Chapter IV: Part 4

"You are welcome to your suspicions," said Marion, interrupting her. "And now I shall relieve you from them, by making them a certainty. It is of no use trying any longer to keep that a secret, which in time you would be sure to discover for yourself--I suppose. _I am in love_. As you've said, I'm in love with one who is _not_ here. Why should I feel ashamed to tell it you? Nay, if I only thought he loved me as I do him, I'd care little that the whole company knew it--and much less either Winifred Wayland, or Dorothy Dayrell. Let them--"

Just then the voice of this last-mentioned personage was heard in animated conversation--interspersed with peals of laughter, in which a large party was joining.

It was nothing new for Dorothy to be the centre of a circle of laughing listeners: for she was one of the wits of the time. Her talk might not have terminated the dialogue between the cousins, but for the mention of a name--to Marion Wade of all-absorbing interest.

Walter had just finished relating his adventure of the preceding night.

"And this wonderful cavalier," asked Dorothy, "who braved the bullying captain, and frightened the fierce footpads--did he favour you with his name, Master Wade?"

"Oh yes!" answered Walter, "he gave me that--Henry Holtspur."

"Henry Holtspur! Henry Holtspur!" cried several in a breath, as if the name was not new to them, but had some peculiar signification.

"It's the cavalier who rides the black horse," explained one. "The `_black horseman_,' the people called him. One lately come into this neighbourhood. Lives in the old house of Stone Dean. Nobody knows him."

"And yet everybody appears to be talking of him! Mysterious individual! Some troubadour returned from the East?" suggested Winifred Wayland.

"Some trader from the West, more like," remarked Dorothy Dayrell, with a sneer, "whence, I presume, he has imported his levelling sentiments, and a savage for his servant, too, 'tis said. Did you see aught of his Indian, Master Wade?"

"_No_," said the youth, "and very little of himself: as our ride together was after night. But I have hopes of seeing more of him to-day. He promised to be here."

"And is not?"

"I think not. I haven't yet encountered him. 'Tis just possible he may be among the crowd over yonder; or somewhere through the camp. With your permission, ladies, I shall go in search of him."

"Oh! do! do!" exclaimed half a score of sweet voices. "By all means, Master Wade, find the gentleman. You have our permission to introduce him. Tell him we're all dying to make his acquaintance."

Walter went off among the crowd; traversed the camp in all directions; and came back without the object of his search.

"How cruel of him not to come!" remarked the gay Dayrell, as Walter was seen returning alone. "If he only knew the disappointment he is causing! We might have thought less of it, Master Walter, if you hadn't told us he intended to be here. Now I for one shall fancy your fete very stupid without him."

"He may still come," suggested Walter. "I think there are some other guests who have not arrived."

"You are right, Master Wade," interposed one of the bystanders; "yonder's somebody--a man on horseback--on the Heath, outside the palings of the park. He appears to be going towards the gate?"

All eyes were turned in the direction indicated. A horseman was seen upon the Heath outside, about a hundred yards distant from the enclosure; but he was _not going towards the gate_.

"Not a bit of it," cried Dorothy Dayrell. "He's changed his mind about that. See! He heads his horse at the palings! Going to take them? He is in troth! High--over! There's a leap worth looking at!"

And the fair speaker clapped her pretty hands in admiration of the feat.

There was one other who beheld it with an admiration, which, though silent, was not less enthusiastic. The joy that had shone sparkling in the eyes of Marion Wade, as soon as the strange horseman appeared in sight, was now heightened to an expression of proud triumph.

"Who is he?" asked half a score of voices, as the bold horseman cleared the enclosure.

"It is he--the cavalier we have just been speaking of," answered Walter, hurrying away to receive his guest, who was now coming on at an easy gallop towards the camp.

"_The black horseman!--the black horseman_!" was the cry that rose up from the crowd; while the rustics rushed up to the top of the moat to give the new comer a welcome.

"_The black horseman! huzza_!" proclaimed a voice, with that peculiar intonation that suggests a general cheer--which was given, as the cavalier, riding into their midst, drew his steed to a stand.

"_They_ know him, at least," remarked the fair Dayrell, with a toss of her aristocratic head. "How popular he appears to be! Can any one explain it?"

"It's always the way with _new_ people," said a sarcastic gentleman who stood near, "especially when they make their _debut_ a little mysteriously. The rustic has a wonderful relish for the unknown."

Marion stood silent. Her eye sparkled with pride, on beholding the homage paid to her own heart's hero. The sneering interrogatories of Dorothy Dayrell she answered only in thought.

"Grand and noble!" was her reflection. "That is the secret of his popularity. Ah! the instincts of the people rarely err in their choice. He is true to _them_. No wonder they greet him as their God!"

For Marion, herself, a sweet triumph was in store.

The curiosity of the crowd, that had collected on the arrival of the black horseman, was passing away. The people had returned to their sports; or, with admiring looks, were following the famous steed to his stand under the trees. From an instinct of delicacy, peculiar to the country people, they had abandoned the cavalier to the companionship of his proper host--who was now conducting him towards the promised presentation.

They had arrived within a few paces of the spot where Marion was standing. Her face was averted: as if she knew not who was advancing. But her heart told her he was near. So, too, the whisperings of those who stood around. She dared not turn towards him. She dreaded to encounter his eye, lest it might look slightingly upon her.

That studied inattention could not continue. She looked towards him at last. Her gaze became fixed, not upon his face, but, upon an object which appeared conspicuous upon the brow of his beaver--_a white gauntlet_!

Joy supreme! Words could not have spoken plainer. The token had been taken up, and treasured. Love's challenge had been accepted!

