Captain Mayne Reid (continued 6)

“Why not? He’s in Goodrich Castle. You don’t think it possible for us to take it?”

“Not at present; though, by-and-by, it may be within the possibilities. No man wishes more than I to see the proud pile razed to the ground, and Henry Lingen hanged over the ruins. Many the fright he has given my poor father with his cowardly threats. But I hope getting quits with him before the game’s at an end.”

“What chance then of rescuing Trevor? Have you thought of any?”

“I have. And not such a hopeless one either. You’re willing to risk something to get him free?”

“Anything! My life, if need be.”

“That risk will be called for; mine too, if we make the attempt I’m thinking of.”

“An attempt! Tell me what it is. For heaven’s sake, Kyrle, don’t keep me in suspense!”

“It’s this, then. Lingen, it appears, don’t intend lodging any prisoners in Goodrich Castle. Since the affair at Beachley he has some fear of his castle being besieged; and in a siege the more mouths the worse for him. By the merest accident I heard all this yesterday; and that the party he took away from here will be sent on to Hereford under escort first thing to-morrow morning—that is this morning, since it’s now drawing up to it.”

“I think I comprehend you, Kyrle.”

“You’d be dull if you didn’t, Walwyn.”

“You mean for us to strike out along the Hereford Road, and intercept the escort?”

“Just so. ’Twill be venturing into the enemy’s ground dangerously far; but with a bold dash we may do it.”

“We will do it!”

“What about leave from Massey? Do you think there will be any difficulty in our getting that?”

“I don’t anticipate any. In my case he can’t object. My command is independent of him; the troop my own; and, though now numbering little over a hundred, they are Foresters, and I’ve no fear to match them against twice their count of Lingen’s Lancers—the gentlemen of Hereford, as they style themselves.”

“Then you agree to it? We go if Massey gives permission?”

“I go, whether he gives it or not. In fact, I don’t feel much caring to ask him.”

“Egad! that may be the best way, and I’m willing to risk it too. Suppose we slip out without saying a word? Time’s everything. Our only chance with the escort will be to take them by surprise—an ambuscade. For that we’ll have to be well along the Hereford road before daylight. I know the very spot; but we must be into the saddle at once.”

“Then at once let us into it!”

Chapter Forty Eight.

Between Two Prisons.

In Parliamentary war times English roads were very different from what they are of to-day. Those of the shires bordering Wales were no better than bridle paths, generally following the routes of ancient British trackways, regardless of ups and downs. Travel over them was chiefly in the saddle or afoot, traffic by pack-horse, wheels rarely making mark on them save when some grand swell of the period transported his family from town to country house. Then it was a ponderous coach of the chariot order, swung on leathern springs—such as the gossipy Pepys and Sir Charles Grandison used to ride in—calling for at least four horses, with a retinue of attendants. These last armed with sword and pistol for protection against robbers, but also, pioneer fashion, carrying spade and axe to fill up ruts, patch broken bridges, and cut down obstructing trees.

Where the routes ran over hills, the causeway, sunk below the level of the adjacent land, was more like the bed of a dry watercourse than a highway of travel; this due to the wear of hoof and washing away by rains. There was no Macadam then to keep the surface to its normal height by a compensating stratum of stone; and in many places the tallest horseman, on the back of a sixteen-hands horse would see a cliff on either side of him, its crest barely touchable with the stock of his whip. Often half a mile or more of this ravine-like road would be encountered, so narrow that vehicles meeting upon it could not by any possibility pass each other; one of them must needs back again, perhaps, hundreds of yards! To avoid such contretemps, the husbandman who had occasion to carry corn to the mill, or produce to the market town, in his huge lumbering wain, was compelled by law to announce its approach by a jangle of big bells, or the blowing of a horn!

Yet over these ancient highways—many of them still in existence—the Roman legionaries of Ostorius Scapula had borne their victorious eagles; and along them many a Silurian warrior, standing erect in his scythe-winged chariot, was carried to conquest or defeat.

At a later period had they echoed the tramp of armed men, when Henry the Fourth, father of Agincourt’s hero, made war upon the Welsh. Later still, twice again, in the days of the gallant Llewellyn and those of the bold Glendower; and still farther down the stream of time were they stained with blood as of brother shed by brother, when England’s people—those of Wales as well—King-mad and King-cursed, took a fancy, or frenzy, to cut one another’s throats about the colour of a rose.

And now, on these same roads, two centuries later, they were again engaged in a fratricidal strife, though not as before with both sides infatuated through kingcraft. One was fighting for a better cause—the best of all—a people’s freedom. The first time they had struck blow for this or themselves; their stand for Magna Charta, so much vaunted, being a mere settling of disputes between barons and king; no quarrel of theirs, nor its results much gain to them. Neither would it be far from the truth to say, it was the last time for them to draw sword on the side of human liberty; indeed difficult to point out any war in which Great Britain has been engaged since not undertaken for the propping up of vile despotisms, or for selfish purposes equally vile, to the very latest of them—Zululand and Afghanistan videlicet.

But the rebellion against Charles Stuart had a far different aim, all who upheld it being actuated by higher and nobler motives; and, though the war was internecine, it need never be regretted. For on the part of England’s people it brought out many a display of courage, devotion to virtue, and other good qualities, of which any people might be proud.

Nor was it all fruitless, though seeming so. From it we inherit such fragment of liberty as is left us, and to it all such aspirations turn. Not all stifled by the corruption which came immediately after under the rule of the Merry Monarch; nor yet by what followed further on, during the foul reign of “Europe’s first gentleman;” and let us hope still to survive through one foreshadowing, nay, already showing, corruption great as either.

Though in the Parliamentary wars no great battle occurred in the counties of Monmouth or Hereford, in both there was much partisan strife, at first chiefly along their eastern borders. Their interior districts, save during the Earl of Stamford’s brief occupation, and Waller’s sweeping raid, had been hitherto in the hands of the Royalists; and no traveller thought of venturing on their roads who was not prepared upon challenge to cry “For the King!”

Two routes were especially frequented; but more by warlike men than peaceful wayfarers. One of them ran due north and south between their respective capitals. The other passed through the same, but with a bow-like bend eastward, keeping to the valley of the Wye, and about midway communicating with the town of Ross. Between them lay a wild-wooded district of country, the ancient kingdom of Erchyn, to this day known as the Hundred of Archenfield. Through this was a third road, leading from Goodrich Castle north-west; which, on the shoulder of a high hill, Acornbury, some six miles south of Hereford, met the more direct route from Monmouth—the two thence continuing the same to the former city.

On the morning of the capture of Monmouth, at the earliest hour of dawn, a cavalcade was seen issuing from the gates of Goodrich Castle, and turning along this road in the direction of Hereford. It numbered nigh an hundred files, riding “by twos,” a formation which the narrow trackway rendered compulsory. Most of the men comprising it carried the lance, a favourite weapon with Colonel Sir Henry Lingen, its commanding officer. But some twenty were without arms of any kind, though on horseback: the prisoners of whom Kyrle had spoken as likely to be transferred from Goodrich to the capital. The information accidentally received by him was correct; they were now in transit between the two places, escorted by nearly all the castle’s garrison, Lingen himself at the head.

Had he known of Monmouth being in the hands of the enemy, he would not have been thus moving away from his stronghold. But, by some mischance, the messenger sent to apprise him of the disaster, did not reach Goodrich till after his departure for Hereford.

Nor was his errand to the latter place solely to see his prisoners safely lodged. He had other business there, with its Governor, Sir Barnabas Scudamore; hence his going along with them. For taking such a large retinue there was the same reason. Sir Barnabas contemplated an attack on Brampton Bryan Castle; so heroically defended by Lady Brilliana Harley, who had long and repeatedly foiled his attempts to take it.

The High Sheriff of Hereford county—for such was Lingen—took delight in a grand Cavalier accompaniment—many of his followers belonging to the best families of the shire—and along the route they were all jollity, talking loud, and laughing at each jeu d’esprit which chanced to be sprung. Just come from hard blows at Beachley, and crowded quarters in Monmouth, they were on the way to a city of more pretension, and promising sweeter delights. Hereford was at the time a centre of distinction, full of gentry from the surrounding shires; above all, abounding in the feminine element, with many faces reputed fair. Lingen’s gallants meant to have a carousal in the capital city, and knew they would there find the ways and means, with willing hosts to entertain them.

Different the thoughts of those whom they were conducting thither as captives. No such prospects to cheer or enliven them; but the reverse, as their experience of prison life had already taught them.

Most of all was Eustace Trevor dejected, for he was among them. It had been a trying week for the ex-gentleman-usher. Captured, wounded—by good fortune but slightly—transported from prison to prison, taunted as a rebel, and treated as a felon, he was even more mortified than sad. Enraged also to the end of his wits; he the proud son of Sir William Trevor to be thus submitted to ignominy and insult; he to whom, at Whitehall Palace, but two short years before, earls and dukes had shown subservience, believing him the favourite of a Queen!

Harrowing the reflections, and bitter the chagrin, he was now enduring, though the Queen had nought to do with them. All centred on a simple girl, in whose eyes he had hoped to appear a hero. Instead, he had proved himself an imbecile; been caught as in a trap! What would she—Vaga Powell—think of him now?

Oft since his capture had he anathematised his ill-fate—oft lamented it. And never more chafed at it than on this morning while being marched towards Hereford. While at Monmouth he had entertained a hope of getting rescued. A rumour of the affair at Beachley had penetrated his prison; and he knew Massey had been long contemplating an expedition across the Forest and over the Wye. But Hereford was in the heart of the enemy’s country, a very centre of Royalist strength and rule. Not much chance of his being delivered there; instead, every mile nearer to it the likelier his captivity to be of long continuance.

