The moon had risen, but only to be seen at intervals. Heavy cumuli
drifting sluggishly athwart the sky, now and then drew curtain-like over
her disk, making the earth dark as Erebus. Between these recurrent
cloud eclipses, however, her light was of the clearest; for the
atmosphere otherwise was without haze or mist.
She was shining in full effulgence, as a body of horsemen commenced
breasting the pitch which winds up from Mitcheldean to the Wilderness.
Their distinctive standard was sheathed--not needing display in the
night; but the green uniforms, and the cocks'-tail feathers pluming
their hats, told them to be Walwyn's Horse--the Foresters.
They were still wet with the flood-water through which they had waded
after clearing the gates of Gloucester. Their horses too; the coats of
these further darkened by sweat, save where the flakes of white froth,
tossed back on their necks and counters, gave them a piebald appearance.
All betokened a terrible pace, and such had they kept up, scarce
slowing for an instant from the flood's edge till they entered the town
of Mitcheldean.
Then it was but a momentary halt in the street, and without leaving the
saddle; just long enough to inquire whether Master Ambrose Powell had
that day passed through the place. He had; late in the afternoon. On
horseback, without any attendant, and apparently in great haste.
"Prisoner or not, they have him at Hollymead now," observed Sir Richard
to Eustace Trevor, as they trotted on through the town to the foot of
the hill where the road runs up to the Wilderness.
To gallop horses already blown against that steep acclivity would have
been to kill them. But the leader of the party, familiar with it, did
not put them to the test; instead, commanded a walk. And while riding
side by side, he and his troop captain held something of a lengthened
conversation, up to that time only a few hurried words having been
exchanged between them.
"I wish the letter had been a little more explicit as to their numbers,"
said Sir Richard. "About two hundred may mean three, or only one. A
woman's estimate is not the most reliable in such matters."
"What did the cadgeress say of it, Colonel? You questioned her, I
suppose?"
"Minutely; but to no purpose. She only came to the house after they had
scattered all around it, and, of course, had no definite idea of their
number. So we shan't know how many we'll have to cross swords with,
till we get upon the ground."
"If we have the chance to cross swords with any. I only wish we were
sure of that."
"The deuce! They may be gone away, you think?"
"Rather fear it, Sir Richard. Powell must have reached Hollymead before
nightfall; and if they intended making him a prisoner 'twould be done at
once; with no object for their staying afterwards."
"Unless they have done a long day's march, and meant to quarter there
for the night. If they went thither direct from Bristol, which is like
enough, that's just what they'd do; stay the night, and start back for
Bristol in the morning."
"I have fears, Colonel, we won't find it so. More likely the Prince was
at Monmouth on account of what's happened there; and will return to it--
has returned already."
"If so, Trevor, 'twill be a black night for you and me; a bitter
disappointment, and something worse. If he's gone from Hollymead, so
will they--father, daughters, all. Rupert's not the sort to leave such
behind, with an abettor like Tom Lunsford. As for your cousin, remember
how you crossed him. It's but natural he should feel spiteful, and show
it in that quarter."
"If he do, I'll cross him worse when we come to crossing swords. And
I'll find the chance. We've made mutual promise to give no quarter--
almost sworn it. If ill befall Vaga Powell through him, I'll keep that
promise faithfully as any oath."
"But right you should. And for settling scores you may soon have the
opportunity; I trust within the hour."
"Then, Colonel, _you_ think they'll still be at Hollymead."
"I hope it rather; grounding my hope on another habit of this German
Prince. One he has late been indulging to excess, 'tis said."
"Drink?"
"Just so. In the which Lunsford, with head hard as his heart, will
stand by him cup for cup."
"But can that affect their staying at Hollymead?"
"Certainly it can; probably will."
"How, Sir Richard?"
"By their getting inebriated there; or, at all events, enough so to make
them careless about moving off before the morning. The more, as they
can't be expecting any surprise from this side. You remember there was
a fair stock of wine in the cellars when we were there, best sorts too.
Let loose at that, they're likely to stay by it as long as the tap
runs."
"God grant it may run till morning then?" was the prayer of the young
officer, fervently spoken. In his ways of thought and speech two years'
campaigning had made much change, deepening the gravity of one naturally
of serious turn.
