"But your features will betray you," said the cautious Gifford. "Many of
these men know your face. You must seek a safer place of refuge."
Hurried movements followed. The few friends who had accompanied Charles
took to the road again, knowing that their presence would endanger him,
and hoping that their flight might lead the bloodhounds of pursuit
astray. They gone, the loyal master of Whiteladies sent for certain of
his employees whom he could trust. These were six brothers named
Penderell, laborers and woodmen in his service, Catholics, and devoted
to the royal family.
"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.
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