Volume One, Chapter XVI.

A glove, a ribbon, a lock of hair, in the hat of a gentleman, was but the common affectation of the cavalier times; and only proclaimed its wearer the recipient of some fair lady's favour. There were many young gallants on the ground, who bore such adornments; and therefore no one took any notice of the token in the hat of Henry Holtspur--excepting those for whom it had a particular interest.

There were two who felt this interest; though from different motives. They were Marion Wade, and Lora Lovelace. Marion identified the glove with a thrill of joy; and yet the moment after she felt fear. Why? She feared it _might be_ identified by others. Lora saw it with surprise. Why? Because it _was_ identified. At the first glance Lora had recognised the gauntlet; and knew it to have belonged to her cousin.

It was just this, that the latter had been dreading. She feared not its being recognised by any one else--not even by her father. She knew the good knight had more important matters upon his mind, and could not have told one of her gloves from another. But far different was it with her cousin; who having a more intelligent discrimination in such trifles, would be likely, just then, to exercise it.

Marion's fears were fulfilled. She perceived from Lora's looks that the gauntlet--cruel and conspicuous tell-tale--was under her eye and in her thoughts.

"It is yours, Marion!" whispered the latter, pointing towards the plumed hat of the cavalier, and looking up, with an air more affirmative than enquiring.

"Mine! what, Lora? Yonder black beaver and plumes? What have I to do with them?"

"Ah! Marion, you mock me. Look under the plumes. What see you there?"

"Something that looks like a lady's glove. Is it one, I wonder?"

"It is, Marion."

"So it is, in troth! This strange gentleman must have a mistress, then. Who would have thought of it?"

"It is yours, cousin."

"Mine? My glove--do you mean? You are jesting, little Lora?"

"It is you who jest, Marion. Did you not tell me that you had lost your glove?"

"I did. I dropped it. I must have dropped it--somewhere."

"Then the gentleman must have _picked it up_?" rejoined Lora, with significant emphasis.

"But, dear cousin; do you really think yonder gauntlet is mine?"

"O Marion, Marion! _you know it is yours_?"

Lora spoke half upbraidingly.

"How do you know you are not wronging me?" rejoined Marion, in an evasive tone. "Let me take a good look at it. Aha! My word, Lora, I think you are right. It does appear, as if it were my gauntlet--at least it is very like the one I lost the other day, when out a-hawking; and for the want of which my poor skin got so sadly scratched. It's wonderfully like my glove!"

"Yes; so like, that it is the same."

"If so, how came it yonder?" inquired Marion, with an air of apparent perplexity.

"Ah, how?" repeated Lora.

"He must have found it in the forest?"

"It is very impudent of him to be wearing it then."

"Very; indeed, very."

"Suppose any one should recognise it as yours? Suppose uncle should do so?"

"There is no fear of that," interrupted Marion. "I have worn these gloves only twice. You are the only one who has seen them on my hands. Father does not know them. You won't tell him, Lora?"

"Why should I not?"

"Because--because--it may lead to trouble. May be this strange gentleman has no idea to whom the glove has belonged. He has picked it up on the road somewhere; and stuck it in his hat--out of caprice, or conceit. I've heard many such favours are borne with no better authority. Let him keep it, and wear it--if it so please him. I care not--so long as he don't know whose it is. Don't you say anything about it to any one. If father should know, or Walter--ah! Walter, young as he is, would insist upon fighting with him; and I have no doubt that this _black horseman_ would be a very dangerous antagonist."

"Oh! Marion," cried Lora, alarmed at the very thought of such a contingency. "I shall not mention it--nor you. Do not for the world! Let him keep the glove, however dishonourably he may have come to it. I care not, dear cousin--so long as it does not compromise _you_."

"No fear of that," muttered Marion, in a confident tone, apparently happy at having so easily escaped from a dilemma she had been dreading.

The whispered conversation of the cousins was at this moment interrupted by the approach of Walter, conducting the cavalier into the midst of the distinguished circle.

The youth performed his office of introducer with true courtly grace, keeping his promise to all; and in a few seconds Henry Holtspur had added many new names to the list of his acquaintances.

It is no easy part to play--and play gracefully--that of being conspicuously presented; but the same courage that had distinguished the cavalier in his encounter with Garth and his footpads, was again exhibited in that more imposing--perhaps more dangerous--presence.

The battery of bright eyes seemed but little to embarrass him; and he returned the salutations of the circle with that modest confidence, which is a sure test of the true gentleman.

It was only when being presented to the last individual of the group-- strange that Marion Wade should be the last--it was only then, that aught might have been observed beyond the ceremonious formality of an introduction. Then, however, a close observer might have detected an interchange of glances that expressed something more than courtesy; though so quickly and stealthily given, as to escape the observation of all. No one seemed to suspect that Marion Wade and Henry Holtspur had ever met before; and yet ofttimes had they met--ofttimes looked into each other's eyes--had done everything but speak!

How Marion had longed to listen to that voice, that now uttered in soft, earnest tones, sounded in her ears, like some sweet music!

And yet it spoke not in the language of love. There was no opportunity for this. They were surrounded by watchful eyes, and ears eagerly bent to catch every word passing between them. Not a sentiment of that tender passion, which both were eager to pour forth--not a syllable of it could be exchanged between them.

Under such constraint, the converse of lovers is far from pleasant. It even becomes irksome; and scarce did either regret the occurrence of an incident, which, at that moment, engaging the attention of the crowd, relieved them from their mutual embarrassment.

Volume One, Chapter XVII.