Hope had all but forsaken him; yet, in this his darkest hour of despondence, a ray of it scintillated through his mind, once more inspiring him with thoughts of escape. For something like a possibility had presented itself, in the shape of a horse—his own. The same animal he bestrode in his combat with Sir Richard Walwyn, and that had shown such spirit after a journey of nigh fifty miles. Many a fifty miles had it borne him since, carried him safe through many a hostile encounter.

He was not riding it now, alas! but astride the sorriest of nags. “Saladin,” the name of the tried and trusty steed, had been taken from him at Hollymead, and become the property of a common soldier, one of those who had assisted in his capture, the same now having him in especial charge. For each of the prisoners was guarded by one of the escort riding alongside.

It was by a mere accidental coincidence that the late and present owners of Saladin were thus brought into juxtaposition; and at first the former only thought of its singularity, with some vexation at having been deprived of his favourite charger, which he was not likely to recover again. By-and-by, however, the circumstance became suggestive. He knew the mettle of the horse, no man better. Perhaps, had Sir Harry Lingen, or any of his officers, known it as well, a common trooper would not have been bestriding it. But as yet the animal’s merits remained undiscovered by them, none supposing that in heels it could distance all in their cavalcade, and in bottom run them dead down.

On this, and things collateral, had Eustace Trevor commenced reflecting; hence his new-sprung hope. Wounded, with his arm in a sling, he was not bound—such precaution seeming superfluous. Besides, badly mounted as he was, any attempt at flight would have been absurd, and could but end in his being almost instantly retaken. So no one thought of his making it, save himself; but he did—had been cogitating upon it all along the way.

“If I could but get on Saladin’s back!” was his mental soliloquy, “I’d risk it. Three lengths of start—ay, one—and they might whistle after me. Their firelocks and lances all slung, pistols in the holsters buckled up; none dreaming of—Oh! were I but in that saddle!”

It was his own saddle to which he referred, now between the legs of the trooper, who had appropriated it also.

Every now and then his eyes were turned towards the horse in keen, covetous look; which the man at length observing, said,—

“Maybe ye’d like to get him back, Master Captain? He be precious good stuff; an’ I don’t wonder if ye would. Do ye weesh it?”

It was just the question Saladin’s ci-devant owner desired to be asked, and he was on the eve of answering impressively, “Very much.” A reflection restraining him, he replied, in a careless indifferent way,—

“Well, I shouldn’t mind—if you care to part with him.”

“That would depend on what ye be willin’ to gie. How much?”

This was a puzzler. What had he to give? Nothing! At his capture they had stripped him clean, rifled his pockets, torn from his hat the jewelled clasp and egret’s plume—that trophy of sweet remembrance. Even since, in Monmouth gaol, they had made free with certain articles of his attire; so that he was not only unarmed and purseless, but rather shabbily dressed; anything but able to make purchase of a horse, however moderate the price.

Would the man take a promise of payment at some future time—his word for it? The proposal was made; a tempting sum offered, to be handed over soon as the would-be purchaser could have the money sent him by his friends; but rejected.

“That’s no dependence, an’ a fig for your friends?” was the coarse response of the sceptical trooper. “If ye can’t show no better surety for payin’, I hold on to the horse, an’ you maun go without him. ’Sides, Master Captain, what use the anymal to ye inside o’ a prison, where’s yer like to be shut up, Lord knows how long?”

“Ah, true!” returned the young officer, with a sigh, and look of apparent resignation. “Still, corporal,”—the man had a cheveron on his sleeve—“it’s killing work to ride such a brute as this. If only for the rest of the way to Hereford, I’d give something to exchange saddles with you.”

“If ye had it to gie, I dare say ye would,” rejoined the corporal, with a satirical grin, as he ran his eye over the bare habiliments of his prisoner. “But as ye han’t, what be the use palaverin’ ’bout it? Till ye can show better reezon for my accommodatin’ you, we’ll both stick to the saddles we be in.”

This seemed to clinch the question; and for a time Eustace Trevor was silent, feeling foiled. But before going much farther a remembrance came to his aid, which promised him a better mount than the Rosinante he was riding—in short, Saladin’s self. The wound he had received was a lance thrust in the left wrist—only a prick, but when done deluging the hand in blood. This running down his fingers had almost glued them together, and the kerchief hastily wrapped round had stayed there ever since, concealing a ring which, seen by any of the Cavalier soldiers, would have been quickly cribbed. None had seen it; he himself having almost forgotten the thing, till now, with sharpened wits, he recalled its being there; knew it to be worth the accommodation denied him, and likely to obtain it.

“Well, corporal,” he said, returning to the subject, “I should have liked a ride on the horse, if only for old times’ sake, and the little chance of my ever getting one again. But I’d be sorry to have you exchange without some compensation. Still, I fancy, I can give you that without drawing upon time.”

The trooper pricked up his ears, now listening with interest. He was not inexorable; would have been willing enough to make the temporary swop, only wanted a quid pro quo.

“What do you say to this?” continued the young officer.

He had slipped his right hand inside the sling; and drawn forth the golden circlet, which he held out while speaking. It was a jewelled ring, the gems in cluster bedimmed with the blood that had dried and become encrusted upon them. But they sparkled enough to show it valuable; worth far more than what it was being offered for. And there was a responsive sparkle in the eyes of him who bestrode Saladin, as he hastened to say,—“That’ll do. Bargain be it?”

Chapter Forty Nine.

An Uphill Chase.

At sight of the glistening gems a sudden change had come over the features of the trooper, their expression of surliness being displaced by that of intense cupidity. But for this he might have considered why the offer of such valuable consideration for so trifling a service. As it was, he had no suspicion of it; though on both sides the dialogue had been carried on in guarded undertone. For this their reasons were distinct, each having his own. That of the prisoner is already known; while a simple instinct had guided the corporal—a fear that the negotiation between them might not be altogether agreeable to his superiors.

More cautious than ever after declaring it a bargain, he glanced furtively to the front, then rearward, to assure himself they had not been overheard, nor their tête-à-tête noticed by any of the officers.

It seemed all right, none of these being near; and his next thought was how to effect the exchange agreed upon. The files were wide apart, with very little order in the line of march—a circumstance observed by Eustace Trevor with satisfaction, as likely to help him in his design. They were passing though a district unoccupied by any enemy and where surprise was the last thing to be thought of. But even straggled out as was the troop, any transfer of horses, however adroitly done, would not only be remarked upon, but cause a block in the marching column, the which might bring about inquiry as to the reason, and the guard, if not the prisoner, into trouble.

“Ye maun ha’ patience for a bit,” said the former, in view of the difficulty. “’Tan’t safe for me to be seen changin’ horses on the road. But ye won’t ha’ long to wait; only till we get to the bottom o’ that hill ye see ahead, Acornbury it be called. There we can do the thing.”

“Why there?”

The question was put with a special object, apart from the questioner’s impatience.

“Cause o’ an inn that be theer. It stand this side o’ where the pitch begins. The Sheriff always stops at it goin’ from Goodrich to Hereford, an’ he be sure o’ makin’ halt the day. When’s we be halted—ye comprehend, Captain?”

The man had grown civil almost to friendliness. The prospect of becoming possessed of a valuable ring for but an hour’s loan of his new horse had worked wonders. Could he but have known that he was hypothecating the more valuable animal with but slight chance of redeeming it, the bargain would have been off on the instant. His avarice blinded him; and his prisoner now felt good as sure he would soon have Saladin once more between his knees.

“I do comprehend—quite,” was the young officer’s satisfied response; and they rode on without further speech, both purposely refraining from it.

The corporal might have saved his breath in imparting the situation of the inn under Acornbury Hill. Eustace Trevor knew the house well as he; perhaps better, having more than once baited his horse there. Familiar was he with the roads and country around, not so far from his native place by Abergavenny. Besides, he had an uncle who lived nearer, and as a boy, with his cousins, had ridden and sported all over the district. This topographical knowledge was now likely to stand him in stead; and as he thought of the Monmouth road joining that he was on near the head of Acornbury pitch, he fairly trembled with excitement. Could he but reach their point of junction on Saladin’s back he would be free.

How he longed to arrive at the roadside hostelry! Every second seemed a minute, every minute an hour!

It was reached at length, and his suspense brought to an end. True to expectation, a halt was commanded; and the extended line, closing up, came to a stand on the open ground before the inn. A scrambling house of antique architecture, its swing sign suspended from the limb of an oaken giant, whose spreading branches shadowed a large space in front.

Under this Lingen and his officers made stop, still keeping to their saddles, and calling to Boniface and his assistants to serve them there. It was only for a draught they had drawn up, the journey too short to need resting their horses. Nor was there any dismounting among the rank and file rearward, save where some trooper whose girths had got loosened took the opportunity to drop down and tighten them.

Seeming to do the same was the corporal in charge of Eustace Trevor, his prisoner too, both on the ground together. Only an instant till they were in the saddle again, but with changed horses, and the blood-crusted ring at the bottom of the corporal’s pocket. Meanwhile the officers under the tree had got served, and, cups in hand, were quaffing joyously. In high glee all; for the sun, now well up, promised a day gloriously fine, and they were about to make entry into Hereford with flying colours. Nearly twenty prisoners, it would be as a triumphal procession.

A cry, strangely intoned, brought their merriment to an abrupt end; a chorus of shouts, quick following with the clatter of hoofs. Turning, they saw one on horseback just parting from the troop, as if his horse had bolted and was running away with him!

But no. “Prisoner escaping!” came the call, as every one could now see it was. The man in rich garb, but soiled and torn; the horse a bit of blood none of their prisoners had been riding. One of the officers they had taken—which?

The question was answered by the High Sheriff himself—

“Zounds! it’s that young renegade, Trevor! He mustn’t escape, gentlemen. All after him!”

Down went tankards and flagons, dashed to the ground, spilling the wine they had not time to drink; and off all set, swords drawn, and spurs buried rowel deep.

