woods, the way could not be far to Sir John and his men-at-arms. Sir John would gather in his scattered posts, come down swiftly, and exterminate this murderous gang, so that not a ruffian of them should be left to stretch the necks of honest men. He looked out again from his shelter, to see how this end might be compassed.

Upon the parapet of the bridge sat the lean figure of Hungerford, his men round him, watching intently. Hood was stealing out to the right, but Birdingfield was nowhere to be seen. Cobbold glanced quickly round, and decided that Birdingfield was hidden by the first tree. As Hood drew farther to the right, the boy must shift round the trunk to avoid his shot, uncovering himself to Birdingfield. So, it seemed, he was to be chased round the bole like a woodpecker, until a lucky shot should pin him to the bark. If there were only one man, now! Hood was not a difficult mark as he paused and craned to get a sight of the quarry. Cobbold fitted an arrow to the string; but, even as he drew the bow, Hungerford's advice to remember the Earl of Oxford recurred to him. If he were to shoot Hood, he might have the whole pack upon him. Still, there was Hungerford's word passed, and for all his hatred of the man, he had cause to trust him moreover, it must come to it sooner or later. "At least," he thought, "my Lord Hungerford shall see me make better practice than I did a year ago.' Hood threw up his arms with a choking cough, and fell forward with the arrow in his breast. There was a growl like a rising wind from the men about the bridge; but Hungerford raised his hand for silence and laughed lightly.

:

"A fair shot," he cried. "Now, Birdingfield!"

Cobbold, intent on his aim at Hood, had moved a little out of the cover of the tree trunk-an opportunity which was not lost by that wily bowman Birdingfield. An arrow plumped into the bark within an inch of the boy's cheek. It chilled his momentary elation, and brought him face to face with the exigencies of his case.

So long as he and Birdingfield remained each behind his tree they were in safety; whichever should leave his shelter would become a mark for the other. In half an hour it would be too dark for shooting, and then Cobbold could slip off into the forest. But there was he knew not what about this Birdingfield that filled him with a vague alarm. He had noticed a slow, smiling way with the man that daunted him, he could not tell why-a rustic cunning, that had something in it of the stealthiness of the woods. The feeling grew upon him that, give him the time, Birdingfield would creep up in the dusk like a weasel, and shoot him in the shelter of his tree.

The idea of waiting became intolerable: anything was better than that. He must make his chance of escape. In the shadows by the bridge he could see the red dress of Hungerford like a red heart among the more sombre liveries of his men. If the heart were stricken the body would be helpless. There would be a hue and cry, no doubt; but there would also be confusion, and to this he must trust to make good his flight. And then-Sir John's horsemen would work havoc among these leaderless rogues. Ah! if he could but kill Hungerford!

It

The light was bad and the range long. He must trust to luck and a dropping shot. He drew his bow with all his strength, and sent the arrow high aloft. soared a moment against the lucent sky, then plunged and was lost to his sight

against the gloom of the house. Hungerford uttered a sharp cry of pain. The arrow had transfixed his foot.

There was a moment's lull before the gathering storm. Hungerford's

men

seemed stupefied by this disaster to their leader: they crowded round him, and even Birdingfield relaxed his vigilance. The boy did not lose a moment. He had done something for vengeance he could not tell what: there was more to do. Here was his opportunity, and he set off at the top of his speed for the forest.

Hungerford was the first to recover himself. "Hi, Birdingfield!" he called. The whole mob swung round with

an angry roar. Bird

ingfield shot an ill

aimed and harmless arrow, then another, and another. Some strung their bows, others rushed forward with bills. Hungerford's sword whipped out like a flame.

"Down, you dogs!" he shouted. "Is this your obedience? Down, I say!" He slashed at a man near him with the flat of his sword; but it was needless, for the power of his voice held each man stock-still in his tracks. He shook his sword aloft. "I am not such a cripple," said he, "that I cannot keep my word. Back, all of you!" They crept back like whipped curs, as Cobbold, with a shout of defiance, disappeared into the wood.

Hungerford sheathed his sword with a grimace of pain.

"Penruddocke," he said, "pull out the shaft, and let some one dress this foot of mine. We had best be moving soon, if I know anything of my Lord Arundel's people. I ought to have hanged the puppy with the rest. By Cock! he is a game one, and handles his bow bravely. I would exchange any six of you against him. But I think it was as well," he added, meditatively, "that the light was no better, both for him and for me."

GERALD YEO.

A

IPHIGENIA.

at a

Pul. Dec: 20.1781 at the Ancient & Modern Print Warehouse N'28 in the Hay Market ly A Torre &1. Thane.

MAID-OF-HONOUR, COUNTESS OF BRISTOL, DUCHESS OF

KINGSTON.

ILLUSTRATED BY FACSIMILES OF ORIGINALS IN DR. PARR'S COLLECTION OF OLD PRINTS.

T

HE contemporaries of the remarkable woman, a sketch of whose life we are about to give, unite in agreeing that she was one of the most notorious figures of their day. The pens of Mrs. Delany, Mrs. Harris, Mrs. Montague, and Horace Walpole, are constantly employed in retailing the gossip, scandal, and amazement, with which she filled the town. She was beautiful, clever, and had a charm of manner which made her irresistible. From comparative obscurity she became a leading toast, and a leader of fashion. Kings and princes were her lovers. Dukes laid their coronets at her feet. Yet her reckless nature, vicious temperament, and inordinate love of money, clouded all her happiness, brought her to stand at the bar a felon, and have a narrow escape of being branded in the hand with a red-hot iron.

Elizabeth Chudleigh was born in 1720. Her father, Colonel Chudleigh, youngest son of Sir George Chudleigh, of Ashton, in Devonshire, was Lieutenant-Governor of Chelsea Hospital, which post he held at the time of his death.

Destitute of private means, Colonel Chudleigh could leave no provision for his family, and his widow found herself with nothing beyond her scanty pension on which to support herself and her children. In this strait she cast about for some means of increasing her small income, and finally decided that, to insure a respectably situated house and a more liberal table, she could not do better than