The incident, thus opportunely interfering, was the arrival upon the ground of a party of _morris dancers_, who, having finished their rehearsal outside the limits of the camp, now entered, and commenced their performance in front of the elevated moat--upon which Sir Marmaduke and his friends had placed themselves, in order to obtain a better view of the spectacle.

The dancers were of both sexes--maidens and men--the former dressed in gay bodice and kirtle; the latter in their shirt sleeves, clean washed for the occasion--their arms and limbs banded with bright ribbons; bells suspended from their garters; and other adornments in true _Morisco_ fashion.

There were some among them wearing character dresses: one representing the bold outlaw Robin Hood; another his trusty lieutenant, Little John; a third the jolly Friar Tuck, and so forth.

There were several of the girls also in character costumes. "Maid Marian," the "Queen of the May," and other popular personages of the rural fancy, were personified.

The morris dancers soon became the centre of general attraction. The humbler guests of Sir Marmaduke--having partaken of the cheer which he had so liberally provided for them--had returned into the camp; and now stood clustered around the group of Terpsichoreans, with faces expressing the liveliest delight.

Balloons, bowls, wrestling, and single-stick were for the time forsaken: for the morris dance was tacitly understood, and expected, to be the chief attraction of the day.

It is true, that only peasant girls were engaged in it; but among these was more than one remarkable for a fine figure and comely face-- qualities by no means rare in the cottage-homes of the Chilterns.

Two were especially signalised for their good looks--the representatives of Maid Marian and the Queen of the May--the former a dark brunette of the gipsy type--while the queen was a contrasting _blonde_, with hazel eyes, and hair of flaxen hue.

Many a young peasant among their partners in the dance--and also in the circle of spectators--watched the movements of these rustic belles with interested eyes. Ay, and more than one cavalier might have been observed casting sly glances towards Maid Marian, and the Queen of the May.

While those were bestowing their praises upon the peasant girls, in stereotyped phrases of gallantry, some of the stately dames standing around might have found cause to be jealous; and some _were_ so.

Was Marion Wade among the number?

Alas! it was even so. New as the feeling was, and slight the incident that called it forth, that fell passion had sprung up within her heart. It was the first time it had been touched with such a sting: for it was her first love, and too recent to have met with a reverse. A pang never felt before, she scarce comprehended its nature. She only knew its cause. Holtspur was standing in the front rank of spectators--close to the ring in which the morris dancers were moving. As the beautiful Bet Dancey--who represented Maid Marian--went whirling voluptuously through the figures of the dance, her dark gipsy eyes, gleaming with amorous excitement, seemed constantly turned upon him. Marion Wade could not fail to observe the glance: for it was recklessly given. It was not this, however, that caused that pain to spring up within her bosom. The forest maiden might have gazed all day long upon the face of Henry Holtspur, without exciting the jealousy of the lady--had her gaze failed to elicit a return. But once, as the latter turned quickly towards him, she fancied she saw the glance of the girl given back, and the passionate thought reciprocated!

A peculiar pang, never felt before, like some poisoned dart, pierced to the very core of her heart--almost causing her to cry out. In the rustic belle she recognised a rival!

The pain was not the less poignant, from its being her first experience of it. On the contrary, it was, perhaps, more so; and from that moment Marion Wade stood, cowed and cowering, with blanched brow--her blue eye steadily fixed upon the countenance of Henry Holtspur--watching with keen anxiety every movement of his features.

The dark doubt that had arisen in her mind was not to be resolved in that hour. Scarce had she entered upon her anxious surveillance when an incident arose, causing the morris dance to be suddenly interrupted.

Amidst the shouts, laughter, and cheering that accompanied the spectacle, only a few who had strayed outside the enclosure of the camp, caught the first whisperings of a strange, and to them, inexplicable sound. It appeared to proceed from some part of the road--outside the main entrance of the camp; and resembled a continued tinkling of steel implements, mingled with the hoof-strokes of a multitude of horses--not going at will, but ridden with that cadenced step that betokens the passage of a squadron of cavalry.

They who first heard it, had scarce time to make this observation--much less to communicate their thoughts to the people inside the camp--when another sound reached their ears--equally significant of the movement of mounted men. It was the call of a cavalry bugle commanding the "Halt."

At the same instant the hoof-strokes ceased to be heard; and, as the last notes of the bugle died away in the distant woods, there was an interim of profound silence, broken only by the soft cooing of the wood-quest, or the shriller piping of the thrush.

Equally within the camp was the silence complete. The cheers had been checked, and the laughter subdued, at that unusual sound. The ears of all were bent to listen for its repetition; while all eyes were turned in the direction whence it appeared to have proceeded.

There was something ominous in the sudden interruption of the sports, by a sound unexpected, as it was ill understood; and some faces, but the moment before beaming with joy, assumed a serious aspect.

"Soldiers!" exclaimed several voices in the same breath; while the crowd, forsaking the spectacle of the morris dance, rushed up to the top of the moat, and stood listening as before.

Once more came the clear tones of the cavalry trumpet, this time directing the "Forward"; and, before the signal had ceased to echo over the undulations of the park, the first files of a squadron of cuirassiers were seen passing between the massive piers of the main entrance, and advancing along the drive that led towards the mansion.

File followed file in regular order--each horseman, as he debouched from under the shadow of the trees, appearing to become a-blaze through the sudden flashing of the sunbeams upon the plates of his polished armour.

As the troop, riding by two's, had half advanced into the open ground, and still continued advancing, it presented the appearance of some gigantic snake gliding in through the gateway--the steel armour representing its scales, and the glittering files answering to the vertebrae of the reptile.

When all had ridden inside, and commenced winding up the slope that conducted to the dwelling, still more perfect was this resemblance to some huge serpent--beautiful but dangerous--crawling slowly on to the destruction of its victim.

