Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Sixteen.Teasing a Prisoner.Fred Forrester was too much astonished at the result of his pursuit to make any sharp retort, but sat holding his prisoner by the gorget, staring wildly at his old playmate, who seemed wonderfully changed since their last meeting, and who had looked, in spite of dust and sweat, tall and handsome in his gay frippery, scarf, scarlet feather, and long curling hair.“Well, rebel,” cried the prisoner; and Fred started from his reverie. “Am I the first you ever had the luck to take that you stare in that way? Don’t choke me.”Fred’s tanned cheeks grew crimson, and his brow was knit as he turned away his face to look after his men, who in the meantime had taken the whole of the little party, dismounted those who needed it, bound their arms behind; their back, and collected the horses.“Look ye here, sir,” cried Samson, dragging forward the man in the morion, who came behind limping, “I’ve got him at last. This is my wretch of a brother, who has taken up arms against me.”“Against you—you ill-looking dog!” cried Scarlett, fiercely. “How dare you! Crop-eared rebel!”“That will do, sir,” said Fred, sternly; for, after being a little overawed by the gallant aspect of his prisoner, he was recovering himself, and recollecting his position. “Will you give your promise not to escape, or must I have you bound?”“Promise to a set of knaves like you?” cried the youth, fiercely. “No. Do what you will; only, mind this—our time will come.”“Yes; and when it does,” cried Nat, shaking his head to get rid of the iron cap which was over his eyes, for his hands were bound, “we’ll show them what it is to be rebels, eh, Master Scarlett—captain, I mean?”“Silence, sir!” cried Fred, angrily; and, after giving the men orders, the little party returned with their prisoners in their midst, Scarlett behind, gazing haughtily before him, and paying no heed to a few words addressed to him at first by his captor, who reined back at the slight, and followed afterwards at the rear of his little troop, angry and indignant at Scarlett’s contemptuous manner, and at the same time sorry and glad, the latter feeling perhaps predominating, for he had successfully carried out his father’s commands.“I wish it had been some one else,” he was thinking, as the little party rode on, the prisoners mounted on their horses, but looking in sorry plight with their hands bound behind. “What will my father say when he sees who it is?”At that moment the sound of angry voices and a hoarse laugh from the troopers made Fred urge his horse forward.“What is this?” he said. “I will not have the prisoners insulted.”“It’s the prisoners insulting us, Master Fred—I mean captain. It’s this ne’er-do-well of a brother o’ mine bragging and bouncing because his hair’s grown a bit longer than mine. He keeps calling me crop-ears, sir, and showing off as if he was a Cavalier.”“So you are a crop-ear and a rebel,” said Nat, for his fall had hurt him, and made him disagreeable.“Silence, sir!” cried Fred, as he made a gesture as if to strike the ex-gardener a blow with the flat of his sword.“Shan’t silence,” said Nat. “You’re not my master. Rebels can’t be masters, and you daren’t hit me now I’m tied up, much as you’d like to. Cowards, all of you!”“Beg pardon, captain,” said Samson, “but may I untie his arms, sir, and have him down under the trees with our buffs off? I could give him such a leathering in five minutes.”“Silence! Forward! Samson, rein back;” and they rode slowly on till the outskirts of the camping place were reached, sentries challenging and men cheering the little party as they came in with their captives right to where the regiment lounged about the camp-fires.Here Colonel Forrester strode out from his tent, followed by half a dozen officers, all ready to cheer the boy who had so successfully carried out the reconnaissance.“Any one hurt?” asked the colonel, looking very cold and stern, and hardly glancing at his son.“Only a few scratches and bruises, sir. We took the whole party.”“That’s well. Which is the leader? Here, you!”Scarlett paid no heed to the command, but a couple of the troopers seized his arms, and hurried him before the colonel.“Which way has the main body of your forces gone, sir?”“You had better follow and find out for yourself, Colonel Forrester,” said the prisoner, coldly. “You will get no information from me.”“Scar Markham!” exclaimed the colonel, in astonishment. “My poor boy, I am sorry that we should meet like this.”“And I am glad, sir,” cried Scarlett, excitedly, “for it gives me an opportunity to say that I, too, am sorry to see you like this, a rebel and traitor to your king.”“Silence, sir! How dare you! Take the prisoners away, and see that they are well used.”