The common men, save those cumbered with prisoners, joined in the pursuit; some unslinging lances or firelocks, others plucking pistols from their holsters.

“Shoot!” shouted Lingen. “Bring him down, or the horse!”

It was the critical moment for the fugitive, and in modern days would have been fatal to him. But the old snap-hans and clumsy horse pistol of the Stuart times were little reliable for a shot upon the wing, and as a winged bird Saladin was sweeping away. Both volley and straggling fire failed to stay him; and ere the pursuers were well laid on, the pursued was at least fifty lengths ahead of the foremost.

Up the hill, towards Hereford, was he heading! This a surprise to all. In that direction were only his enemies; and he could as easily have gone off in the opposite, with hope of getting to Gloucester. At starting he had even to pass the group of officers under the tree. And why setting his face for Hereford—as it were rushing out of one trap to run into another?

He knew better. Fleeing to the capital of the county was the farthest thing from his thoughts. His goal was Monmouth; but first the forking of the roads on the shoulder of Acornbury Hill. That reached, with no contretemps between, he might bid defiance to the clattering ruck in his rear.

The distance he was so rapidly gaining upon them told him he had not been mistaken about the superior qualities of his steed. If the latter should show bottom as it already had heels, his chances of escape were good. And the omens seemed all in his favour: his own horse so oddly restored to him; the luck of that ring left un-pilfered during his imprisonment; and, lastly, to have come unscathed out of the shower of bullets sent after him! They had whistled past his ears, not one touching him or the horse.

He thought of these things when far enough ahead to reflect; and the farther he rode the greater grew his confidence. Saladin would be sure to justify his good opinion of him.

And Saladin seemed to quite comprehend the situation. He at least knew his real owner and master was once more on his back, which meant something. And having received word and sign for best speed—the first “On!” the last a peculiar pressure of the rider’s knees—he needed no urging of whip or spur. Without them he was doing his utmost.

Up the pitch went he as hare against hill; up the channel-like trackway between escarpments of the old red sandstone that looked like artificial walls; on upward, breasting the steep with as much apparent ease as though he galloped along level ground. No fear of anything equine overtaking him; no danger now, for the pursuers were out of sight round many turnings of the road; the hue and cry was growing fainter and farther off, and the stone which marked the forking of the routes would soon be in sight.

Eustace Trevor’s heart throbbed with emotions it had long been a stranger to, for they were sweet. He now felt good as sure he would get off, and to escape in such fashion would do something to restore his soldierly repute, forfeited by the affair of Hollymead. Nothing had more exasperated him than his facile capture there; above all, the light in which a certain lady would regard it; but now he could claim credit for a deed—

“Not done yet!” was his muttered exclamation, interrupting the pleasant train of thought, as he reined his horse to a sudden halt.

He was approaching the head of the pitch, had almost surmounted it, when he saw what seemed to tell him his attempt at escape was a failure; all his strategy, with the swiftness of his steed, to no purpose. A party of mounted men, just breaking cover from among some trees, and aligning themselves across the road. At the same instant came the customary hail,—“Who are you for?”

The dazzle of the sun right before his face, and behind their backs, hindered his seeing aught to give a clue to their character—only the glance of arms and accoutrements proclaiming them soldiers. And as no soldiers were like to be there save on the Royalist side, to declare himself truthfully, and respond “For the Parliament,” would be to pronounce his own doom. Yet he hated in his heart to cry “For the King.” Nor would the deception serve him. They coming on behind would soon be up, and lay it bare.

He glanced to right and left, only to see that he was still between high banks of the sunken causeway. On neither side a possibility of scaling them to escape across country. It was but a question, then, to which he should surrender—the foe in front, or that he had late eluded?

There was not much to choose between them; in either case he would be returned to the Sheriff of Hereford; but to cut short suspense he decided on giving himself up at once. The road was blocked by the party of horse, and, weaponless, to attempt running the gauntlet of them would be to get piked out of his saddle, or cut to pieces in it.

These observations and reflections occupied but an instant, to end in his responding,—

“For the Parliament?”

He might as well make a clean breast of it, and tell the truth.

“We see you are. Come on!”

Surprised was he at the rejoinder as at the voice that gave utterance to it, which seemed familiar to him. But his surprise became astonishment when the speaker added, “Quick, Trevor! we’re in ambuscade;” and drawing nearer, the sun now out of his eyes, he saw that well-known banneret, with sword-pierced crown in its field, waving above the head of Sir Richard Walwyn!

Chapter Fifty.

An Ambuscade.

Steaming at the nostrils Saladin was for the second time brought to a stand, head to head with old stable comrades that snorted recognition. For with Colonel Walwyn was Rob Wilde and others of his troop.

A hurried explanation ensued, Sir Richard first asking,—

“Your guards? You were being escorted?”

“Yes; I’ve given them the slip.”

“Where are they now?”

“Coming up the hill—you hear them?”

“Hush!” enjoined the knight, speaking to those around him; and all became silent, listening.

Voices, with a quick trample of hoofs, and at short intervals a call as of command, from far below and but faintly heard. The road was almost subterranean, and wound up through a dense wood.

“What’s their number?” again questioned the knight.

“Nigh two hundred—nearly all Lingen’s force—and about twenty prisoners.”

“Is Lingen with them?” eagerly asked an officer by Sir Richard’s side, who seemed to share the command with him.

“Colonel Kyrle—Captain Trevor,” said the knight, introducing them. “I suppose you’re aware we’ve taken Monmouth?”

“I was not; but am happy to hear it. Yes, Colonel,” replying to Kyrle, “Lingen is with them; coming on in the pursuit.”

Over the features of the ex-Royalist came an expression of almost savage joy, as one who had been longing to confront an old and hated foe, and knew the opportunity near.

“I’m glad?” he exclaimed, as in soliloquy; then seemed to busy himself about his arms.

“His presence was near being a sorry thing for me—the inhuman scoundrel!” rejoined the escaped prisoner.

“How so?”

“I heard him give the order to fire on me, as I was making off.”

“And they did?”

“Yes. Every one who could get piece, or pistol, ready in time.”

“That explains the shots we heard, Walwyn. Well, young sir,” to Trevor, “you seem to bear a charmed life. But we must back into ambush. You take the right, Dick; let me look to the left and give the cue to fall on. I ask that from my better knowing the ground.”

“So be it!” assented Sir Richard, and the two commanders, parting right and left, rode back a little way within the wood, where each had a body of horse drawn up, and ready for the charge.

The conversation, hurriedly carried on, had consumed but a few seconds’ time; and in an instant after the causeway was clear again, only a vidette left under cover to signal the approach of the pursuers. Captain Trevor, of course, went with his colonel, but now carrying a sword and pistols; supernumerary weapons which had been found for him by Sergeant Wilde.

A profound silence succeeded; for the horses of the Parliamentarians, after two years’ campaigning, had become veterans as the men themselves, and trained to keeping still. Not a neigh uttered; no noise save the slight tinkle of curb or bit, and an occasional angry stamp at bite of the bree fly. But the one could not be distinguished, even at short distance, amid the continuous screeching of jays, and oft-repeated glu-glu-gluck of the green woodpecker, whose domain was being intruded on; while the other might be mistaken for colts at pasture.

To the surprise of all in ambuscade, the pursuing party appeared to be coming on very slowly; and in truth was it so. Two reasons retarded them. Their horses were not Saladins, and the best of them had become blown in their gallop against the steep acclivity more than a mile in length. But the riders themselves had grown discouraged. In their last glimpse got of the fugitive he was so far ahead, and his mount showing such matchless speed, it seemed idle to continue the chase. They but hoped that some chance party of Scudamore’s men from Hereford might be patrolling the road farther on, and intercept him. So, instead of pressing the pursuit with ardour, they lagged on it; toiling up the steep in straggled line, and at a crawl.

Some twenty of the best horsed, however, had forged a long distance ahead of the others, who were following in twos and threes, with wide intervals between. And among the laggards was Lingen, instead of in the lead, as might be expected in the commander of a partisan troop. Fond of display, and that day designing exhibition of it, he rode a charger of superb appearance; one of the sort for show, not work. As a consequence, after the first spurt of the pursuit, he had fallen hundreds of yards behind, and was half-inclined to turn round and ride back to the inn, under pretence of looking after his other prisoners.

But there was no going back for those who had pushed on, nor much farther forward. Having surmounted the summit of the pitch, they heard a heavy trampling of hoofs, with the dreaded slogan, “God and the Parliament!” and saw two large bodies of horse, one on each flank, simultaneously closing upon them. At a charging gallop these came on, so quick the surprised party had no time either to turn back or make a dash onward, ere seeing the road blocked before and behind.

A surround complete as sudden, accompanied by the demand “Surrender!” made in tone of determination that would not brook refusal.

Of the score of Cavaliers so challenged, not one had the heart to say nay. They had left their courage below with their spilled wine cups, and now cried “Quarter!” in very chorus, delivering up their arms without striking blow, or firing shot.

“Where’s Harry Lingen?” cried Kyrle, spurring into their midst with drawn sword. “I don’t see his face among you.” Adding, with a sneer, “Such a valiant leader should be at the head of his men!”

Then fixing on one he knew to be a cornet of Lingen’s Light Horse, he vociferated,—

“Say where your colonel is, sirrah! or I’ll run you through the ribs.”

“Down the hill—behind somewhere,” stammered out the threatened subaltern. “He was with us when we commenced the pursuit.”

Riding clear of the crowd Kyrle glanced interrogatively down the road. To see the tails of horses disappearing round a corner; some of the pursuers, who, catching sight of what was above, had made about face, and were galloping back.

“Let us after them, Walwyn! What say you?” hurriedly proposed Kyrle.

“Just what I was thinking of. Trevor tells me most of their prisoners are my own men, those taken at Hollymead. They shall be rescued, whatever the risk.”