"_The cuirassiers of the king_!"

There were many in the camp who needed not this announcement to make known to them the character of the new comers. The cuirass covering the buff doublet--the steel cap and gorget--the cuisses on the thighs--the pauldrons protecting the shoulders--the rear and vam-braces on the arms--all marked the mailed costume of the cuirassier; while the royal colours, carried in front by the cornet of the troop, proclaimed them the cuirassiers of the king.

By the side of this officer rode another, whose elegant equipments and splendidly caparisoned horse announced him to be the officer in command--the captain.

"The cuirassiers of the king!" What wanted they in the park of Sir Marmaduke Wade? Or what was their business at his mansion: for thither were they directing their march?

This question was put by more than one pair of lips; but by none less capable of answering it than those of Sir Marmaduke himself.

The spectacle of the morris dance had been altogether abandoned. Both actors and spectators had rushed promiscuously towards the moat--on that side fronting to the park--and having taken stand upon its crest, were uttering exclamations of astonishment, or exchanging interrogatories about this new interlude not mentioned in the programme of the entertainments.

At this moment the bugle once more brayed out the "Halt"; and, in obedience to the signal, the cuirassiers again reined up.

As by this the head of the troop had arrived opposite to the old camp-- and was at no great distance from it--some words that passed between the two officers, could be heard distinctly by the people standing upon the moat.

"I say, Stubbs," called out the captain, spurring a length or two out from the troop, and pointing towards the camp, "What are those rustics doing up yonder? Can you guess?"

"Haven't the most distant idea," answered the individual addressed.

"They appear to be in their holiday toggery--best bibs and tuckers. Is't a Whitsun-ale or a May-making?"

"Can't be either," rejoined Stubbs. "Isn't the season. No, by Ged!"

"By the smock of Venus! there appear to be some pretty petticoats among them? Mayn't be such dull quarters after all."

"No, by Ged! Anything but dull, I should say."

"Ride within speaking distance; and ask them, what the devil they are doing."

The cornet, thus commanded, clapped spurs to his horse; and, after galloping within fifty paces of the fosse, pulled up.

"What the devil are you doing?" cried he, literally delivering the order with which he had been entrusted.

Of course to such a rude interrogatory, neither Sir Marmaduke, nor any of those standing around him, vouchsafed response. Some of the common people in the crowd, however, called out--"We're merry-making. It's a fete--a birthday celebration."

"Oh! that's it," muttered the cornet, turning and riding back to communicate the intelligence to his superior officer.

"Let's go up, and make their acquaintance," said the latter, as Stubbs delivered his report. "We shall reconnoitre these rustic beauties of Bucks, giving them the advantage of their holiday habiliments. What say you, Stubbs?"

"Agreeable," was the laconic reply of the cornet.

"_Allons_! as they say in France. We may find something up yonder worth climbing the hill for. As they also say in France, _nous verrons_!"

Ordering the troopers to dismount, and stand by their horses--their own being given to a brace of grooms--the two officers, in full armour as they were, commenced ascending the slope that led to the Saxon encampment.

Volume One, Chapter XVIII.

"So, good, people!" said Scarthe, as soon as he and his companion had entered within the enclosure, "holding holiday are you? An admirable idea in such fine weather--with the azure sky over your heads, and the green trees before your faces. Pray don't let us interrupt your Arcadian enjoyment. Go on with the sports! I hope you have no objection to our becoming spectators?"

"No! no!" cried several voices in response, "you are welcome, sirs! you are welcome!"

Having thus spoken their permission, the people once more dispersed themselves over the ground; while the two officers, arm in arm, commenced strolling through the encampment--followed by a crowd of the lower class of peasants, who continued to gratify their curiosity by gazing upon the steel-clad strangers.

Sir Marmaduke and his friends had returned to their former stand--upon the elevated crest of the moat, and at some distance from the causeway, where the officers had entered. The latter saunteringly proceeded in that direction; freely flinging their jests among the crowd who accompanied them; and now and then exchanging phrases of no very gentle meaning, with such of the peasant girls as chanced to stray across their path.

The host of the fete had resolved not to offer the intruders a single word of welcome. The rude demand made by the comet, coupled with the coarse dialogue between the two officers--part of which he had overheard--had determined Sir Marmaduke to take no notice of them, until they should of themselves declare their errand.

He had ordered the morris dance to be resumed. In front of where he stood the dancers had reformed their figures; and, with streaming ribbons and ringing bells, were again tripping it over the turf.

"By the toes of Terpsichore, a morris dance!" exclaimed the captain of cuirassiers, as he came near enough to recognise the costume and measure. "An age since I have seen one!"

"Never saw one in my life," rejoined Stubbs; "except on the stage. Is it the same?"

No doubt Stubbs spoke the truth. He had been born in the ward of Cheap, and brought up within the sound of Bow-bells.

"Not quite the same," drawled the captain, "though something like--if I remember aright. Let's forward, and have a squint at it."

Hastening their steps a little, the two officers soon arrived on the edge of the circle; and without taking any notice of the "people of quality," who were stationed upon the platform above, they commenced flinging free jibes among the dancers.

Some of these made answer with spirit--especially Little John and the Jolly Friar, who chanced to be fellows of a witty turn; and who in their own rude fashion gave back to the two intruders full value for what they received.

Bold Robin--who appeared rather a surly representative of Sherwood's hero--bore their sallies with an indifferent grace--more especially on perceiving that the eyes of the cuirassier captain became lit up with a peculiar fire, while following Maid Marian through the mazes of the dance.