“Yes, father,” replied Fred; and he saw the five men disposed of, and then led Scarlett to his own little tent which he had placed at his disposal, and saw that he had an ample supply of food.He then took his own, of which he was in sore need, and began to eat in silence, furtively watching the prisoner, who remained silent, and refused the food, though he was famishing.Fred’s anger had subsided now, and remembering the old days before these times of civil war and dissension, he said quietly—“I am sorry I have nothing better to offer you.”Scarlett turned upon him sharply, with a flash of the eye, as if about to speak; but he turned away again, and sat looking straight before him.There was a long silence then, during which Fred thought how hard it was for his old friend to be dragged there a prisoner, and he said softly—“I was only doing my duty, Scar. I was sent out to take the party seen from our outposts.”“Have the goodness to keep your pity for those who need it, crop-ear,” said Scarlett, scornfully; “and recollect that I am, though a prisoner, one of his Majesty’s officers, one who holds no converse with rebels.”Fred’s cheeks flushed again, and his brow wrinkled.“Very well,” he said angrily. “We are fighting on opposite sides, but I did not know that we need insult each other when we met.”As he spoke he left the tent, and Scarlett winced, and his eyes softened.“Poor old Fred!” he said below his breath; “and I used to think he was like a brother.”It was a glorious evening as Fred Forrester strolled away from the tent, stopping to speak to one of the sentries about the prisoner in the little tent, though he felt that he need hardly take any precaution, for Scarlett was not likely to try to escape and leave his men behind.“Wonder whether we shall ever be friends again,” he thought, “and be back at the old places as before. This terrible fighting cannot always go on. What’s that?”A great deal of shouting and laughter in the centre of a little crowd of soldiers took his attention, and one of the voices sounding familiar, he walked slowly toward the group, hardly caring in which direction he went so that it was away from his tent.“What are they doing?” he asked of one of the men.“Don’t quite know, sir. Teasing one of the prisoners, I think.”Feeling that his father would be angry if the prisoners were annoyed in any way, he walked sharply to the throng, and, as he reached it, he heard a familiar voice say—“Now, that’s what I call behaving like a brother should, gentlemen. He goes away into bad company and disgraces his name, lets his hair grow ragged and greasy and long, and comes here a prisoner with a nasty dirty face, so what have I done? I give him my supper because he was hungry, and he ate it all, and called me a crop-eared rebel for my pains. So after that I washed his face for him and cut his hair, and made him look decent, but I didn’t crop his ears, though the shears went very near them two or three times. But look at him now.”There was a roar of laughter at this, and Fred could hardly keep from joining in, so comical was the aspect of Sir Godfrey Markham’s old servant, as he stood there with his hands bound behind him.For, as Samson said, his brother was now quite clean, and he had cut his hair, which had grown long, in a bad imitation of a Cavalier’s. But this was not merely cut off now, but closely cropped, so that Nat’s head was round and close as a great ball.“All right, Sam,” he said, as his brother came close to him. “Wait a bit till our side wins, and then perhaps I may take you prisoner, and if so—”“Well, if you do—what then?”“Wait, my lad, and see.”Fred Forrester could never after fully explain his feelings. He left the group feeling as if some spirit of mischief had taken possession of him, and kept suggesting that he too had fed his brother, had given up everything to him, and been reviled for his pains. Why should not he show Scarlett Markham that courtesy was due to those who had made him prisoner of war? As it was, his old companion seemed to have grown arrogant and overbearing. He had spoken to him as if he were a dog, and looked at him as if he were one of the most contemptible objects under the sun.“No,” he said, with a half-laugh, “I could not do it.”Then he recalled a long list of injuries he had received from Scarlett, things which had made his blood boil, and he felt tempted again.But his better self prevailed the next minute, and, shaking his head, he returned to his tent, to find that after all Scarlett had partaken of the food, and had now thrown himself down on Fred’s cloak and gone to sleep.As he lay there in the dim light, Fred gazed at his old companion’s handsome young face, flowing curls, and soiled but still handsome uniform, with something like envy. But this passed away; and soon after he lay down outside the tent, to fall into a fit of musing, which was mingled with the pace of sentries, hoarse orders, and the blare of trumpets. Then all was silent, and he fell fast asleep, out there on the bare ground, only to awaken at the morning calls.