“Not much risk now, I fancy. Lingen’s lot are so demoralised they won’t stand a charge. We needn’t fear following them up to the gates of Goodrich Castle. And we can get back to Monmouth that way, well as the other.”

“That way we go,” then said the knight determinedly; and down the pitch started the two colonels with their respective followers, a detail having been hastily told off to guard the prisoners just taken.

Meanwhile the Sheriff had been balancing between advance and return. Vexed with the cause which retarded him, he was vowing he would never again bestride the showy brute, when he saw several of his men coming back down the pitch at breakneck speed, as they approached calling out, “Treason! A surprise!”

“Treason! What mean you?” he demanded, drawing his sword, and stopping them in their headlong flight. “Are you mad, fellows?”

“No, Colonel; not mad. Some one has betrayed us into an ambuscade. The Roundheads are up the hill; hundreds—thousands of them?”

“Who says so?”

“We saw them, Sir Henry.”

“You couldn’t have seen Roundheads. There are none on these roads. It must be some of Scudamore’s men from Hereford. Fools! you’ve been frightened at your own shadows.”

“But, Colonel, they’ve taken a party of ours prisoners; all that were ahead of us. We heard the ‘Surrender!’ and saw them surrounded.”

“I shall see it myself before I believe it. About, and on with me!”

The men thus commanded, however reluctant to return towards the summit, knew better than to disobey. But their obedience was not insisted upon. In the narrow way, ere he could pass to place himself at their head, a horseman came galloping from below, and pulled up by his side. A courier with horse in a lather of sweat, showing he must have ridden far and fast. But the slip of paper, hurriedly drawn from his doublet and handed to the Sheriff, told all.

Unfolding it, he read,—

“Kyrle has betrayed us. Massey in Monmouth. Large body of Horse—several hundred—Walwyn’s Forest troop, and some of Kyrle’s old hands with the traitor himself, gone out along the Hereford road this morning before daybreak. Destination not known. Be on your guard.”

The informal despatch, which showed signs of being written in great haste, was without any signature. None was needed; the bearer, personally known to Lingen, giving further details vivâ voce; while its contents too truly confirmed the report just brought by the soldiers from the other side.

Among Cavaliers Sir Henry Lingen was of the bravest, and would not cry back from any encounter with fair chances. But he was not foolhardy, nor lacking prudence when the occasion called for it. And there seemed such occasion now. He knew something of Sir Richard Walwyn and his Foresters, as also of Kyrle and his following, and what he might expect from both. They would not likely be out that way unless in strong force. Several hundred, the despatch said—pity it was not more exact—while his own numbered less than two. Besides, if the returning soldiers were not mistaken, twenty of them had been already snapped up; and the rest would make but a poor fight, if they stood ground at all. He rather thought they would not now; and so reflecting reined his unwieldy charger round, and rode back down the pitch, at a much better pace than he had ascended it.

Picking up all stragglers on the way, he meant doing the same with his prisoners left at the inn. But before he had even reached it, he heard hoof-strokes thundering down the hill behind in a multitudinous clatter, that bespoke a large body of horse coming close upon his heels. So close, he no longer thought of cumbering himself with prisoners, but swept on past those at the hostelry in a sauve qui peut flight, their guards going along, and leaving them there in a state of supreme bewilderment.

Not long, however, till they understood why they had been so abruptly abandoned. In less than five minutes after, broke upon their view the banner of the sword-stabbed crown, and beneath it coats of Lincoln green, with hats plumed from the tail of Chanticleer, the uniform of the Forest troop—their own.

In a trice they were freed from their fastenings, and armed with the weapons taken from the party of Cavaliers that had been caught by the head of the pitch. Riding their horses, too, after a quick exchange—in short, everything reversed—then away from their halting-place with cheers and at charging gallop, no longer prisoners, but pursuers!

Never did the chances and changes of war receive better or more singular illustration than upon that autumn’s morn along the road between Acornbury and Goodrich. At early daybreak a Royalist host, in noisy jubilance, conducting a score of dejected captives towards Hereford; and, before the sun had attained meridian height, a like number of prisoners going in the opposite direction, under guard of Parliamentary soldiers!

Some difference, however, in the mode of march and rate of speed: the former leisurely slow, as a triumphal procession; the latter a hot, eager pursuit that permitted no tarrying by the way. Nor was there on the return passage either jesting or laughter; instead, now and then shouts in stern, angry tone—the demand, “Surrender!” as some fleeing Cavalier, cursed with a short-winded horse, had to pull up, and call out “Quarter!”

So on to the gates of Goodrich Castle, into which Lingen, malgré his indifferent mount, contrived to enter, quick closing them behind.

The pursuit could go no farther, nor the pursuers make entrance after him. In that strong fortress he might bid defiance to cavalry—even the best artillery of the time. Famine only had he to fear.

But to so shut him up—so humiliate him—was a triumph for Kyrle, his ancient foe; and as the latter turned away from the defying walls, the smile upon his face told how greatly it gratified him. A revanche he had gained for some wrongs Lingen had done his father; and, now that he was himself to rule in Monmouth, he had hopes, ere long, to make a real revenge of it, by razing Goodrich Castle to its foundation stones.

Chapter Fifty One.

In Carousal.

“We’ll drink - drink, And our goblets clink, Quaffing the blood-red wine; The wenches we’ll toast, And the Roundheads we’ll roast, The Croppies, and all their kind.”

“A capital song! And right well you’ve sung it, Sir Thomas. Herrlich!”

“Your Highness compliments me.”

“Nein—nein. But who composed the ditty? It’s new to me.”

“Sir John Dertham. He who wrote the verses about Waller, and their defeat at Roundway Down—

“‘Great William the Con- So fast did he run, That he left half his name behind him.’

“Your Highness may remember them?”

“Ha-ha-ha! That do I; and Sir John himself. A true Cavalier, and no better company over the cup. But come, gentlemen! Let us act up to the spirit of the song. Fill goblets, and toast the wenches!”

“The wenches! The wenches!” came in responsive echo from all sides of the table, as the wine went to their lips.

No sentiment could have been more congenial to those who had been listening to Colonel Lunford’s song. For it was this man of infamous memory who had been addressed as “Sir Thomas.” He had late received knighthood from his King; such being the sort Kings delight to honour, now as then. And among the convives was a King’s son, the embryo “Merry Monarch,” taking lessons in that reprobacy he afterwards practised to the bestrumpetting England from lordly palace to lowly cot.

It was not he, however, who had complimented Lunsford on his vocal abilities; the “Highness” being his cousin, Prince Rupert, in whose quarters they were carousing; the place Bristol; the time some weeks subsequent to the taking of Monmouth by Massey. But the occasion which had called them together was to celebrate a success on the opposite side; its re-capture by the Royalists, for Monmouth had been retaken. A sad mischance for the Parliamentarians; through no fault of Kyrle, who, on active duty, was away from it, but the lache of one Major Throgmorton, left in temporary charge.

Riotous with delight were they assembled within Rupert’s quarters. They had that day received the welcome intelligence, and were in spirit for unrestrained rejoicing. Ever since Marston Moor the King’s cause had been suffering reverses; once more the tide seemed turning in its favour.

But nothing of war occupied their thoughts now; the victory on the Wye had been talked over, the victors toasted, and the subject dismissed for one always uppermost at a Cavalier carousal.

Several songs had been already sung, but that of Lunsford—so indecent, that only the chorus can be here given—tickled the fancies of all, and an encore was demanded. A demand with which the festive Lunsford readily complied, and the ribald refrain once more received uproarious plaudits.

“Now, gentlemen!” said the host, on silence being restored, “fill again! We’ve but toasted the wenches in a general way. I’m going to propose one in particular, whom you’ll all be eager to honour. A fascinating damsel, who, if I’m not mistaken, Cousin Charles, has put a spell upon your young heart.”

“Ha-ha!” smirked the precocious reprobate, in a semi-protesting way. “You are mistaken, coz. None of womankind can do that.”

“Ah! if your Royal Highness has escaped her witcheries, you’re one of the rare exceptions. Mein Gott! she has turned the heads of more than half my young officers, and commands them as much as I do myself. Well, she’s worthy of obedience, if beauty has the right to rule, and we Cavaliers cannot deny it that. So let us drink to her!”

By this all had replenished their cups, and were waiting to hear the name of her whose charms were so extolled by their princely host. A good many could guess; and more than one listened to what he had been saying with a feeling of unpleasantness. For he but spoke the truth about the fascinations of a certain lady, and more than one present had felt their spell to the surrender of hearts. Not from this came their pain, however, but from whisperings that Rupert himself had set covetous eyes on the lady in question, and well knew they what that meant—a thing fatal to their own aspirations. Where the sun deigns to shine the satellite stars have to suffer eclipse.

And just as these jealous subordinates anticipated, the damsel about to be toasted was Mademoiselle Lalande.

“Clarisse Lalande?” at length called out the Prince, adding—“To the bottom of your cups, gentlemen!”

And to the bottom of their cups drank they, honouring the toast with a cheer, in which might be detected some tone of irony.

The usual brief interval of silence, as lull in the midst of storm, was succeeded by a buzz of conversation, not about any common or general subject, but carried on by separate groups, and in dialogue between individuals.

Into this last had entered two gentlemen, who sate near the head of the table; one in civilian garb, the other wearing the uniform of a cavalry officer. Both were men of middle age, the officer somewhat the older; while a certain gravity of aspect distinguished him from the gay roysterers around. But for the insignia on his dress, he would have looked more like Parliamentarian than Royalist.

The demeanour of the civilian was also of the sober kind, and marked by an air of distinction which proclaimed him a somebody of superior rank.

“’Tis no more than the truth,” he said, turning to the officer, after the toast had been disposed of. “The Creole is a fascinating creature. Don’t you think so, Major Grenville?”

