The White Gauntlet Part 19

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 pa.s.sed 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 hors.e.m.e.n, 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 gra.s.shopper 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 c.o.c.kpit, 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 cuira.s.siers they saw the representative of that thing they had been accustomed to worship and obey--that mysterious ent.i.ty, 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 G.o.d himself--_a king_!

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

"Huzza for the cuira.s.sier 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 hors.e.m.e.n 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 cuira.s.sier 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 cuira.s.s 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 cuira.s.sier 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 cuira.s.sier recoiled from the impetus of his more powerful adversary. The black horse swept on unscathed; but as he pa.s.sed to the rear, the hat of Holtspur was lifted upon the breeze; and fell behind him upon the gra.s.s.

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 cuira.s.sier 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 pa.s.sed 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 gra.s.s. Then turning upon his hind hoofs, as on a pivot, he sprang out in full gallop after the horse of the cuira.s.sier.

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 cuira.s.sier 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 cuira.s.sier 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 hors.e.m.e.n, as if riding a race. But their blazing armour, outstretched shining blades, angry looks and earnest att.i.tudes--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.