Fred Forrester was too much astonished at the result of his pursuit to make any sharp retort, but sat holding his prisoner by the gorget, staring wildly at his old playmate, who seemed wonderfully changed since their last meeting, and who had looked, in spite of dust and sweat, tall and handsome in his gay frippery, scarf, scarlet feather, and long curling hair.

“Well, rebel,” cried the prisoner; and Fred started from his reverie. “Am I the first you ever had the luck to take that you stare in that way? Don’t choke me.”

Fred’s tanned cheeks grew crimson, and his brow was knit as he turned away his face to look after his men, who in the meantime had taken the whole of the little party, dismounted those who needed it, bound their arms behind; their back, and collected the horses.

“Look ye here, sir,” cried Samson, dragging forward the man in the morion, who came behind limping, “I’ve got him at last. This is my wretch of a brother, who has taken up arms against me.”

“Against you—you ill-looking dog!” cried Scarlett, fiercely. “How dare you! Crop-eared rebel!”

“That will do, sir,” said Fred, sternly; for, after being a little overawed by the gallant aspect of his prisoner, he was recovering himself, and recollecting his position. “Will you give your promise not to escape, or must I have you bound?”

“Promise to a set of knaves like you?” cried the youth, fiercely. “No. Do what you will; only, mind this—our time will come.”

“Yes; and when it does,” cried Nat, shaking his head to get rid of the iron cap which was over his eyes, for his hands were bound, “we’ll show them what it is to be rebels, eh, Master Scarlett—captain, I mean?”

“Silence, sir!” cried Fred, angrily; and, after giving the men orders, the little party returned with their prisoners in their midst, Scarlett behind, gazing haughtily before him, and paying no heed to a few words addressed to him at first by his captor, who reined back at the slight, and followed afterwards at the rear of his little troop, angry and indignant at Scarlett’s contemptuous manner, and at the same time sorry and glad, the latter feeling perhaps predominating, for he had successfully carried out his father’s commands.

“I wish it had been some one else,” he was thinking, as the little party rode on, the prisoners mounted on their horses, but looking in sorry plight with their hands bound behind. “What will my father say when he sees who it is?”

At that moment the sound of angry voices and a hoarse laugh from the troopers made Fred urge his horse forward.

“What is this?” he said. “I will not have the prisoners insulted.”

“It’s the prisoners insulting us, Master Fred—I mean captain. It’s this ne’er-do-well of a brother o’ mine bragging and bouncing because his hair’s grown a bit longer than mine. He keeps calling me crop-ears, sir, and showing off as if he was a Cavalier.”

“So you are a crop-ear and a rebel,” said Nat, for his fall had hurt him, and made him disagreeable.

“Silence, sir!” cried Fred, as he made a gesture as if to strike the ex-gardener a blow with the flat of his sword.

“Shan’t silence,” said Nat. “You’re not my master. Rebels can’t be masters, and you daren’t hit me now I’m tied up, much as you’d like to. Cowards, all of you!”

“Beg pardon, captain,” said Samson, “but may I untie his arms, sir, and have him down under the trees with our buffs off? I could give him such a leathering in five minutes.”

“Silence! Forward! Samson, rein back;” and they rode slowly on till the outskirts of the camping place were reached, sentries challenging and men cheering the little party as they came in with their captives right to where the regiment lounged about the camp-fires.

Here Colonel Forrester strode out from his tent, followed by half a dozen officers, all ready to cheer the boy who had so successfully carried out the reconnaissance.

“Any one hurt?” asked the colonel, looking very cold and stern, and hardly glancing at his son.

“Only a few scratches and bruises, sir. We took the whole party.”

“That’s well. Which is the leader? Here, you!”

Scarlett paid no heed to the command, but a couple of the troopers seized his arms, and hurried him before the colonel.

“Which way has the main body of your forces gone, sir?”

“You had better follow and find out for yourself, Colonel Forrester,” said the prisoner, coldly. “You will get no information from me.”

“Scar Markham!” exclaimed the colonel, in astonishment. “My poor boy, I am sorry that we should meet like this.”

“And I am glad, sir,” cried Scarlett, excitedly, “for it gives me an opportunity to say that I, too, am sorry to see you like this, a rebel and traitor to your king.”

“Silence, sir! How dare you! Take the prisoners away, and see that they are well used.”

“Yes, father,” replied Fred; and he saw the five men disposed of, and then led Scarlett to his own little tent which he had placed at his disposal, and saw that he had an ample supply of food.

He then took his own, of which he was in sore need, and began to eat in silence, furtively watching the prisoner, who remained silent, and refused the food, though he was famishing.

Fred’s anger had subsided now, and remembering the old days before these times of civil war and dissension, he said quietly—

“I am sorry I have nothing better to offer you.”

Scarlett turned upon him sharply, with a flash of the eye, as if about to speak; but he turned away again, and sat looking straight before him.

There was a long silence then, during which Fred thought how hard it was for his old friend to be dragged there a prisoner, and he said softly—

“I was only doing my duty, Scar. I was sent out to take the party seen from our outposts.”

