Fred Forrester felt that he had had his revenge--that he had hit back in
a way that humbled and wounded his enemy more deeply than any physical
stroke could possibly have done; and, as has been the case with
thousands before and since, he had found out that the trite old
aphorism, "Revenge is sweet," is a contemptible fallacy. For even if
there is a sweet taste in the mouth, it is followed by a twang of such
intense bitterness that no sensible being ever feels disposed to taste
again.
He had struck back fiercely, and bruised himself, so that he felt sore
in a way which made him writhe; and at last, when, urged by the
knowledge that he must attend to his duty, he rose, instead of walking
back to where his men were waiting the orders to continue the route,
proud and elate, he felt as if he were guilty and ashamed to look his
prisoners in the face.
No sooner, however, was he seen by his men than there was a loud buzz of
voices, and he learned what a change had taken place between them, for
instead of being welcomed back with sidelong glances and a half meaning
look, the soldiers saluted him with a loud cheer, in which sentries and
the two outposts joined.
His action, then, was endorsed by his followers, who began laughing and
talking merrily among themselves, looking from time to time at the
prisoners, among whom sat Scarlett, with his arms upon his knees and his
face lowered into his hands.
Fred's first inclination was to go straight to his captive, offer him
his hand, and beg his pardon for what he had done; but two strong powers
held him back--shame and dread. What would Scarlett say to him for the
degradation? and what would his men say? They would think him ten times
the coward they thought him before.
It was impossible; so giving his orders stoutly and sharply, the horses
were bitted and the girths tightened. The prisoners were then helped
into their saddles, and the ends of the ropes made fast after an
examination to see that the bonds were secure, and once more they sought
the road, the advance guard well to the front, and the relative
positions of the early part of the march resumed.
There does not seem to be much in a few snips with a pair of big
scissors; but the young leader's use of those cutting implements had
completely changed the state of affairs in the little party. For while
the guard were merry, and looked in the best of spirits, the common
prisoners seemed as if they felt most bitterly the insult offered to
their young captain, sitting heavily in their saddles, with their chins
down upon their chests, and neither looking to right nor left, while
Scarlett Markham gazed straight before him, his eyes flashing beneath
the steel headpiece he now wore. His face was very pale, and his whole
form was rigid as he sat there with his arms well secured to the cross
staff at his back, and his lips tightened and slightly drawn back from
his teeth as he drew his breath with a low hissing sound.
A few hours before, although a prisoner, he had looked the dashing young
Cavalier in his scarlet, feathers, and gold, and, in spite of his
uniform being stained and frayed with hard service, the lad's mien had
hidden all that, and he seemed one to look up to and respect.
Now all was changed: the gay hat and feathers had been replaced by the
battered steel morion; the long clustering effeminate curls were shorn
away, and the poor fellow looked forlorn, degraded, and essentially an
object for pity; his uniform showed every stain, and the places where
the gold lace was frayed--and all through the working of a pair of
shears among his locks. A short time before the smart young Cavalier,
now only Fred Forrester's prisoner--nothing more.
As they rode onward the men commented upon the change aloud; but not
half so intently as did Fred Forrester in silence.
The afternoon grew hotter; there was a glorious look of summer
everywhere, for nature was in her brightest livery; but to the young
leader everything seemed shrouded in gloom, and twice over he found
himself wishing that a party of the enemy would come upon them suddenly
and rescue those of whom he had charge.
As they rode on slowly with Fred in the rear, he noted that the two men
who formed the advance guard were not in their proper places; and,
seeking relief from his torturing thoughts in striving to give the
strictest attention to his father's military lessons, he turned to
Samson.
"Ride forward and tell those men to advance another hundred yards. They
are far too near in case of surprise."
Samson spurred his horse, cantered forward, gave the order, and then
halted as the advance guard trotted on for a hundred yards or so.
As the party came up, Samson exchanged looks with his brother, whose
lips moved as if he were saying--
"Only just you wait, my fine fellow, and I'll serve you out for this."
But Samson laughed and rode to his old place in the rear beside his
captain.
As Samson went by Fred, the latter caught sight of something scarlet,
and the colour suggesting his prisoner, he turned sharply upon his
follower.
"What's that?" he said.
"Only the young captain's hat, sir."
Fred frowned as he saw that Samson had fastened the grey felt hat with
its gay feathers to his saddle, and then glanced forward at Scarlett,
whose cropped head was sheltered by the heavy, uneasy steel cap.
"Ride forward," he said, "and give the prisoner back his hat."
Samson stared, but of course obeyed. Untying the hat from his saddle,
he rode forward to where Scarlett sat, gazing straight before him.
"Captain sent your hat, sir. Shall I put it on?"
There was no reply.
"Your hat, sir. Shall I put it on?"
Scarlett took not the slightest notice, and after a momentary hesitation
Samson uttered a grunt, pressed his horse a little closer, took the
steel cap from the young prisoner's head, and placed the feathered felt
there instead.
Then, backing his horse, he allowed the party to pass on, while he
resumed his place, hanging the steel headpiece to his saddle-bow by the
strap and chain.
"What's that? Look!" cried Fred, sharply.
He checked his horse as he spoke, and looked back, needing no answer,
for there behind them in the dusty road, battered and disfigured, lay
Scarlett's dashing head-gear; for so badly had it been replaced that, in
his suppressed rage, the prisoner had given his head an angry toss, the
felt hat had fallen, and it seemed as if, out of malice, every horse had
passed over it, and trampled it down in the dust.