But the heart of the pseudo-outlaw was destined to be further wrung. A climax was at hand. As Marian came to the close of one of her grandest _pas_, the movement had inadvertently brought her close to the spot where the cuirassier captain was standing.

"Bravo! beautiful Marian!" cried the latter, bending towards her, and clasping her rudely around the waist. "Allow a thirsty soldier to drink nectar from those juicy lips of thine."

And without finishing the speech, or waiting for her consent--which he knew would be refused--he protruded his lips through the visor of his helmet, till they came in contact with those of the girl.

A blow from a clenched feminine fist, received right in his face, neither disconcerted nor angered the daring libertine; who answered it by a loud reckless laugh, in which he was joined by his cornet, and chorussed by some of the less sentimental of the spectators.

There were others who did not seem inclined to treat the affair in this jocular fashion.

Cries of "Shame!" "Pitch into him!" "Gie it him, Robin!" were heard among the crowd; and angry faces could be seen mingled with the merry ones.

The idol of England's peasantry needed not such stimulus to stir him to action. Stung by jealousy, and the insult offered to his sweetheart, he sprang forward; and, raising his crossbow--the only weapon he carried-- high overhead, he brought it down with a "thwack" upon the helmet of the cuirassier captain, which caused the officer to stagger some paces backward ere he could recover himself.

"Take that, dang thee!" shouted Robin, as he delivered the blow. "Take that; an' keep thy scurvy kisses to thyself."

"Low-born peasant!" cried the cuirassier, his face turning purple as he spoke, "if thou wert worthy a sword, I'd spit thee like a red-herring. Keep off, churl, or I may be tempted to take thy life!"

As he uttered this conditional threat, he drew his sword; and stood with the blade pointing towards the breast of bold Robin.

There was an interval of profound silence. It was terminated by a voice among the crowd crying out:--"Yonder comes the man that'll punish him!"

All eyes were turned towards the elevated platform, on which stood the "people of quality." There was a commotion among the cavaliers. One, who had separated from the rest, was seen hurrying down the sloping side of the moat, and making direct for the scene of the contention.

He had only a dozen steps to go; and, before either the pseudo-outlaw of Sherwood-forest, and his mailed adversary, could change their relative positions, he had glided in between them.

The first intimation the cuirassier had of a true antagonist, was, when a bright sword-blade rasped against his own, striking sparks of fire from the steel; and he beheld standing in front of him, no longer a "low-born peasant," clad in Kendal Green, but a cavalier in laced doublet, elegantly attired as himself, and equally as determined.

This new climax silenced the spectators, as suddenly, as if the wand of an enchanter had turned them into stone; and it was not till after some seconds had elapsed that murmurs of applause rose round the ring, coupled with that popular cry, "_Huzza for the black horseman_!"

For a moment the captain of cuirassiers seemed awed into silence. Only for a moment, and only by the suddenness of the encounter. Swaggerer as he may have been, Scarthe was no coward; and under the circumstances even a coward must have shown courage. Though still under the influence of a partial intoxication, he knew that bright eyes were upon him; he knew that high-born dames were standing within ten paces of the spot; and, though hitherto, for reasons of his own, pretending to ignore their presence, he knew they had been spectators of all that had passed. He had no intention, therefore, of showing the white feather.

Perhaps it was the individual, who had thus presented himself, as much as his sudden appearance, that held him for the moment speechless: for in the antagonist before him, Scarthe recognised the cavalier, who in front of the roadside inn had daringly drunk--

"To the People!"

The souvenir of this insult, added to this new defiance, furnished a double stimulus to his resentment--which at length found expression in words.

"You it is, disloyal knave? You!"

"Disloyal or not," calmly returned the cavalier, "I demand reparation for the slight you have offered to this respectable assemblage. Your free fashions may do for Flanders--where I presume you've been practising them--but I must teach you to salute the fair maidens of England in a different style."

"And who are you, who propose to give the lesson?"

"No _low-born peasant_, Captain Richard Scarthe! Don't fancy you can screen yourself behind that coward's cloak. You must fight, or apologise?"

"Apologise!" shouted the soldier, in a furious voice, "Captain Scarthe apologise! Ha! ha! ha! Hear that Cornet Stubbs? Did you ever know _me_ to apologise?"

"Never, by Ged!" muttered Stubbs in reply.

"As you will then," said the cavalier, placing himself in an attitude to commence the combat.

"No, no!" cried Maid Marian, throwing herself in front of Holtspur, as if to screen his body with her own. "You must not, sir. It is not fair. He is in armour, and you, sir--"

"No--it arn't fair!" proclaimed several voices; while at the same moment, a large fierce-looking man, with bushy black beard, was seen pushing his way through the crowd towards the spot occupied by the adversaries.

"Twoant do, Master Henry," cried the bearded man as he came up. "You mustn't risk it that way. I know ye're game for any man on the groun', or in England eyther; but it arn't fair. The sodger captain must peel off them steel plates o' his; and let the fight be a fair 'un. What say ye, meeats?"

This appeal to the bystanders was answered by cries of "Fair play! fair play! The officer must take off his armour!"

"Certainly," said Walter Wade, at this moment coming up. "If these gentlemen are to fight, the conditions must be equal. Of course, Captain Scarthe, you will not object to that?"

"I desire no advantage," rejoined the cuirassier captain. "He may do as he likes; but I shall not lay aside my armour on any account."

"Then your antagonist must arm also," suggested one of the gentlemen, who had accompanied Walter. "The combat cannot go on, till that be arranged."

"No! no!" chimed in several voices, "both should be armed alike."