“Have the goodness to keep your pity for those who need it, crop-ear,” said Scarlett, scornfully; “and recollect that I am, though a prisoner, one of his Majesty’s officers, one who holds no converse with rebels.”

Fred’s cheeks flushed again, and his brow wrinkled.

“Very well,” he said angrily. “We are fighting on opposite sides, but I did not know that we need insult each other when we met.”

As he spoke he left the tent, and Scarlett winced, and his eyes softened.

“Poor old Fred!” he said below his breath; “and I used to think he was like a brother.”

It was a glorious evening as Fred Forrester strolled away from the tent, stopping to speak to one of the sentries about the prisoner in the little tent, though he felt that he need hardly take any precaution, for Scarlett was not likely to try to escape and leave his men behind.

“Wonder whether we shall ever be friends again,” he thought, “and be back at the old places as before. This terrible fighting cannot always go on. What’s that?”

A great deal of shouting and laughter in the centre of a little crowd of soldiers took his attention, and one of the voices sounding familiar, he walked slowly toward the group, hardly caring in which direction he went so that it was away from his tent.

“What are they doing?” he asked of one of the men.

“Don’t quite know, sir. Teasing one of the prisoners, I think.”

Feeling that his father would be angry if the prisoners were annoyed in any way, he walked sharply to the throng, and, as he reached it, he heard a familiar voice say—

“Now, that’s what I call behaving like a brother should, gentlemen. He goes away into bad company and disgraces his name, lets his hair grow ragged and greasy and long, and comes here a prisoner with a nasty dirty face, so what have I done? I give him my supper because he was hungry, and he ate it all, and called me a crop-eared rebel for my pains. So after that I washed his face for him and cut his hair, and made him look decent, but I didn’t crop his ears, though the shears went very near them two or three times. But look at him now.”

There was a roar of laughter at this, and Fred could hardly keep from joining in, so comical was the aspect of Sir Godfrey Markham’s old servant, as he stood there with his hands bound behind him.

For, as Samson said, his brother was now quite clean, and he had cut his hair, which had grown long, in a bad imitation of a Cavalier’s. But this was not merely cut off now, but closely cropped, so that Nat’s head was round and close as a great ball.

“All right, Sam,” he said, as his brother came close to him. “Wait a bit till our side wins, and then perhaps I may take you prisoner, and if so—”

“Well, if you do—what then?”

“Wait, my lad, and see.”

Fred Forrester could never after fully explain his feelings. He left the group feeling as if some spirit of mischief had taken possession of him, and kept suggesting that he too had fed his brother, had given up everything to him, and been reviled for his pains. Why should not he show Scarlett Markham that courtesy was due to those who had made him prisoner of war? As it was, his old companion seemed to have grown arrogant and overbearing. He had spoken to him as if he were a dog, and looked at him as if he were one of the most contemptible objects under the sun.

“No,” he said, with a half-laugh, “I could not do it.”

Then he recalled a long list of injuries he had received from Scarlett, things which had made his blood boil, and he felt tempted again.

But his better self prevailed the next minute, and, shaking his head, he returned to his tent, to find that after all Scarlett had partaken of the food, and had now thrown himself down on Fred’s cloak and gone to sleep.

As he lay there in the dim light, Fred gazed at his old companion’s handsome young face, flowing curls, and soiled but still handsome uniform, with something like envy. But this passed away; and soon after he lay down outside the tent, to fall into a fit of musing, which was mingled with the pace of sentries, hoarse orders, and the blare of trumpets. Then all was silent, and he fell fast asleep, out there on the bare ground, only to awaken at the morning calls.