"Shall I pick it up, sir?" said Samson.
"No; let it be there," was the reply. "Take the prisoner the headpiece
again."
Samson muttered to himself as he unhooked the steel cap and rode
forward, while, in his resentment at having to go through the same duty
twice, he took pains to treat the helmet as if it were an extinguisher,
literally putting Scarlett out, so far as seeing was concerned.
And all the while, with his arms bound behind him, Scarlett Markham rode
on with his head erect.
"Another insult," he said to himself. "The miserable coward! I could
kill him as I would a wasp!"
The afternoon glided slowly by, and the detachment kept to a walk, for
the heat was great, there was no special haste needed, and Fred wanted
to spare his horses as much as possible. But after a short halt for
refreshment at a roadside inn, where the landlord dispensed cider and
bread-and-cheese liberally to either side, so long as he was well paid,
but all the same with a strong leaning toward the Royalists, the little
party rode on at a trot, very much to the disgust of the landlord, who
stood watching them from his door.
"Poor lad!" he said. "Must be Sir Godfrey Markham's son from over
yonder toward the sea. How glad he seemed of that draught of milk the
lass gave him! Seems hard to be a prisoner, and to his old
schoolfellow, for that's young Forrester, sure enough. I've a good mind
to. No; it's interfering, and I might be found out, and have to hang on
one of my own apple-trees as a traitor. But I've a good mind to. Yes,
I will. Dick!"
"Yes, master," came from the stable, and a stout boy with some oat chaff
in his rough hair made his appearance.
"How long would it take you to get to Brownsand?"
"On the pony?"
"Of course."
"Four hours by road. Two hours across the moor."
"Take the pony, then, and go across the moor. There's a regiment of
horse there."
"Them as went by day afore yesterday?"
"Yes. Ride straight there and tell the officer. No, I can't do it."
"Oh, do, father, please--please!"
"You here, Polly?"
"Yes, father," said his rosy-cheeked daughter, who had fetched the mug
of milk from the dairy. "You were going to send and ask them to save
the prisoners."
"Was I, mistress? And pray how do you know?"
"I guessed it, father. That poor boy!"
"Perhaps I was," grumbled the landlord; "but I'm not going to do so
now."
"Oh, don't say that, father!"
"But I have said it; and now, both of you go about your work."
"Oh, father, pray, pray send!"
"Do you want to see me hung, madam?"
"No, no, father; but nobody will know."
"I know--you know--he knows; and there's an end of it. Be off!"
The girl and boy both went out, and directly after the former made a
sign which the latter interpreted to mean "Come round to the kitchen."
As soon as the landlord was left alone he drew himself a mug of cider,
lit his pipe, and chuckled.
"Wonder how my apples are getting on?" he said. "I must have a good
cider year this time; ought to be, anyhow." Then aloud at the door,
"Keep an eye to the door, Polly," he cried. "I'm going down the
orchard."
"Yes, father; I'll mind."
"That'll do it," said the landlord, laughing till his face grew as red
as his own apples. "Nobody can't come and accuse me of sending the boy,
and they'll never suspect her."
He walked right down the orchard, and then crept quickly to the hedge,
stooped down, went nearer to the house, and then watched and listened.
"Ha! ha! ha!" he laughed softly. "I knew she would. Good-hearted girl!
There he goes."
The landlord rubbed his hands as, turning to a hole in the hedge, he saw
his boy Dick go off at a canter, lying flat down on the back of a little
Exmoor pony, his arms on each side of the pony's neck, till he was over
the nearest hill and descending into the valley, when he sat up and
urged the pony on at as fast a gallop as the little beast could go.
"Nice promise of apples," said the landlord, contentedly smiling up at
the green clusters. "Now, if I could have my wish, I should like a
splendid crop of fox-whelps and gennet-moyles. Then I should like
peace. Lastly, I should like to see all the gentry who are fighting and
cutting one another's throats shake hands outside my door, and have a
mug of my best cider. And all these wishes I wish I may get. There,
now I'll go in."
He went slowly back to the house, puffing away at his pipe, and directly
after encountered his red-faced daughter, who looked ruddier than ever
as the old man looked at her searchingly, chuckling to himself the
while. "I'll give her such a scare," he said.
"Want me, father?"
"Want you? Of course I do. Go and call Dick."
"Dick, father?" she faltered.
"Yes; didn't I speak plainly! Call Dick."
"He's--he's out."
"Who sent him out?"
"I--I did, father."
"Oh, you did, did you--without my leave?"
"Oh, father--father," cried the girl, sobbing, "don't--don't be angry
with me!"
"Not I, Polly," he cried, bending down and kissing her. "Only I don't
know anything, and I don't want to know anything, mind."
"And you're not cross about it?"
"I'm not cross about anything; but I shall be if I don't have a mug of
cider, for I've been thinking, and thinking's thirsty work."
"Then you had been thinking that--"
"Never you mind what I had been thinking, my lass. My thoughts are
mine, and your thoughts are yours, so keep 'em to yourself. When I've
had my drop o' cider, I think I shall go out for a ride."
"Oh father!" cried the girl.
The old man chuckled.
"Don't you tell me that the pony has gone out, too," he said. "There,
it's all right, Polly, only I don't know anything, and I won't be told."