“I do, my Lord. Her fascination is admitted by all. But, perhaps, some of it is due to her rather free manners. With a little more modesty she might not appear so attractive—certainly would not to most of the present company.”

“Ah! true. There’s something in that.”

“A good deal, my Lord; despite the old adage. For modesty is a quality that does not adorn Mademoiselle Lalande. A pity, too! The want of it may ruin her reputation, if it hasn’t done that already.”

“What a moralist you are, Major! Your ideas have a strong taint of Puritanism. I hope you’re not going to turn your back on us gay Cavaliers. Ha-ha-ha!”

The laugh told his Lordship to be in jest. He knew Major Grenville to be a devoted adherent of the King, else he would not have bantered him.

“But,” he continued, reverting to the topic with which they started, “morals apart, I’ve never seen a thing to give one such an idea of woman’s power as she does—in that curious Indian dance. ’Tis a wonderful picture, or rather embodiment, of feminine voluptuousness.”

“All that I admit,” returned the Major. “But for true womanly grace—ay, abandon, but of a very different kind—you should see a cousin she has, a real English girl, or, to speak more correctly, Welsh.”

“All the same. But who is the cousin so highly endowed?”

“A Miss Powell, the daughter of a wealthy gentleman, who, I’m sorry to say, is not on our side; instead, one of our bitterest enemies.”

“Might you mean Master Ambrose Powell, of Hollymead House, up in the Forest of Dean?”

“The same. Your Lordship seems to know him?”

“Certainly I do, or did; for it’s several years since I’ve seen him. But he had two daughters then, Sabrina and Vaga. One is not likely to forget the names. Are not both still living?”

“Oh yes.”

“The elder, Sabrina, was nearly grown up when I saw them last, the other but a slip; but both promised to be great beauties.”

“If your Lordship saw them now, you’d say the promise has been kept. They are that, beyond cavil or question.”

“But from what you’ve said, I take it you regard one of them as superior to the other. Which, may I ask? At a guess I’d say Sabrina. As a girl I liked her looks best; came near liking them too well. Ha-ha! Have I guessed correctly?”

“The reverse, my Lord; that is, according to my ideas of beauty.”

“Then you award the palm to Vaga?”

“Decidedly.”

“Well, Major, I won’t question your judgment, as I can’t till I’ve seen the sisters again. No doubt they will be much changed since I had the pleasure of last meeting them. But they should now be of an age to get married; Sabrina certainly. Is there no talk of that?”

“There is, my Lord.”

“Regarding which?”

“Regarding both.”

“Ah! And who the respective favourites?”

“Say respective finances, your Lordship. They’re engaged. So report has it.”

“And who are to be the Benedicts? Who is Mistress Sabrina to make happy?”

“Sir Richard Walwyn, ’tis said.”

“Dick Walwyn, indeed! An old classmate of mine at Oxford. Well, she might do worse. And the little yellow-haired sprout? She was a bright blonde, I remember, with wonderful tresses, like a Danäe’s shower. Who’s to be the possessor of all that auriferous wealth?”

“One of the Trevors.”

“There’s one of them on the Prince’s staff, I understand. Is it he?”

“No; a cousin—son of Sir William of Abergavenny.”

“What! the young stripling who used to be at Court—one of the gentlemen ushers?”

“The same, my Lord.”

“Quite an Adonis he; so the Queen thought, ’twas said. Mistress Vaga must have all the fascinations you credit her with to have made conquest of him. But he’s not with the King now?”

“No; nor on the King’s side neither. He turned coat, and took service under the Parliament, in Walwyn’s troop of Horse. ’Tis supposed the Danäe’s shower your lordship speaks of had a good deal to do with his conversion.”

“Very likely that. Cupid’s a powerful proselytiser. Well, I should like to see the Powell girls again; their father too, for old friendship’s sake. By the way, where are they?”

“I am not well informed about their present whereabouts. Some twelve months ago they were here in Bristol, staying at Montserrat House with Madame, his sister. When we took the place, Master Ambrose thought it wise to move away from it, for reasons easily understood. He went hence to Gloucester, where, I believe, he has been residing ever since—up till within the last few days. Likely they’re at Hollymead just now; at least I heard of Powell having returned thither, thinking he would be safe with Monmouth in Massey’s hands. Since it isn’t any longer, he may move back to Gloucester; and the sooner the better, I should say. He has sadly compromised himself by acting on one of the Parliament’s Committees; and some of ours will show him but slight consideration.”

“Indeed, I should be sorry if any serious misfortune befell him, or his. An odd sort of man with mistaken views politically; still a man of sterling good qualities. I hope, Major, he may not be among the many victims this unnatural war is claiming all over the land.”

“I echo that hope, my Lord.”

And with these humane sentiments their dialogue came to a close, so far as that subject was concerned.

Two men had been listening to it with eager ears—Prince Rupert and Colonel Lunsford, who sate by his side. Amidst the clinking of goblets, and the jarring din of many voices, they could not hear it all; still enough to make out its general purport.

They seemed especially interested when the Major spoke of the Powells having returned to Hollymead. It was news to them; glad news for a certain reason. Often since that morning after the surrender of Bristol had the princely voluptuary given thought to the “bit of saucy sweetness, with cheeks all roses,” he had seen passing out of its gates for Gloucester. Just as at first sight her sister had caught the fancy of the brutal Lunsford, so had she caught his; and the impression still remained, despite a succession of amours and love escapades, with high and low, since.

In more than one of his marauds through the Forest of Dean, Lunsford along with him, he had paid visit to Hollymead House; only to find it untenanted, save by caretakers—the family still in the city of Gloucester. Many the curse hurled he, and his infamous underling, at that same city of Gloucester; where the Cavalier who had not cursed it?

Overjoyed, then, were the two by what had just reached their ears, the Prince interrogating in undertone,—

“You hear that, Lunsford?”

“I do, your Highness.”

“Gott sei dank! Just what we’ve been wishing and waiting for. We may now visit Hollymead, with fair hope of the sweet fraüleins being there to receive us. Then, mein Colonel, then—nous verrons!”

After delivering himself in this polyglot fashion, he caught hold of his goblet, and clinking it against that of Lunsford, said in a confidential whisper,—

“We drink to our success, Sir Thomas?”

There had been a third listener to the dialogue between Major Grenville and the nobleman, who also overheard the words spoken by Rupert to the new-made knight. But, instead of gladdening, the first gave him pain; which the last intensified to very bitterness. His name made known, the reason will be divined. For it was Reginald Trevor.

Chapter Fifty Two.

At Home Again.

There was rejoicing at Ruardean. After two years of forced absence, the master of Hollymead had returned to his ancestral home, and the faces of his beautiful daughters once more gladdened the eyes of the villagers.

Out of the world’s way as was this quaint little place, it too had suffered the severities of the war. More than one visit had been paid to it by patrols and scouting parties of the Royalist soldiery; which meant very much the same as if the visitors had been very bandits. They made free with everything they could lay hands on worth the trouble of taking—goods, apparel, furniture, even to the most cherished household goods; invading the family sanctuary, and at each re-appearance stripping it cleaner and cleaner.

Ruardean had, indeed, become an impoverished place, as all the rural district around. The “chimney tapestry” had disappeared from the farmer’s kitchen, neither flitch nor ham to be seen in it; empty his pigsties, unstocked his pastures; and if a horse remained in his stable it was one no Cavalier would care to bestride. The King’s Commissioners of Array had requisitioned all, calling it a purchase, and paying with bits of stamped paper, which the reluctant vendor knew to be worth just nothing. But, nolens volens, he must accept it, or take the alternative, sure of being made severe for him.

So afflicted ever since the surrender of Bristol to Rupert, no wonder the Forest people had grown a-weary of the war, and were glad when they heard of Wintour’s defeat at Beachley, and soon after of Monmouth being taken by the Parliamentarians. It seemed earnest of a coming peace; while to the people of the Ruardean district Ambrose Powell once more appearing among them was like the confirmation of it.

Something besides gave them security, for the time at least. A squadron of horse had taken up quarters in their village; not the freebooting Cavaliers, bullying and fleecing them; but soldiers who treated them kindly, paid full price for everything, in short, behaved to them as friends and protectors. For many of them were their friends their own relatives, the body of horse being that commanded by Colonel Walwyn, with Rob Wilde as its head sergeant.

Alike secure felt the ladies in Hollymead House, safe as within Gloucester. How could it be otherwise, with Sir Richard having his headquarters there and Eustace Trevor under the same roof?

The happy times seemed to have returned; and the sisters, after their long irksome residence in walled towns, more than ever enjoyed that country life, to which from earliest years they had been accustomed.

And once again went they out hawking, with the same cast of peregrines and the same little merlin. For Van Dorn, living in a sequestered spot, and unaffected by the events of the war, had kept the falcons up to their training.

Once more to the marsh at the base of Ruardean Hill, the party almost identical with that which had repaired thither two years before. And as before rang out the falconer’s hooha-ha-ha-ha! and shrill whistle, as a heron rose up from the sedge; again a white heron, the great egret! Singular coincidence, and strangely gratifying to the fair owner of the peregrines, for she especially wanted an egret. How she watched as it made for upper air, with the falcons doing their best to mount above it; watched with eager, anxious eyes, fearing it might get away. Not that she was cruel, only just then she so desired to have a white heron; would give anything for one.

She did not need to have a fear. Van Dorn had done his duty by the hawks, and, the chased bird had no chance of escaping. Soon its pursuers were seen above it, with spread trains and quivering sails; then one stooped, raked, and rose over again; while the other stooped to bind; both ere long becoming bound; when all three birds came fluttering back to earth.

With triumphant “whoop?” the falconer pronounced it a kill; but this time, seemingly without being told, he plucked out the tail coverts, and handed them to his young mistress. Days before, however, Van Dorn had received injunctions to procure such if possible. There was a hat that wanted a plume.