Chapter Seventeen.A Lesson in Self-Control.“You will take twelve men as escort, and guard those prisoners to Newton Abbott; there you will give them up, and return as quickly as you can to me.”“Yes, sir. The men need not be bound?”“Yes; every one.”“Scar Markham, father?”“Yes; you must run no risks. You might meet a party of the enemy, and if your prisoners fought against you, what then? Let them be bound while on the road. They will have comparative freedom when you have given them up.”The stern school of war in which Fred Forrester was taking his early lessons of discipline and obedience had already taught him to hear and to obey.This was after a halt of three days in their temporary camp, during which the careful general of the little army had thought it better to rest and recruit his men than to weary them in a vain pursuit at a time when they were pretty well exhausted with previous work.Fred had seen a great deal of the prisoners during the time, but only for the estrangement between him and his old companion to grow greater. For Scarlett was suffering bitterly from the reverses which had befallen his party, and was in agony about his father’s fate. He had tried to obtain some news of the division to which they had been attached, but all he could learn was that in the late engagement it had been cut to pieces, and its components who remained had fled in all directions, while he could not discover whether his father had been among the many slain.Stung by his sufferings, and irritable to a degree, he was in no mood to meet Fred’s advances, looking upon him, as he did, as one of his father’s murderers, and when he did not give him a fierce look of resentment, he turned his back upon him, and treated him with the greatest scorn and contempt.Their relations under these circumstances did not promise well, then, for their journey to Newton Abbott, and matters seemed to culminate for ill when the escort was ready, the prisoners’ horses brought out, and Fred announced that the time of departure had come. Scarlett rose from where he had been lying upon his cloak in silence; but the sight of his old companion seemed to rouse him to speak; and in a bitterly contemptuous way he turned to his men, saying to Nat—“They might have sent a man to take charge of us, my lads.”Fred winced, and felt small in his military uniform. He bit his lip, and told himself that he would not notice the petty remark, but the words leaped out—“I dare say I shall be man enough to take you safely to your prison, sir;” but Scarlett turned angrily away.The prisoners took their cue from their leader, and behaved in an exaggerated, swaggering manner, that was galling in the extreme.“Seem to have starved our horses,” said Nat, to one of his fellows; and, less fall of control than his leader, Samson spoke out.“No, we haven’t, for we’ve given the poor things a good fill out, such as they hadn’t had for a month; and my word, Nat, you look quite respectable without those long greasy corkscrews hanging about your ears.” Nat turned upon him fiercely. “Do I?” he cried. “Wait till our turn comes, and I’ll crop you.”“Don’t want it,” cried Samson, gleeful at his brother’s rage.“Your hair don’t, but your ears do, so look out.”“Silence!” cried Fred, sternly; and then he gave the order for all to mount.As he was obeyed, and Scarlett swung himself into the saddle, his nostrils dilated, and as he felt the sturdy horse between his knees, he involuntarily glanced round at the surrounding country.Fred saw it, and smiled. “No, sir, not this time,” he said. “I think you will be too well guarded for that.”Scarlett showed that he was well dubbed; for his pale cheeks flushed the colour of his name as he turned away, feeling hot that his action should have been plain enough for his enemy to read his thoughts.Then he set his teeth fast, and they grated together, as he heard Fred’s next orders, and saw a couple of men close up on either side of the prisoners, thrust a stake beneath their arms and across their backs, to which stake their arms were firmly bound, and the ends of the cords which formed their bonds made fast to their horses’ necks.“No fear o’ you cantering off, Master Nat,” said Samson, as, with keen appreciation of his masterful position, he tied his brother as tightly as he could, while Nat resisted and struggled so that he had to be held by Samson’s companion, his steel headpiece falling off in the encounter. “That’s got him, I think,” said Samson, tightening the last knot which held him to the horse. “Dropped your cap, have you? All right, you shall have it. There!”A burst of laughter followed Samson’s act of politeness, for he had stuck on the steel jockey-like cap with its peak towards the back, and the curve, which was meant to protect the back of the head, well down over his eyes.“Only wait,” grumbled Nat; “I’ll save all this up for you.”“Thank ye, Nat. I say, you haven’t got a feather in your cap. Anybody got a feather? No. I’ve a good mind to cut off his horse’s tail for a plume; the root of the tail would just stick upon that spike. Hallo, what’s the matter there?”Nat turned sharply from his brother to where Scarlett was hotly protesting.“It is a mistake,” he said, angrily, to the two men who had approached him on either side with stake and cord. “I am an officer and a gentleman, and refuse to be bound.”“It’s the captain’s orders, sir,” said one of the men, surlily.“Then go and tell him that you have mistaken his orders,” cried Scarlett, ignoring the fact that Fred was seated within half a dozen yards.The men turned to their officer, who pressed his horse’s sides and closed up.“What is the matter?” he said. “Of what do you complain, Master Markham?”“Tell your officer I am Captain Markham, of Prince Rupert’s cavalry,” said Scarlett, haughtily.“I beg your pardon, captain,” said Fred, coldly. “Now, then, of what do you complain?”“Of your scoundrelly rabble, sir,” cried Scarlett, turning upon him fiercely. “You see, they are about to treat me as if I were a dog.”“They were going to bind you, sir, as your men are bound. In our army, the officers are not above suffering and sharing with their men.”Scarlett winced at this, and flushed more deeply, but he tried to turn it off by a fierce attack.“Then this is some cowardly plot of yours to insult one who has fallen into your hands.”“I am obeying the orders of my superior officer, who placed you and the other prisoners in my charge, with instructions that they were to be conveyed bound to their destination.”“The men, not their officer, sir.”“Ah,” replied Fred, coldly. And then, laconically, “Bind him.”“You insolent dog!” cried Scarlett, in his rage. “It is your malignant spite. You shall not bind me, if I die for it.”As he spoke, he struck his spurs into his horse’s flanks, snatched the stout ash stall one of the men held from his hand, leaned forward, and then, as Fred seized his horse’s bridle to stop him from galloping off, struck his captor with all his might.The blow was intended for Fred’s head, but the movement of the horses in themêléecaused the staff to fall heavily across the young officer’s thigh.Unable to restrain a cry of rage and pain, Fred snatched his sword three-parts from its sheath, and then thrust it back, angry with himself for his loss of temper, while Scarlett sat struggling vainly, for the man who held the rope had skilfully used it just as a child would a skipping rope, throwing it over the prisoner’s arms, crossing his hands, and passing one end to a soldier on the other side. In an instant, Scarlett’s elbows were bound tightly to his ribs, and there held, while a couple more men thrust a fresh staff behind his back and under his arms, another rope was used, and with the rapidity which comes of practice upon hundreds of previous prisoners, the passionate young officer was literally bound and trussed, the ends of rope being made fast to the horse he rode.The men who were looking on, murmured angrily at the blow which they saw fall on their young officer.“Hang him to the nearest tree,” shouted one of the party.“Silence!” cried Fred, sternly; and speaking quite calmly now, though he was quivering with pain, he pressed his horse closely to that upon which his prisoner rode.“That was a cowardly blow, Scar Markham,” he said, in a whisper. “I was only doing my duty. You’ll ask my pardon yet.”“Pardon?” raged the lad; “never! Oh, if I only were free and had my sword, I’d make you beg mine for this indignity. Miserable wretch! Rebel! I shall live yet to see you and your traitor of a father hung.”Fred started angrily at this, but he checked himself, reined back his horse, and looking very white now from anger and pain, he gave the word of command. Six of his men formed up in front of the prisoners, the other six took their places behind; swords were drawn, and the horses bearing the prisoners needed no guiding, but in accordance with their training as cavalry mounts, set off in rank as the word “March!” was given, the young leader waiting till all had passed, and then taking his place beside the last two men, one of whom was Samson.

