But whatsoe’er his crime, than such a cave
A worse imprisonment he could not have.

But here a roaring torrent bids you stand.
Forcing you climb a rock on the right hand,
Which, hanging penthouse-like, does overlook
The dreadful channel of the rapid brook.
Over this dangerous precipice you crawl,
Lost if you slip, for if you slip you fall.

Wonders of the Peak, 1725.

Elated by their success, the two noblemen at once left London and hastened on towards Haddon, and leaving the city behind them with few regrets, they arrived at Derby late in the afternoon of the day following the trial.

It was Sir Thomas Stanley’s time to be impatient now He was anxious to behold Margaret again, and leaving the baron behind him to settle a few matters of business he rode off upon a fresh horse to carry the good news to the Hall, and to herald the approach of the knight.

John Manners was keeping Dorothy company on the top of the Eagle Tower when Sir Thomas appeared in sight. A “look out” had been on the watch for the last three days, waiting to announce the approach of the expected messenger from London, and each night a beacon fire had been lighted, that in the darkness he might not pass by. But no messenger came, and anxiety was beginning to make itself apparent on more faces than one when the two lovers espied the fast-approaching rider, and proclaimed the news to the household below.

Margaret soon joined them company. She was burning with impatience to read the long-expected missive and she eagerly watched the horseman draw nearer who was bringing her tidings from her betrothed.

“See Meg,” exclaimed the overjoyed Dorothy, “thither he comes!” and she pointed to a cloud of dust in the far distance, in the midst of which might be seen every now and again the indistinct form of a horse and its rider.

“Maybe he will pass by,” exclaimed Manners.

“Not he!” scornfully replied Margaret, “he will none pass by. None other than a messenger to Haddon would ride like that. The steed is hard put to it; surely it is near its journey’s end.”

“Well, we shall soon see,” interposed Doll, “he is making good speed.”

It was as Dorothy said. Even while they had been talking, the rider had considerably lessened the distance which separated him from the Hall, and, had it not been for the dim twilight which was then slowly deepening, they would have been enabled to distinguish more than they had already done.

“He rides well,” said Margaret, more to herself than to either of the others. “Methinks I know that ride.”

“’Tis like Crowleigh’s,” said Manners.

“But Sir Everard is with Father Philip. It cannot be him,” returned Dorothy.

“There is but one man who bestrides a saddle in such a fashion,” exclaimed Margaret, as she carefully scanned the horseman. “But no! it cannot be so. I thought it was Sir ”

“Sir Thomas Stanley,” exclaimed Dorothy, taking the words out of her sister’s mouth.

“I thought it was he,” she confessed; “and see,” she added, raising her voice, “it is Sir Thomas; I thought it was,” and she left the lovers as she had found them, and hastened down, greatly excited, to meet her own beloved, and not without some feelings of dismay at seeing him return alone.

Leaving the succeeding scene to be imagined rather than described, we will hark back to Sir George at Derby.

He accomplished his business more expeditiously than he had anticipated, and in a very brief space of time started out of the town, hoping with a hope soon to be dispelled that he might, perchance, overtake Sir Thomas.

Without a halt he arrived at Matlock at just about the same time as his companion reached Haddon, and reining up his steed at the village inn close by the churchyard, he alighted for a short rest and some refreshment ere he finished what remained of his journey.

He was well known here, and his peremptory commands were obeyed with the utmost alacrity.

His first enquiry was about Sir Thomas Stanley, and he learned to his satisfaction that he had passed safely through there a good hour or so before.

“In good sooth, your lordship is surely going no further to-night,” exclaimed the host, as Sir George made the preliminary preparation for resuming his journey.

“Tut, man, why not? Of course I shall.”

“Your horse is stabled,” responded the landlord; “surely you will not attempt to ride further to-night.”

“My horse stabled,” thundered the baron, “I said not so; ’tis fresh from Derby. Out with it, man, and let me away.”

The horse was quickly unstabled, and brought round to the tavern door, but the innkeeper was loth to let the good knight depart. It was a thing he would not do for a trifle, and he feared for the safety of the baron.

“The roads are very bad,” he exclaimed, as they stepped into the little passage together, “and it will be dark ere you reach the Hall, my lord. Had you not better change your mind?”

The knight declined the request in the most emphatic manner, and placed his foot upon the stirrup to mount.

“There be many rogues and footpads in the neighbourhood of late, and especially to-day,” pursued the other. “I have had as ill-looking a crew in my house to-day as I ever clapt eyes upon; I am sure they bode no good.”

Nothing, however, could persuade Sir George to stay, and seeing that his guest was obdurate, the host continued,

“Stay awhile, Sir George, an’ thou wilt, thou shalt at least have a man of mine to accompany thee. The neighbourhood is full of knaves of late, and I like it not that thou should’st go alone.”

But the offer was lightly refused; and fearing nothing for his own safety, the old knight spurred his horse forward, and in a few moments was lost to sight in the fast-settling gloom.

Little time as he and Sir Thomas had lost in leaving London, and quick as they had been in reaching Derby, there had yet been those who had been more expeditious than they.

Upon the receipt of the unwelcome news which the ostler had brought to them, Edmund Wynne’s confederates at once departed from the city, and under the leadership of Sir Ronald Bury hastened on, with few rests, to the wilds of Derbyshire, to perform the deed, still enshrouded in mystery, which they had been hired, if necessary, to perform.

Blissfully unconscious of the trap into which he was rushing, and wholly contemptuous of the idea of being benighted, the lord of Haddon rode fearlessly on. The way was dark to be sure, but he knew it well, and what added to his confidence was the fact that he was right in the very heart of his own possessions.