"Perhaps this gentleman," said one, pointing to the cornet, "will have no objection to lend his for the occasion? That would simplify matters. It appears to be about the right size."

Stubbs looked towards his captain, as much as to say, "Shall I refuse?"

"Let him have it!" said Scarthe, seeing that the proposal could not well be declined.

"He's welcome to it!" said the cornet, who instantly commenced unbuckling.

There were hands enough to assist Henry Holtspur in putting on the defensive harness; and, in a few minutes' time, he was encased in the steel accoutrements of the cornet--cuirass and gorget, pauldrons, cuisses, and braces--all of which fortunately fitted, as if they had been made for him.

The helmet still remained in the hand of one of the attendants--who made a motion towards placing it upon Holtspur's head.

"No!" said the latter, pushing it away. "I prefer wearing my beaver." Then pointing to the trophy set above its brim, he added, "It carries that which will sufficiently protect my head. An English maiden has been insulted, and under the glove of an English maiden shall the insult be rebuked."

"Don't be so confident in the virtue of your pretty trophy," rejoined Scarthe with a sarcastic sneer. "Ere long I shall take that glove from your hat, and stick it on the crest of my helmet. No doubt I shall then have come by it more honestly than you have done."

"Time enough to talk of wearing, when you have won it," quietly retorted the cavalier. "Though, by my troth," added he, returning sneer for sneer, "you should strive hard to obtain it; you stand in need of a trophy to neutralise the loss of your spurs left behind you in the ford of Newburn."

The "ford of Newburn" was Scarthe's especial fiend. He was one of that five thousand horsemen, who under Conway had ignominiously retreated from the Tyne--spreading such a panic throughout the whole English army, as to carry it without stop or stay far into the heart of Yorkshire. Once before had Holtspur flung the disgraceful souvenir in his teeth; and now to be a second time reproached with it, before a crowd of his countrymen, before his own followers--many of whom had by this time entered within the camp--but above all, in presence of that more distinguished circle of proud and resplendent spectators, standing within earshot, on the moat above--that was the direst insult to which he had ever been subjected. As his antagonist repeated the taunting allusion, his brow already dark, grew visibly darker; while his thin lips whitened, as if the blood had altogether forsaken them.

"Base demagogue!" cried he, hissing the words through his clenched teeth, "your false tongue shall be soon silenced. On the escutcheon of Captain Scarthe there is no stain, save the blood of his enemies, and the enemies of his king. Yours shall be mingled with the rest."

"Come!" cried Holtspur, with an impatient wave of his weapon. "I stand not here for a contest of tongues; in which no doubt the accomplished courtier Scarthe would prove my superior. Our swords are drawn! Are you ready, sir?"

"No," responded Scarthe.

"No?" interrogated his antagonist with a look of surprise. "What--"

"Captain Scarthe is a cuirassier. He fights not a-foot."

"You are the challenged party!" put in Stubbs, "You have the right of choice, captain."

"Our combat then shall be on horseback."

"Thanks for the favour, gentlemen!" responded Holtspur, with a pleased look, "My own wish exactly; though I had scarce hoped to obtain it. You have said the word--we fight on horseback."

"My horse!" shouted Scarthe, turning to one of his troopers. "Bring him up; and let the ground he cleared of this rabble."

There was no necessity for the order last issued. As soon as it had become known, that the combat was to be fought on horseback, the people scattered on all sides--rushing towards the crest of the moat, and there taking their stand--most of them delighted at the prospect of witnessing a spectacle, which, even in those chivalrous times, was of uncommon occurrence.

Volume One, Chapter XIX.

From the commanding eminence, on which were clustered the "quality folks," the preparations had been watched with a vivid interest, and with emotions varying in kind.

"Splendid!" exclaimed Dorothy Dayrell, as the sword-blades were seen clashing together. "Beats the morris dancers all to bits! Just what I like! One of those little interludes not mentioned in the programme of the entertainment. Surely we're going to see a fight?"

Lora Lovelace trembled, as she listened to these speeches.

"Oh, Dorothy Dayrell!" said she, turning upon the latter an upbraiding look, "'Tis too serious for jesting. You do not mean it?"

"But I do mean it, Mistress Lovelace. I'm not jesting. Not a bit of it. I'm quite in earnest, I assure you."

"Surely you would not wish to see blood spilled?"

"And why not? What care I, so long as it isn't my own blood; or that of one of my friends. Ha! ha! ha! What are either of these fellows to you, or me? I know neither. If they're angry with each other, let them fight it out. Foh-poh! They may _kill_ one another, for aught I care."

"Wicked woman!" thought Lora, without making rejoinder.

Marion Wade overheard the unfeeling utterances; but she was too much occupied with what was passing on the plain below, to give heed to them. That incipient suspicion, though still unsatisfied, was not troubling her now. It had given place to a feeling of apprehension, for the safety of him who had been its object.

"My God!" she murmured in soliloquy, her hands clasped over her bosom-- the slender white fingers desperately entwining each other. "If he should be killed! Walter! dear Walter!" she cried, earnestly appealing to her brother, "Go down, and stop it! Tell him--tell them they must not fight. O father, _you_ will not permit it?"

"Perhaps I may not be able to hinder them," said Walter, springing out from among the circle of his acquaintances. "But I shall go down. You will not object, father? Mr Holtspur is alone, and may stand in need of a friend."

"Go, my son!" said Sir Marmaduke, pleased at the spirit his son was displaying. "It matters not who, or what, he be. He is our guest, and has been your protector. If they are determined on fighting, see that he be shown fair play."

"Never fear, father!" rejoined Walter, hurrying down the slope. "And if that drunken cornet dare to interfere," continued he, half speaking to himself--"I'll give _him_ a taste of _my_ temper, very different from what he had last night."