“You will take twelve men as escort, and guard those prisoners to Newton Abbott; there you will give them up, and return as quickly as you can to me.”

“Yes, sir. The men need not be bound?”

“Yes; every one.”

“Scar Markham, father?”

“Yes; you must run no risks. You might meet a party of the enemy, and if your prisoners fought against you, what then? Let them be bound while on the road. They will have comparative freedom when you have given them up.”

The stern school of war in which Fred Forrester was taking his early lessons of discipline and obedience had already taught him to hear and to obey.

This was after a halt of three days in their temporary camp, during which the careful general of the little army had thought it better to rest and recruit his men than to weary them in a vain pursuit at a time when they were pretty well exhausted with previous work.

Fred had seen a great deal of the prisoners during the time, but only for the estrangement between him and his old companion to grow greater. For Scarlett was suffering bitterly from the reverses which had befallen his party, and was in agony about his father’s fate. He had tried to obtain some news of the division to which they had been attached, but all he could learn was that in the late engagement it had been cut to pieces, and its components who remained had fled in all directions, while he could not discover whether his father had been among the many slain.

Stung by his sufferings, and irritable to a degree, he was in no mood to meet Fred’s advances, looking upon him, as he did, as one of his father’s murderers, and when he did not give him a fierce look of resentment, he turned his back upon him, and treated him with the greatest scorn and contempt.

Their relations under these circumstances did not promise well, then, for their journey to Newton Abbott, and matters seemed to culminate for ill when the escort was ready, the prisoners’ horses brought out, and Fred announced that the time of departure had come. Scarlett rose from where he had been lying upon his cloak in silence; but the sight of his old companion seemed to rouse him to speak; and in a bitterly contemptuous way he turned to his men, saying to Nat—

“They might have sent a man to take charge of us, my lads.”

Fred winced, and felt small in his military uniform. He bit his lip, and told himself that he would not notice the petty remark, but the words leaped out—

“I dare say I shall be man enough to take you safely to your prison, sir;” but Scarlett turned angrily away.

The prisoners took their cue from their leader, and behaved in an exaggerated, swaggering manner, that was galling in the extreme.

“Seem to have starved our horses,” said Nat, to one of his fellows; and, less fall of control than his leader, Samson spoke out.