“To replace that you lost, dear Eustace,” she said, passing them over to him.

“’Tis so good of you to think of it, darling?”

How different their mode of addressing one another from the time when they were last upon that spot! No painstaking coyness now; but heart knowing heart, troth plighted, and loves mutually reliant.

“I shall take better care of this one,” he added, adjusting the feathers into a panache. “Never man sadder than I when the other was taken from me. For I feared it would be the loss of what I far more valued.”

“Your life. Ah! so feared I when I heard you were wounded—”

“No, not my life,” he said, interrupting. “Something besides.”

“What besides?”

“Your love, Vaga; at least your esteem.”

“Eustace! How could you think that?”

“From having lost my own, along with my character as a soldier. To be taken as in a trap.”

“Never that, dearest! All knew there was treason. If you were taken so might a lion, with such numbers against you. And how you delivered yourself!”

She had learnt all the particulars of his escape—a deed of daring to be proud of. And proud was she of it.

“Do you know, Eustace,” she continued, without waiting his rejoinder, “that you spared me a journey, and perhaps some humiliation?”

“A journey! Whither?”

“To Goodrich Castle first; and it might have been anywhere after.”

“But why?”

“To throw myself at Sir Henry Lingen’s feet, and crave mercy for you.”

“That would have been humiliation indeed, darling. And I’m glad that chance hindered you from it.”

“Chance! No love: your courage did it, and—”

“My horses’s heels, rather say. But for them I should not be here.”

He was upon that horse’s back then; she on a palfrey by his side.

“Noble Saladin!” she exclaimed, drawing closer, and passing her gloved hand caressingly over his arched neck. “Dear, good Saladin! If you but knew how grateful I am!”

Saladin did seem to know, as in soft, gentle neighing he turned his head round to acknowledge the caress.

A fair picture these betrothed lovers formed as they sate in their saddles under the greenwood tree. Some change was there in them since they had been there before. He handsome as ever, perhaps handsomer. His cheeks embrowned with two years’ campaigning, his figure braced to a terser, firmer manhood; on Saladin’s back he seemed the personification of a young crusader just returned from the Holy Wars.

She lovelier than of erst, if that were possible. A woman now, her girlhood’s beauty had done all Major Grenville said of it, and more. Sager had she grown, made so by the vicissitudes and trials of the time; and it became her. Not now clapped she her hands, and echoed the falconer’s “whoop!” when the hawks struck their quarry down. Instead, took it all quietly; so different from former days!

But there was another cause now sobering, almost saddening, her, one which affected both. The war was not yet at an end. At any hour, any moment, might come a summons which would again separate them, perchance never more to meet! In that tranquil sylvan scene they felt as on the deck of a storm-tossed, wreck-threatened ship, in the midst of angry ocean! Cruel war, to beget such reflections—such fears!

And, alas! they were realised almost on the instant. Following the old course, the hawking party had ascended to the summit of the hill to give the merlin its turn. The game of its pursuit, more plentiful, was easily found and flushed, so that soon the courageous creature made a kill—a landrail the quarry.

But ere it could be cast-off for a second flight, just as once before, the sport was interrupted by, their seeing a horseman on the opposite hill coming down the road from the Wilderness to Drybrook.

He might not have been noticed but for the pace, which was a rapid gallop. This down the steep declivity told of some pressing purpose, while the sun’s glitter upon arms and accoutrements proclaimed him a soldier.

More definite was the knowledge got of him through a telescope, which one of the attendants carried. Glancing through it, Sir Richard recognised the uniform of a Parliamentarian dragoon—one of Massey’s own regiment. Coming that way, and at such a speed, the man must be a messenger with despatches; and for whom but himself?

Separating from his party, and taking Hilbert with him, the knight trotted off to the nearest point where the Ruardean road passed over the shoulder of the hill, there halting till the dragoon should come up. Nor had he long to wait. As conjectured, the man was a messenger, bearing a despatch that called for all haste in the delivery, and therefore came galloping up the slope without lessening his pace. He seemed some little disconcerted at seeing two horsemen drawn up on the road before him, but a word from Sir Richard reassured him, as he perceived it was the knight himself.

As the despatch was for Sir Richard, this brought his gallop to an end; and, drawing up, he handed over the document, simply saying—

“From Governor Massey, Colonel.”

Addressed “Colonel Walwyn,” it read,—

“Gerrard has slipped through out of South Wales, by Worcester, and now en route to join the King at Oxford. I’ve got orders from the Committee to march out and intercept him, if possible at Evesham, or before he can cross the Cotswolds. I shall want every man of my command. So draw off from the Ruardean, for Gloucester, and reinforce its garrison. Start soon as you get this—lose not a moment. Time is pressing.

“E. Massey.”

When Sir Richard returned to the hawking party his hurried manner, with the serious expression upon his features, admonished Vaga Powell that her presentiment was on the eve of being fulfilled. Sure was she of it on hearing his answer to Sabrina, who had anxiously questioned him on his coming up.

“Yes, dearest! A courier from Massey at Gloucester. I’m commanded to proceed thither in all haste. We must home.”

And home went they to Hollymead, hurriedly as once before. But not to stay there; only to leave the ladies within a few minutes in getting ready for the “route.” Then back down to Ruardean to order the “Assembly” sounded; soon after “Boots and saddles”; in fine, the “Forward, march!” and before the sun had sunk over the far Hatteral Hills, the sequestered village had resumed its wonted tranquillity, not a soldier to be seen in its streets, nor anywhere round it.

Chapter Fifty Three.

Again Presentiments.

“Don’t you wish we were back in Gloucester, Sab?”

“Why wish that, Vag?”

“It’s so lonely here.”

“How you’ve changed, and in so short a time! While in the city you were all longings for the country and now—”

“Now I long to get back to the city.”

“The prosaic city of Gloucester, too!”

“Even so. And am sorry we ever came away from it.”

“You’ve got yourself to blame. Father was all against it, you know, and only yielded to your solicitations. As you’re his favourite he couldn’t refuse you.”

“But you approved of it yourself, for another reason.”

Sabrina had approved of it for another reason thus hinted at. After the taking of Monmouth by the Parliamentarians, Sir Richard Walwyn had orders to keep to the Hereford side of the Forest and guard the approaches in that direction. Hence his having his Horse quartered at Ruardean, and hence the desire of the sisters to be back at Hollymead House. Now that he was gone to Gloucester—so unexpectedly summoned thither—all was different, and to Vaga the country life she had so enthusiastically praised seemed no longer delightful.

“Well, Vag, we’re here now, and must make the best of it. Though I confess to feeling it a little lonely myself. I wish father had taken Richard’s advice.”

At his hurried departure Colonel Walwyn had counselled their leaving Hollymead, and going back to reside at Gloucester, if not at once, soon as the removal could be conveniently made. The knight, without wishing unnecessarily to alarm them, had yet some apprehensions about their safety in that remote place. But they were not shared in by his intended father-in-law, who, although not absolutely rejecting the advice, still delayed following it. So secure felt he that, even on the very day when Sabrina was speaking of it, he had himself gone to Gloucester, on Committee business, and left his daughters at Hollymead alone.

Vaga echoed her sister’s wish, then added,—“It may be worse than lonely. Don’t you think there’s some danger?”

“Oh, no! What danger?”

“Why, from the enemy—the King’s people.”

“There are none nearer than Bristol and Hereford.”

“You forget Goodrich Castle?”

“No, I don’t. But with Monmouth in the hands of our soldiers the Goodrich garrison will have enough to do taking care of itself, without troubling us.”

Monmouth had not yet been retaken by the Royalists; at least no word of that had reached Hollymead House.

“Besides,” she continued. “Sir Henry Lingen would not likely molest us. You remember before the war he was very much father’s friend, and—”

“And before he was married very much yours,” interpolated the younger sister, with a glance of peculiar significance. “I remember that too. For the which reason he might be the very man to molest us. There’s such a thing as spitefulness, and he could scarce be blamed for feeling it a little.”

“T’sh, Vaga! Don’t say such silly things. There never was aught between Sir Henry and myself, nor any reason for his being spiteful now. We have nothing to apprehend from that quarter.”

“Still we may from some other.”

“What other are you thinking of?”

“Not any in particular. Only a vague sense of somebody—a foreboding—as when we were out hawking, just before that courier arrived. I had the same feeling then, and it came true.”

“Admitting it did, what evil came of it? None; only an ordinary event, Richard and Eustace being separated from us. So long as the war lasts we must expect that, and be patiently resigned to it.”

Though sager grown, Vaga was still not equal to the strain of any prolonged resignation. Of a subtle, nervous nature, she was easily affected by signs and omens, felt presentiments and had belief in them. One was upon her at this same moment, and in an instant after she saw that which seemed likely to justify it.

“Look!” she cried; “look yonder?” They were in the withdrawing-room, having entered it after eating breakfast, she herself standing at one of the windows, with eyes bent down the long avenue. What had elicited her exclamation was a figure that, having passed inside the park gates, was coming on for the house. A woman, but of man’s stature, and by this easily identifiable. For at the first glance Vaga recognised the sister of Cadger Jack.

It was not that which had caused her to exclaim so excitedly. Winny was an almost everyday visitor at the big house, having much business there, and nothing strange would be thought of her coming to it at any time. The strangeness was the way in which she was making approach, hurriedly and in long strides—almost at a run!

“What can it mean?” mechanically interrogated Sabrina, who had joined the other at the window. “So unlike Winifred’s usual stately step! Unlike her manner too—she seems greatly excited. Something amiss, I fear.”

“Oh, sister! I’m sure of it. Just what I’ve been thinking and saying. She has news for us, and sad news—you’ll see.”