He had barely ridden a couple of furlongs, though, before his horse became restive, and in response to a free application of both whip and spur only pricked up its ears and advanced in a more unsatisfactory manner than before.

Still suspecting nothing, the baron applied the whip more vigorously. He perceived, clearly enough, that his charger was frightened at something or other, and to inspire it with a little of his own courage he started to whistle a lively tune which he had heard Dorothy play upon the spinet till he got it well by heart.

The tune was never finished, for barely had he begun it when the branch of a tree, which was hurled at him from the side of the road, completely unhorsed him and sent him rolling into the ditch on the other side.

Before he could rise or place himself in any posture of defence he was roughly seized, and in spite of his struggles was carried away as helpless as a child, whilst to aggravate his position his eyes were tightly blindfolded.

“What does this mean?” he shouted out in desperation; but no one deigned to answer.

“I am Sir George Vernon,” he added stoutly, but if he had thought that this was information, or that his captors would be inclined to quake before this declaration of his rank and person, he was sorely mistaken, and the brief answer they returned soon convinced him on the point.

“We know it,” they laughed; “we are no fools.”

“Nathan Grene,” he passionately shouted, “you shall rue this day.” He no longer wondered now at the non-appearance of his adversary; he felt confident that the recreant smith was there, and the thought of being thus within his power goaded him into a frenzy of passion.

“Thou shalt live to rue this bitterly,” he repeated, but before he could say anything further his mouth was filled with grass, and in spite of his attempts to speak he could no longer succeed in making himself heard.

How far he was being carried he knew not, nor yet did he know the way; and beyond making a few desultory attempts to disengage his nether limbs from the vice-like grasp in which they were enclosed, the baron made no further attempts to free himself.

It was quite dark before they stopped, and when his bandages were taken off he had only sufficient time to discover that they had halted at the mouth of a cave before his captors seized hold of his person and unceremoniously pushed him in, sending, after a brief consultation, one of their number after him to see that he made no effort to escape.

“Where is Nathan Grene?” inquired the outraged nobleman, as soon as he found himself at liberty; “I want to see him.”

“Happen you do!” replied his keeper, who was none other than the ostler; “then, maybe, you will find him at London. You were near enough to him in the stable loft; maybe he is out of the stocks again now.”

“Don’t talk with him,” commanded an imperious voice from the exterior, “or he will be taking you unawares.”

The order was literally complied with, and to all his queries thenceforward the baron could gain no reply. At length he gave up the attempt, and watched in sullen silence his captors kindle a fire just within the cavern mouth.

He meditated a dash out, but the venture seemed to promise little hope, and seeing, after a time, that the man had fallen asleep, he proceeded to explore his prison.

It was a long cave, and there were many fissures and passages branching out on either side, but he found to his intense disgust that instead of leading out into the open they all terminated after a few yards in a solid wall of rock.

Nothing daunted by his successive disappointments, the lord of Haddon carefully wound his way round the circuitous cavern path. He found it difficult work, however, to walk in darkness in an unknown way, and he made little progress until, suddenly remembering that the ostler had charge of the tinder and flint which his associates had thrown in after kindling their fire, he stole back as quickly as he could to fetch it.

He found everything exactly as it was when he left it. The ostler was still asleep and loudly snoring; the noisy gang beyond were cooking their evening meal, and without attracting their attention he succeeded in gaining the coveted articles, and rapidly retreated with them in his possession.

He waited before obtaining a light, until a sharp bend in the cave secured his position, and then, stooping down, he struck the flint and steel together and made a torch of his cravat. He was now able to hasten forward, and fearful lest his torch should burn away ere he had effected his escape, he pushed quickly on, and soon reached the farthest end.

The cave, which had been gradually narrowing as Sir George advanced, instead of suddenly rising up into the ground above, or ending in a narrow opening, as the good knight had fervently hoped, terminated in a deep chasm, and far down below there rushed a tumultuous stream. Even as he stopped short, startled by the discovery, a stone rolled over the brink, and after a pause of several seconds’ duration the forlorn explorer was suddenly recalled to a sense of his position by hearing a faint splash in the deep waters far below.

He turned round regretfully, and commenced to return, fully decided, unless he quickly discovered a way of escape, to attempt to surprise his captors by rushing through their midst, trusting to the darkness of the night to favour his escape.

He had not gone far before he discovered that his absence had been noticed. The ostler must have awaked; the echoing cavern resounded with the imprecations of his companions, and their approaching footsteps warned him that they were coming in search of him. Not a moment was to be lost, and espying a large shelving rock which jutted out from a side passage, Sir George Vernon hastily clambered up and extinguished his light. The mass of rock upon which he had taken refuge was fairly flat, and he was able to maintain his position upon it; but he soon discovered that it would not be big enough to screen him from view were the searchers to look in that direction. It was too late to think of moving now, for his pursuers were close at hand; he could even distinguish the reflection of their torches; there was only one course open for him, and that was to endeavour to squeeze through the narrow fissure at the end of the ledge on which he lay.

A squeeze and a cut or two, a tug and a stifled groan; another squeeze more violent by far than the former one, and the portly baron rolled panting through the jagged briar-covered little crevice, just as the light of the searchers illuminated the place from which he had only a moment before released himself.

Some painful moments elapsed ere he stopped rolling, and then it was not until he found himself entangled in the strong but friendly embrace of one of the tough blackberry bushes which were growing in profusion, and still continue to do so, on the hill sides of Derbyshire. He had, in fact, found out a way of escape just as he had abandoned all hope of doing so, and carefully extricating himself from his uncomfortable position, he pursued his way by Masson’s shadowy heights, boiling over with rage against his ruffianly captors, and made the best of his way to the nearest inn to secure a horse to carry him home.