“No, we haven’t, for we’ve given the poor things a good fill out, such as they hadn’t had for a month; and my word, Nat, you look quite respectable without those long greasy corkscrews hanging about your ears.” Nat turned upon him fiercely. “Do I?” he cried. “Wait till our turn comes, and I’ll crop you.”

“Don’t want it,” cried Samson, gleeful at his brother’s rage.

“Your hair don’t, but your ears do, so look out.”

“Silence!” cried Fred, sternly; and then he gave the order for all to mount.

As he was obeyed, and Scarlett swung himself into the saddle, his nostrils dilated, and as he felt the sturdy horse between his knees, he involuntarily glanced round at the surrounding country.

Fred saw it, and smiled. “No, sir, not this time,” he said. “I think you will be too well guarded for that.”

Scarlett showed that he was well dubbed; for his pale cheeks flushed the colour of his name as he turned away, feeling hot that his action should have been plain enough for his enemy to read his thoughts.

Then he set his teeth fast, and they grated together, as he heard Fred’s next orders, and saw a couple of men close up on either side of the prisoners, thrust a stake beneath their arms and across their backs, to which stake their arms were firmly bound, and the ends of the cords which formed their bonds made fast to their horses’ necks.

“No fear o’ you cantering off, Master Nat,” said Samson, as, with keen appreciation of his masterful position, he tied his brother as tightly as he could, while Nat resisted and struggled so that he had to be held by Samson’s companion, his steel headpiece falling off in the encounter. “That’s got him, I think,” said Samson, tightening the last knot which held him to the horse. “Dropped your cap, have you? All right, you shall have it. There!”

A burst of laughter followed Samson’s act of politeness, for he had stuck on the steel jockey-like cap with its peak towards the back, and the curve, which was meant to protect the back of the head, well down over his eyes.

“Only wait,” grumbled Nat; “I’ll save all this up for you.”

“Thank ye, Nat. I say, you haven’t got a feather in your cap. Anybody got a feather? No. I’ve a good mind to cut off his horse’s tail for a plume; the root of the tail would just stick upon that spike. Hallo, what’s the matter there?”

Nat turned sharply from his brother to where Scarlett was hotly protesting.

“It is a mistake,” he said, angrily, to the two men who had approached him on either side with stake and cord. “I am an officer and a gentleman, and refuse to be bound.”

“It’s the captain’s orders, sir,” said one of the men, surlily.

“Then go and tell him that you have mistaken his orders,” cried Scarlett, ignoring the fact that Fred was seated within half a dozen yards.

The men turned to their officer, who pressed his horse’s sides and closed up.

“What is the matter?” he said. “Of what do you complain, Master Markham?”

“Tell your officer I am Captain Markham, of Prince Rupert’s cavalry,” said Scarlett, haughtily.

“I beg your pardon, captain,” said Fred, coldly. “Now, then, of what do you complain?”

“Of your scoundrelly rabble, sir,” cried Scarlett, turning upon him fiercely. “You see, they are about to treat me as if I were a dog.”

“They were going to bind you, sir, as your men are bound. In our army, the officers are not above suffering and sharing with their men.”

Scarlett winced at this, and flushed more deeply, but he tried to turn it off by a fierce attack.

“Then this is some cowardly plot of yours to insult one who has fallen into your hands.”

“I am obeying the orders of my superior officer, who placed you and the other prisoners in my charge, with instructions that they were to be conveyed bound to their destination.”

“The men, not their officer, sir.”

“Ah,” replied Fred, coldly. And then, laconically, “Bind him.”

“You insolent dog!” cried Scarlett, in his rage. “It is your malignant spite. You shall not bind me, if I die for it.”

As he spoke, he struck his spurs into his horse’s flanks, snatched the stout ash stall one of the men held from his hand, leaned forward, and then, as Fred seized his horse’s bridle to stop him from galloping off, struck his captor with all his might.

The blow was intended for Fred’s head, but the movement of the horses in themêléecaused the staff to fall heavily across the young officer’s thigh.

Unable to restrain a cry of rage and pain, Fred snatched his sword three-parts from its sheath, and then thrust it back, angry with himself for his loss of temper, while Scarlett sat struggling vainly, for the man who held the rope had skilfully used it just as a child would a skipping rope, throwing it over the prisoner’s arms, crossing his hands, and passing one end to a soldier on the other side. In an instant, Scarlett’s elbows were bound tightly to his ribs, and there held, while a couple more men thrust a fresh staff behind his back and under his arms, another rope was used, and with the rapidity which comes of practice upon hundreds of previous prisoners, the passionate young officer was literally bound and trussed, the ends of rope being made fast to the horse he rode.