As he gave utterance to this threat, the ex-courtier passed through the crowd, followed by several other gentlemen; who, from different motives, were also hastening towards the scene of contention.

"Come, Mistress Marion Wade!" whispered Dorothy, in a significant way. "It is not your wont to be thus tender-hearted. What is it to us, whether they fight or no? It isn't _your_ quarrel. This elegant cavalier, who seems to set everybody beside themselves, is not _your_ champion, is he? If any one has reason to be interested in his fate, by my trow, I should say it was the Maid Marian--_alias_ Bet Dancey. And _certes_, she does seem to take interest in him. See! What's she doing now, the modest creature? By my word, I believe the wench is about to throw herself upon his breast, and embrace him!"

These words entered the ears of Marion Wade with stinging effect. Suddenly turning she looked down upon the sea of faces, that had thickened, and was swerving around the two men; who were expected soon to become engaged in deadly strife. Many of the cuirassiers had arrived upon the ground, and their steel armour now glittered conspicuously among the more sombre vestments of the civilian spectators.

Marion took no note of these; nor of aught else, save the half score figures that occupied the centre of the ring. Scarthe and his cornet, Henry Holtspur, Robin Hood, Little John, and the Friar were there; and there, too, was Maid Marian! What was _she_ doing in the midst of the men? She had thrown herself in front of the cavalier--between him and his adversary. Her hands were upraised--one of them actually resting upon Holtspur's shoulder! She appeared to be speaking in earnest appeal--as if dissuading him from the combat!

"In what way could the daughter of Dick Dancey be interested in the actions of Henry Holtspur?"

The question came quickly before the mind of Marion Wade, though it rose not to her lips.

"Bravo!" cried Dorothy Dayrell, as she saw that the cavalier was being equipped. "It's going to go on! A combat in full armour! Won't that be fine? It reminds one of the good old times of the troubadours!"

"O Dorothy!" said Lora, "to be merry at such a moment!"

"Hush!" commanded Marion, frantically grasping the jester by the arm, and looking angrily into her eye. "Another word, Mistress Dayrell-- another trifling speech--and you and I shall cease to be friends."

"Indeed!" scornfully retorted the latter. "What a misfortune that would be for me!"

Marion made no rejoinder. It was at this moment that Scarthe had flung out his taunt, about the glove in the hat of his antagonist.

Maid Marian heard the speech, and saw the action.

"Whose glove?" muttered she, as a pang passed through her heart.

Marion Wade heard the speech, and saw the action.

"My glove!" muttered she, as a thrill of sweet joy vibrated through her bosom.

The triumphant emotion was but short-lived. It was soon supplanted by a feeling of anxious apprehension, that reached its climax, as the two cavaliers, each bestriding his own steed, spurred their horses towards the centre of the camp--the arena of the intended combat.

With the exception of that made by the horsemen, as they rode trampling over the turf, not a movement could be observed within or around the enclosure of the camp. The dark circle of human forms, that girdled the ground, were as motionless, as if they had been turned into stones; and equally silent--men and women, youths and maidens, all alike absorbed in one common thought--all voicelessly gazing.

The chirrup of a grasshopper could have been heard throughout the encampment.

This silence had only commenced, as the combatants came forth upon the ground, in readiness to enter upon action. While engaged in preparation, the merits of both had been loudly and freely discussed; and bets had been made, as if the camp were a cockpit, and the cavaliers a main of game birds about to be unleashed at each other.

The popular feeling was not all on one side, though the "black horseman" was decidedly the favourite. There was an instinct on the part of the spectators that he was the _people's friend_, and, in those tyrannous times, the phrase had an important signification.

But the crowd was composed of various elements; and there was more than a minority who, despite the daily evidence of royal outrages and wrongs, still tenaciously clung to that, the meanest sentiment that can find home in the human heart--loyalty. I mean _loyalty to a throne_.

In the captain of cuirassiers they saw the representative of that thing they had been accustomed to worship and obey--that mysterious entity, which they had been taught to believe was as necessary to their existence as the bread which they ate, or the beer they drank--a thing ludicrously styled "heaven-descended"--deriving its authority from God himself--_a king_!

Notwithstanding the insult he had put upon them, there were numbers present ready to shout--

"Huzza for the cuirassier captain!"

Notwithstanding his championship of their cause, there were numbers upon the ground ready to vociferate--

"Down with the black horseman!"

All exhibitions of this sort, however, had now ceased; and, in the midst of a profound silence, the mounted champions, having ridden clear of the crowd, advanced towards each other with glances reciprocally expressive of death and determination.

Volume One, Chapter XX.

It was a terrible sight for the soft eye of woman to look upon. The timid Lora Lovelace would not stay; but ran off towards the house, followed by many others. Dorothy Dayrell called after them, jeering at their cowardice!

Marion remained. She could not drag herself from the approaching spectacle, though dreading to behold it. She stood under the dark shadow of a tree; but its darkness could not conceal the wild look of apprehension, with which she regarded the two mailed horsemen moving from opposite sides of the camp, and frowningly approaching one another.

Out rang the clear notes of the cavalry bugle, sounding the "charge." The horses themselves understood the signal, and needed no spurring to prompt their advance.

Both appeared to know the purpose for which they had been brought forth. At the first note, they sprang towards one another--snorting mutual defiance--as if they, like their riders, were closing in mortal combat!

It was altogether a duello with swords. The sword, at that time, was the only weapon of the cuirassier cavalry, excepting their pistols; but by mutual agreement these last were not to be used.