“I trust not. Stay! this is Monmouth market day, possibly she has been to the market and heard something there. In that case it’s not likely to affect us much, all we care for being on the other side of the Forest. And yet the cadgers could scarce have been to the market and back again already? ’Tis too early. But we shall soon know.”

By this the cadgeress was pushing open the wicket-gate of the haw-haw, and, now near, they could read the expression upon her features, which showed full of concern.

Though the month of October, the morning was warm, and the window in which they, stood, a casement, had been thrown open. Stepping into a little balcony outside, and leaning over the rail, Sabrina called out interrogatively—“You have some news for us, Win?”

“’Deed yes, my lady. That hae I, an’ sorry be’s I to say’t.”

“Bad news, then?” exclaimed both sisters in a breath, their hearts audibly beating.

“Is it anything from Gloucester?” gasped out the elder one, the other mentally echoing the question.

“No, my ladies. It be all ’bout Monnerth.”

This some little relieved them, and more tranquilly they waited to hear what the news was.

“Them be’s bad, as ye ha’ guessed,” continued the cadgeress. “Him have been took by the Cavalières.”

“Him! Who?” simultaneously exclaimed the sisters, again greatly excited.

“Monnerth, mistresses; I sayed Monnerth, didn’t I?”

“Oh! yes, yes.” They were too glad to give assent, without noticing her ungrammatic provincialism. “Monmouth taken by the Cavaliers, you say?”

“Yes, my ladies. They’s be back into it, an’ ha’ shut up the Parliamentaries in prison—all as didn’t get away.”

“Where have you heard this, Win? You haven’t been to Monmouth yourself, have you?”

“No, Mistress Sabrina. Only partways. Jack an’ me started for the market; but fores crossin’ the ferry at Goodrich us heerd as how the Sheriff wor down at Monnerth, an’ had helped them o’ Ragland to capter the town. Takin’ the hint, us turned back an’ hurried home, fast as ever we could; an’ I han’t lost a minnit in comin’ to tell ye.”

“’Twas thoughtful of you, Winifred,” said Sabrina. “And we give you thanks. Now go round to the cook and have something to eat. But stay! I’m forgetting. You haven’t told us what time it happened—I mean the taking of Monmouth. You heard that, didn’t you?”

“Yes, mistress. Night afore last, or early yester morn. Whens day broke the King’s flag be seen over the Castle, an’ there wor great rejoicins in the town. So tolt we the ferryman o’ Goodrich.”

“What should we do?” inquired Vaga, after the cadgeress had parted company with them, retiring to the kitchen.

“What can we do? Nothing, till father comes home. As they must have had the intelligence at Gloucester, yesterday evening at latest, we may look for him soon. I suppose we must give up all thought of hawking to-day? Some one had better go to Van Dorn’s lodge, and tell him not to come.”

“Too late! There he is now.”

The falconer was seen approaching by a side path, with an attendant who carried the hawks on a cadge, a couple of dogs following. At the same instant saddled horses, in the charge of grooms, were being brought round from the rear of the house. All this had been ordered beforehand, the ladies having sate down to breakfast costumed and equipped for the sport of falconry.

“Shall we send them back?” queried Sabrina, irresolutely.

“Why should we?”

Vaga was passionately fond of hawking; and, now that she knew the worst of that foreboding late felt, was something of herself again. The taking of Monmouth was but one of the many incidents of the war; no misfortune had happened to any in whom they had special concern.

“I suppose we’ll have to leave Hollymead now,” she added, “once more to take up our abode in cities. In which case it may be long before we have another day with hawks. If we don’t go, Van Dorn will be so disappointed.”

“If we do, then,” rejoined Sabrina, half assentingly, “it mustn’t be far—not outside the park.”

“Agreed to that. No need for our going out of it. Inside we’ll find plenty of things to fly your Mer at. As for my Pers, if better don’t turn up, we can whistle them off at a cushat.”

So it was settled, and in twenty minutes after they were in their saddles, and away beyond sight of the house, listening to the hooha-ha-ha-ha, the whistle and the whoop.

Chapter Fifty Four.

A Glittering Cohort.

It was getting late in the afternoon when a party of horsemen, numbering about two hundred, commenced the ascent of Cat’s Hill, going in the direction of Ruardean.

Soldiers they were, in scarlet doublets, elaborately laced; their standard flag, with the Royal arms in its field, and a crown upon the peak of its staff, proclaiming them in the service of the king.

That it was no common cavalry troop could be told by other distinctive symbols. Beside the three or four subalterns in their places along the line, half a score other officers were at its head; in gorgeous uniforms, and with hats grandly plumed, as on the personal staff of a general. And such were they; the rank and file rearward being his escort. No ordinary general either, but the commander-in-chief of the King’s armies—Prince Rupert himself.

His own garb in splendour outshone all; a blaze of jewels and gold, from the aigrette in his hat to the spurs upon his heels—costume more befitting court than camp.

But he was not now on any war expedition; instead, on the way to seek conquest of other kind than by the sword.

It was the day succeeding that night of revelry at his quarters in Bristol; and the words there exchanged between him and Colonel Lunsford will explain his presence on the Cat’s Hill, with face turned towards Ruardean. For in that direction also lay Hollymead House whither he was proceeding.

Quick work and a rapid ride had he made of it; evincing the strong passion of fancy with which the “bit of saucy sweetness” had inspired him.

Lunsford was with him, by his side; the two some lengths in the lead, and apart from the others, conversing as they rode on.

“You think, mein Colonel,” said the Prince, interrogatively, “we shall find the fraüleins at home this time!”

“Pretty sure of it, your Highness. Since the Goodrich ferryman heard of their being at Hollymead yesterday, it’s scarcely probable they can have taken departure since.”

“But the news from Monmouth will have reached them. How about that?”

“It will affect them somewhat, I dare say. Still, Master Powell is not a man to be easily frightened. As your Highness will be aware, Ruardean is not under the Monmouth Commissioners. Sir John Wintour on the Gloucester side, is the one Powell has most reason to apprehend a visit from. And as he will know of Sir John’s being held in check by Massey, he won’t be much alarmed, just yet. Still, no doubt, he’ll be for moving back again to Gloucester; though not in such hot haste, but that your Highness will have an opportunity of holding speech with him.”

“Gott! Sir Thomas; that should be the reverse of pleasant, from what you’ve told me about the old Roundhead’s tongue. He may give it me as he did yourself.”

“No fear of that, your Highness.”

“Why not, pray?”

“The circumstances are quite different. He had backings about him then—these ugly fores fellows, five to our one. Besides a Royal Prince—Puritan though he be—he’ll have respect for that. But what matters it about his prating? Your Highness intends laying him by the heels.”

“That will depend on circumstances. We must try the suaviter before the fortiter. If fair words fail, then—the extremities.”

“Our present visit to the Master of Hollymead is to be of a friendly character then? Is that your Highness’s intention!”

“Ceremoniously so; all the politeness to be observed by every one of our escort. You will see to that, Colonel?”

“It shall be seen to. But does your Highness propose taking them all to the house? It might be convenient to leave some at the village, to wait your coming back.”

“Nein, nein!” impatiently exclaimed the Prince. “All go on with me.”

Astute schemer as was Lunsford himself, he was not aware of certain motives actuating his master. Anything but an Adonis was the son of the Elector Palatinate. Yet such he dreamed himself, with a confidence in his power of fascinating the fair sex almost illimitable. The type and boast of Cavalierism, he wielded sway uncontrolled wherever he went, or the Royal cause was triumphant; women, as men, either willingly submitting to his caprices, or not daring to oppose them. Many a conquest had he made over weak creatures consenting. For the achievement of such he well knew the advantage of stately show and regal surroundings, nowhere more effective than in the country he was defiling with his presence. Even at this day as then, where the proverbial indemnity for the wrong-doing of kings is extended to princes and princelets, their social backslidings gaining them credit, rather than blame, under the facetious title, geniality.

No man better than Rupert knew woman’s weakness in this regard. Hence the shining retinue he had summoned to attend him in this ride through the Forest of Dean—one of the pleasure excursions he was accustomed to make under the plea of a military reconnaissance. For, although the future pirate of the West Indian seas was quite indifferent to English public opinion, there were reasons then for him not too openly outraging it. By his defeats and failures he had lost the countenance of the court, and intrigue was there busy against him.

“In that case, your Highness,” rejoined Lunsford, “there’s no necessity for our going through the village. A path leads through the woods by which it can be avoided.”

“Is it a roundabout?”

“Not much, if any. It comes back into this again, near Hollymead Park gates. If we pass through the village your Highness’s escort will gain a large accession of strength, which may not be agreeable to you.”

“Gott, yes! Something in that, Sir Thomas. Let us take the other way, then. Where does it branch off?”

“There, your Highness”; and he pointed to the embouchure of a wood road some paces ahead on the right.

Without further speech they turned into it, and rode on beneath the shadow of trees, whose branches, arcading over, hindered sight of the sun. For, though October, these were still in full foliage, the leaves falling late in the Forest of Dean. But green no more; save those of the yew, holly, and frost-defying bramble, with the mistletoe and its pearl-like pellucid berries. All others showed hues and tints varied, and almost as vivid as those of the tropical forests so much extolled by travellers.

A winding path it was, by reason of the steep incline; and as in silence the glittering cohort, forced into single file by its narrowness, slowly followed the sinuosities upward, it might have been likened to a gigantic serpent in crawl towards unsuspecting prey.

This similitude in more ways than one; for at the head of that glancing line there were serpents, though in human shape, making approach to what they intended as victims.

Chapter Fifty Five.

Hawking at Home.

The peregrines had killed cushat and partridge, the merlin its half-score of buntings and turtle-doves, and the ladies having had a surfeit of sport, were about setting faces homeward. Not that it was late—still wanting two hours of sunset—but the news from Monmouth had disquieted them, and they were feeling anxious about their father’s return. He might be back already, and if so, would wonder at their being away from the house.