"No matter about morning," rejoined Sir Richard. "If it but hold out
for another hour, and we find them there, something else will then be
running red as the wine. Ah, Master Lunsford! One more meeting with
you, that's what I want now. If I'm lucky enough to have it this night,
this night will be the last of your life."
The apostrophe, which was but a mental reflection, had reference to
something Sabrina had been telling him, vividly recalled by the words in
her latest letter, "that horrid man."
At the same instant, and in similar strain, was Eustace Trevor
reflecting about his Cousin Reginald; making mental vow that, if Vaga
suffered shame by him, neither would his life be of long endurance.
By this they had surmounted the pitch, and arrived at a spot both had
good reason to remember. It was the piece of level turf where once
baring blades they had come so near sending one or other out of the
world. Their horses remembered it too--they were still riding the
same--and with a recollection which had a result quaintly comical. Soon
as on the ground, without check of rein or word said, they came to a
sudden halt, turned head to head, snorting and angry-like, as if
expecting a renewal of the combat!
All the more strange this behaviour on the part of the animals, that,
since their hostile encounter, for now over two years they had been
together in amiable association!
A circumstance so odd, so ludicrous, could not fail to excite the
risibility of their riders; and laugh both did, despite their serious
mood at the moment. To their following it but caused surprise; two
alone comprehending, so far as to see the fun of it. These Hubert, the
trumpeter, and the "light varlit" then so near coming to blows with him,
who through thick and thin, had ever since stuck to the
ex-gentleman-usher, his master.
No doubt the little interlude would have led to some speech about it,
between the chief actors in the more serious encounter it recalled, but
for something at that moment seen by them, turning their thoughts into a
new channel. Away westward, beyond Drybrook, beyond Ruardean Ridge, the
sky showed a clearness that had nought to do with the moon's light;
instead was ruddier, and shone brighter, as this became obscured by a
thick cloud drifting over her disk. A glowing, gleaming light, unusual
in a way; but natural enough regarded as the glare of a conflagration--
which in reality it was.
"House on fire over yonder?" cried one of the soldiers.
"May be only a haystack," suggested a second.
"More like a town, judgin' by the big blaze," reasoned a third.
"There's no town in that direction; only Ruardean, where's we be goin'."
"Why maunt it be Ruardean, then?" queried the first speaker; "or the
church?"
"An' a good thing if't be the church," put in one of strong Puritan
proclivities. "It want burnin' down, as every other, wi' their altars
an' images. They be a curse to the country; the parsons too. They've
taken sides wi' the stinkin' Cavaliers, agaynst Parliament and people,
all along."
"That's true," endorsed another of like iconoclastic sentiments; "an' if
it a'nt the church as be givin' up that light, let's luminate it when we
get there. I go for that."
A proposal which called forth a chorus of assenting responses.
While this play of words was in progress along the line of rank and file
rearwards, the Colonel and Captain Trevor, at its head, were engaged in
a dialogue of conjectures about the same--a brief one.
"What think you it is?" asked Sir Richard, as they sat halted in their
saddles regarding the garish light. "It looks to be over Ruardean, or
near it."
"A fire of some kind, Colonel. No common one either."
"A farmer's rick?"
"I fear not; would we were sure of its being only that!"
"Ha! A house you think?"
"I do, Sir Richard."
"And--?"
"The one we're making for!"
"By Heavens! I believe it is. It bears that way to a point.
Ruardean's more to the right. Yes, it must be Hollymead!"
Both talked excitedly, but no more words passed between them there and
then. The next heard was the command--"March--double quick!" and down
the hill to Drybrook went they at a gallop over the tiny stream, and up
the long winding slope round the shoulder of Ruardean Hill--without halt
or draw on bridle. There only poising for an instant, as they came
within view of the village and saw the conflagration was not in, but
wide away from it; the glare and sparks ascending over the spot where
Hollymead House should be, but was no more.
As, continuing their gallop, they rode in through the park gates, it was
to see a vast blazing pile, like a bonfire built by Titans--the fagots'
great beams heaped together confusedly--from which issued a hissing and
crackling, with at intervals loud explosions, as from an ordnance
magazine on fire.