With blades bare, the duellists dashed in full gallop towards each other, Scarthe crying out: "_For the King_;" while Holtspur, with equal energy raised the antagonistic cry: "_For the People_!"

At their first meeting, no wound was given or received. As the steeds swept past each other, the ring of steel could be heard--sword-blades glinting against cuirass and corslet--but neither of the combatants appeared to have obtained any advantage.

Both wheeled almost at the same instant; and again advanced to the charge.

This time the horses came into collision. That of the cuirassier was seen to stagger at the shock; but although, during the momentary suspension of the gallop, the sword-blades of the combatants were busy in mutual cut and thrust, they separated as before, apparently without injury on either side.

The collision, however, had roused the ire both of horses and riders; and, as they met for the third time, the spectators could note in the eyes of the latter the earnest anger of deadly strife.

Again rushed the horses together in a charging gallop, and met with a terrific crash--both weapons and defensive armour colliding at the same instant. The steed of the cuirassier recoiled from the impetus of his more powerful adversary. The black horse swept on unscathed; but as he passed to the rear, the hat of Holtspur was lifted upon the breeze; and fell behind him upon the grass.

Trifling as was the incident, it looked ominous. It was the first that had the appearance of a triumph; and elicited a cheer from the partisans of the cuirassier captain.

It had scarce reached its climax, ere it was drowned by the more sonorous counter-cheer that hailed the performance of the black horseman.

Having wheeled his horse with the rapidity of thought, he rode back; and, spitting his beaver upon the point of his sword, he raised it up from the ground, and once more set it firmly upon his head!

All this was accomplished, before his antagonist could turn to attack him; and the _sang froid_ exhibited in the act, along with the graceful equitation, completely restored the confidence of his supporters.

The fourth encounter was final--the last in which the combatants met face to face.

They closed at full gallop; thrust at each other; and then passed on as before.

But Holtspur had now discovered the point in which he was superior to his adversary; and determined to take advantage of it.

The steeds had scarce cleared one another, when that of the cavalier was seen suddenly to stop--reined backward, until his tail lay spread upon the grass. Then turning upon his hind hoofs, as on a pivot, he sprang out in full gallop after the horse of the cuirassier.

The black horseman, waving his sword in the air, gave out a shout of triumph--such as he had erst often uttered in the ears of Indian foemen--while the horse himself, as if conscious of the advantage thus gained, sent forth a shrill neigh, that resembled the scream of a jaguar.

With a glance over his shoulder, Scarthe perceived the approaching danger. By attempting to turn, he would expose himself sideways to the thrust of his adversary's sword.

There was no chance to turn just then. He must make distance to obtain an opportunity. His only hope lay in the fleetness of his steed; and, trusting to this, he sank the spurs deeply, and galloped on.

This new and unexpected manoeuvre had all the appearance of a retreat; and the camp rang with cries of:--"Coward!" "He is conquered!"

"Huzza for the black horseman!"

For a moment Marion Wade forgot her fears. For a moment proud pleasant thoughts swept through her breast. Her bosom rose and fell under the influence of triumphant emotions. Was he not a hero--a conqueror-- worthy of that heart she had wholly given him?

She watched every spring of the two steeds. She longed to see the pursuer overtake the pursued. She was not cruel; but she wished it to be over: for the suspense was terrible to endure.

Marion was not to be tortured much longer. The climax was close at hand.

On starting on that tail-on-end chase, the cuirassier Captain had full confidence in his steed. He was a true Arab, possessing all the strength and swiftness of his race.

But one of the same race was after him, stronger and swifter than he. Like an arrow from its bow the steed of the cuirassier shot across the sward. Like another arrow, but one sent with stronger nerve, swept the sable charger in pursuit. Across the camp--out through the cleared causeway--over the open pasture of the park--galloped the two horsemen, as if riding a race. But their blazing armour, outstretched shining blades, angry looks and earnest attitudes--all told of a different intent.

Scarthe had been for some time endeavouring to gain distance, in order to have an opportunity of turning face to his antagonist. With the latter clinging closely behind him, he knew the manoeuvre to be dangerous, if not impossible--without subjecting himself to the thrust of Holtspur's sword. He soon began to perceive another danger--that of being overtaken.

The spectators had discontinued their shouts; and once more a profound silence reigned throughout the camp. It was like the silence that precedes some expected catastrophe--some crisis inevitable.

From the beginning his pursuer had kept constantly gaining upon him. The fore hoofs of the sable charger now appeared at every bound to overlap the hind heels of his own horse. Should the chase continue but a minute longer, he must certainly be overtaken; for the blade of the cavalier was gleaming scarce ten feet behind his back. The climax was near.

"Surrender, or yield up your life!" demanded Holtspur in a determined voice.

"Never!" was the equally determined reply. "Richard Scarthe never surrenders--least of all to--"

"Your blood on your own head, then!" cried the black horseman, at the same instant urging his horse to a final burst of speed.

The latter gave a long leap forward, bringing him side by side with the steed of the cuirassier. At the same instant Holtspur's sword was seen thrust horizontally outwards.

A cry went up from the crowd, who expected next moment to see the cuirassier captain impaled upon that shining blade. The cuirass of the time consisted only of the breast-plate; and the back of the wearer was left unprotected.

Undoubtedly in another instant Scarthe would have received his death wound, but for an accident that saved him. As Holtspur's horse leaped forward the hind heels of the other struck against his off fore leg causing him slightly to swerve, and thus changing the direction of the sword-thrust. It saved the life of Scarthe, though not his limbs: for the blade of his antagonist entering his right arm, just under the shoulder, passed clear through--striking against the steel rear-brace in front, and sending his own sword shivering into the air.