Van Dorn had called off the dogs, rehooded the hawks, and made all ready for the start home, when game, of a sort that day unseen by them, came unexpectedly in view. A heron on its way across the Forest from the Severn to the Wye, flying low as it passed over the park.

Hapless heron! A temptation no falconer could resist; and at leave, or rather command, from the younger of his mistresses, off went hoods again, leashes were let loose, and once more away flew the noble falcons, mounting spirally upward.

Just at that moment the gates of the park were thrown open to admit Prince Rupert and his retinue. With Lunsford still by his side, the two had already looked through the rails and up the avenue. To see there what gave them satisfaction; the house with windows no longer shuttered, smoke ascending from several of the chimneys, in short every sign of occupation.

“The family here, as anticipated. Your Highness will not be disappointed this time.”

“Ah, wohl. I was beginning to think the lady of the golden locks an ignis fatuus—never to be caught.”

“There will be an opportunity of catching her now; and keeping her, if your Highness so desire.”

“You would counsel making the fraüleins our prisoners then? Is that what you mean, mein Colonel?”

“Their father at least should be made so. There’s every reason and right for it. He your prisoner, taken back with you to Bristol, ’tis but natural his daughters should accompany him, and share his captivity. If they have the true filial affection they’ll be but too willing to do that. Does your Highness comprehend?”

“Quite!” was the laconic response.

The suggestion, cruel and ruffianly, did not jar on Rupert’s ears; rather was it in harmony with his wishes, and half-formed designs. He was proceeding to ponder upon it, having ridden through the gate, when a cry, peculiarly intoned, came from a remote corner of the park, quick followed by a shrill whistle.

The air was still, and sounds could be heard from afar; these being clearly distinguishable.

“Ho-ho!” exclaimed the Prince, reining his horse to a stand. “Sport going on here! Somebody out hawking.”

The hooha-ha-ha was familiar to him.

“Yes,” said Lunsford. “That was a falconer’s cry—the cast-off.”

“Who might it be, Sir Thomas?”

“Impossible to say, Prince. The party must be behind that spinney of Scotch firs. But see! yonder the hawks! Peregrines in chase of a heron.”

“By’r Lady, yes! A splendid caste. Trained to perfection. How handsomely they mount up! Over him now! That stoop and rake, superb. A fig for your chances, master lance-beak. Hey! One of them bound! Now the other. Now down, down. Wunderschön!”

Absorbed in watching the actual conflict, all eyes directed upward, Rupert and his following for a time neither saw nor thought of anything else. No more did they of the hawking party, who, led by the chase, had pushed on through the spinney of firs to be forward at the kill. Only when the bound bird was writhing to free itself, in its last struggles lowering down to earth, did the two parties catch sight of one another. Not so near yet, a wide stretch of the park being between; but near enough for a mutual making out of what they were.

“Soldiers!” exclaimed they of the hawking party.

“Wenches!” the word that came from the lips of the Cavaliers.

“We’re in luck, Prince,” said Lunsford. “You see yonder?”

“Two ladies; yes. Are they the birds we’re in search of, think you?”

“Sure of it, your Highness.”

“Playing with other birds. Ha-ha! Well; suppose we join them at their play?”

“As your Highness commands.”

“Do you know them, Sir Thomas—I mean personally?”

“I’ve never been introduced, Prince; but Captain Trevor—”

“Ah! I remember your saying something about his—Trevor!” he called back to an officer of his suite, “come hither!”

Reginald Trevor it was; who, parting from his place in the line, rode up, respectfully saluting.

“If I’m not mistaken, sir,” said the Prince, “you have acquaintance with the ladies we see yonder? Presumably the daughters of Master Ambrose Powell.”

“If it be they, your Highness, I once had. But it’s been dropped long ago.”

“What! A quarrel?”

“No, Prince,” answered the young officer, somewhat hesitatingly. “Not exactly that.”

“Only a little coolness, then. Well, perhaps I may be the means of restoring, friendly relations. But first I want you to perform the ceremonial of introduction. I hope you haven’t so far offended the damsels as to render you ineligible?”

Trevor stammered out a negative, at the same time announcing his readiness to comply with the Prince’s wish. He could not help himself, knowing it was more a command than request.

“Come along, then! Let us on to them. You, Colonel, keep the escort at halt here, till I ascertain whether we can have a night’s lodging at Hollymead House. That is,” he added in a jocular way, “whether we’ll be made welcome to it.”

Saying which, he gave his Arab a touch of the spur, and started off at a canter over the green sward, direct for the hawking party.

Of course Reginald Trevor went along with him; though with a reluctance which had only yielded to authority not to be gainsaid. Despite her withering words spoken at their last interview, he still loved Vaga Powell himself—hoping against hope—still had respect for her; and to introduce Prince Rupert was like being a party to the accomplishment of her ruin.

“Humph!” grumbled the ex-Lieutenant of the Tower as he looked after them, some little chagrined at being left behind; “High Mightiness thinks he’s going to have it his own way with yellow hair. He won’t though; unless he do as I’ve counselled him. But ’twill come to that—must, before we go back to Bristol—and I shall carry thither my share of the sweet spoils.”

Chapter Fifty Six.

An Introduction in the Saddle.

“Who can they be? Not soldiers of the Parliament?”

“No; too much gaud and glitter for that.”

“Sir Henry Lingen’s!”

“Scarcely either. I heard Richard say Sir Henry’s men carry lances. These have none. More probably they’re from Monmouth, or rather Raglan. The old Marquis of Worcester’s greatly given to display; and his son, Lord Herbert. The shining peacock at their head is likely Herbert himself. They are Royalists, anyhow; that’s certain.”

The dialogue was between the sisters, commenced as they caught sight of the scarlet-coated horsemen, who had entered within their park. Hurriedly they talked, and in tone telling of agitation. For it was a spectacle to cause them alarm; King’s soldiers coming to Hollymead could mean no good, but all the opposite. Just the visitors foreshadowed by Vaga’s fears; her presentiment fulfilled after all!

“What can they be wanting, I wonder?” she queried in a half mechanical way. “Nothing with us, hope?”

“Not likely with us; but father. We were wishing him at home. How fortunate he isn’t?”

“But he may come at any time?”

“Indeed, yes. What’s to be done?” The elder sister seemed perplexed. Only for a short while; then a thought came to her aid; and half turning to the groom who attended them, she said,—

“Rees! Ride back through the firs; gently, and as if looking for something left behind. When on the other side go as fast as ever you can; out through the back gate. First round to Ruardean, to the cadger’s cottage. Tell Winny to come up to the house in all haste. Then gallop along the Gloucester road, and, if you meet your master, turn him back. You understand?”

Rees was a quick-witted Welshman, and did understand. Said so; and at once started to execute the order; riding slowly off towards the spinney, in zigzags, with body bent and eyes searching over the ground. Once under cover of the trees, however, he straightened himself in the saddle, and was soon outside the inclosure.

The despatching him had been but the work of a few seconds, and he was gone before any movement had been made by the soldiers, who were still halted at the gate.

“What have they stopped for?” again wondered Vaga. “Surely they intend going on to the house?”

“’Tis we who have stopped them. Their faces are turned this way—they see us?”

“Ah, yes! And two have separated from the rest—are coming towards us! What ought we to do?”

“We may as well await them here; ’twould be impossible to shun them now.”

“How should we receive them?”

“Why, civilly of course. We’ve no alternative but be civil to them. If it be the Lord Herbert we need not fear any special rudeness. Although they are Papists, the Raglan people have never yet—”

“It’s not the Lord Herbert?” interrupted Vaga of keener sight; her eye more occupied with the two making approach.

“How know, you it’s not?” demanded her sister, in some wonder. “You never saw him did you?”

“No; but I’ve seen the one we’ve been taking for him—the shining peacock, as you call him. So have you.”

“Who is he, then?”

“Prince Rupert!”

“So it is, indeed! And the other—”

“Reginald Trevor!”

By this the two horsemen were so near, there was no opportunity for the sisters to exchange further speech, save in undertone; Sabrina, as a last word of caution, whispering,—

“We are helpless, and must play a part I’ve thought of it; will tell you when we’re alone. So be more than civil; very polite.”

“I will try.”

Rupert, a little in the advance, was now up; and suddenly checked his charger to a halt, in such wise as to present the attitude of Mercury just alighted on a “heaven-kissing hill.”

“Fair ladies?” he said. “I have not the pleasure of knowing you. But this gentleman, who has, if you object not, will do me the honour of an introduction.”

“His Royal Highness, Prince Rupert,” announced Trevor, after saluting on his own account, somewhat awkwardly.

The “fair ladies” acknowledged the introduction with a bow; even smilingly, which was more than might have been expected. They said nothing, however, leaving the Prince to direct the course of conversation.

Well pleased with his reception he went on,—

“Apologies are owing for the interruption of your sport. I fear we’ve done that?”

“No, your Highness,” said Sabrina. “We had finished for the day.”

“Egad! A good finish too. I myself witnessed the kill, and never saw handsomer. Your peregrines are noble birds, and well trained to their work. Ah! you have a merlin, too. Pretty creature?”

By chance the merlin was perched upon the neck of Vaga’s palfrey; and, while speaking, the Prince had drawn close up, as if to get a nearer view of it. But his eyes were on the girl’s face instead, and the “pretty creature” seemed an apostrophe to her rather than the bird. For it was spoken with peculiar emphasis, and in a subdued tone, as if he did not desire her sister to hear it. Nor did she, having become engaged in conversation with Captain Trevor, some distance apart.

“She’s very clever,” rejoined Vaga, referring to the merlin, and without appearing to notice the gaze directed upon her,—“can kill everything she’s cast-off at.”

“Ah!” sighed the Prince. “Fatal to all the larks and buntings, just as the eyes of her mistress must be to all men.”