Crown and Sceptre Part 48

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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.dfrey Markham's son from over yonder toward the sea. How glad he seemed of that draught of milk the la.s.s 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. d.i.c.k!"

"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 n.o.body 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. "n.o.body 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 d.i.c.k 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 cl.u.s.ters. "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 d.i.c.k."

"d.i.c.k, father?" she faltered.

"Yes; didn't I speak plainly! Call d.i.c.k."