The men who were looking on, murmured angrily at the blow which they saw fall on their young officer.

“Hang him to the nearest tree,” shouted one of the party.

“Silence!” cried Fred, sternly; and speaking quite calmly now, though he was quivering with pain, he pressed his horse closely to that upon which his prisoner rode.

“That was a cowardly blow, Scar Markham,” he said, in a whisper. “I was only doing my duty. You’ll ask my pardon yet.”

“Pardon?” raged the lad; “never! Oh, if I only were free and had my sword, I’d make you beg mine for this indignity. Miserable wretch! Rebel! I shall live yet to see you and your traitor of a father hung.”

Fred started angrily at this, but he checked himself, reined back his horse, and looking very white now from anger and pain, he gave the word of command. Six of his men formed up in front of the prisoners, the other six took their places behind; swords were drawn, and the horses bearing the prisoners needed no guiding, but in accordance with their training as cavalry mounts, set off in rank as the word “March!” was given, the young leader waiting till all had passed, and then taking his place beside the last two men, one of whom was Samson.

Chapter Eighteen.A Cowardly Revenge.No word was spoken as they crossed the fields that separated them from the road, which they reached by the leading men turning their horses into the rapid stream, and letting them wade for a few yards through the flashing water knee-deep, and sending the drops foaming and sparkling in the bright morning sun.“Left,” shouted Fred, as the road was reached, and the next minute the little detachment was trampling up the dust which rose behind them.“Did it hurt you much, Master Fred?” whispered Samson.“Hurt me? I felt as if my leg was cut off; and it is just now as if the bone was broken.”“Perhaps you’d better not go, sir.”“Not go? I’d go if it was ten times as bad.”“And what are you going to do to Master Scar?”“Half kill him some day.”“Why not to-day, sir? Draw up somewhere in a wood, and we’ll all see fair. You can whip him, Master Fred; I know you can. We’ll set them free for a bit, and I’ll stand by you, and Nat shall stand by his young master.”“Don’t talk nonsense, Samson.”“’Tisn’t nonsense, sir. You nearly always used to whip him when you two fell out, and you’re bigger and stronger now.”“But we are in different positions now, Samson,” said Fred, thoughtfully; “and it is impossible.”“Don’t say that, sir. The men would like to see you whip him for what he did.”“No, Samson. It could not be done.”“You aren’t afraid of him, are you, sir?”“Afraid? How dare you?”“Oh, I beg pardon, sir. I was only saying so because I thought the men would think you were, for putting up with a crack like that.”Samson’s words stung more deeply than he expected, though he had meant then to rankle, for to his mind nothing would have been more fairer or more acceptable than for his young leader to face the Royalist prisoner with nature’s weapons, and engage in a regular up and down fight, such as would, he felt sure, result in victory for their side.They rode on in silence for some time before Samson hazarded another word.“Beg pardon, sir,” he then said, humbly. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”“No, no; I know that, Samson.”“It was only because I thought that the men might think you afraid of Master Scarlett.”Fred turned upon him angrily.“I beg your pardon again, sir,” whispered Samson; “but it’s just as I say. I know you aren’t scared of him a bit, because I’ve knowed you ever since you was a little tot as I give pigabacks and rides a-top of the grass when I’d a barrow full. But the men don’t know you as I do, sir. Call a halt, sir, and fight him.”“Samson, I am talking to you as my old friend now, not as your officer. It is impossible.”“Not it, sir. The men would like it. So would you; and as for me—let me fight brother Nat same time, and I’ll give him such a beating as he won’t know whether it’s next We’n’sday or last We’n’sday, or the year before last.”“I tell you, man, it’s impossible, so say no more.”“Very well, Master Fred. I only tell you the truth; and if you find the lads aren’t so willing to follow you, mind, it’s that.”“I have my duty to do, sir, so say no more.”“What a nuisance dooty is,” said Samson to himself, as his young leader went slowly to the front, and rode for a time beside the leading file. “They’ll set him down as a coward. ’Course I know he isn’t, but they’ll think so. Ha, ha, ha!”“What are you laughing at?” said the man on his right.“At him,” cried Samson, pointing forward at his brother. “Looks just like a trussed turkey.”“Ah,” said the man, quietly, “and who knows when it may be our turn to ride prisoners just the same? Knew him before, didn’t you?”“Eh? knew him? Well, just a little,” said Samson, drily. “Come from the same part o’ Coombeland. Me and him’s had many a fight when we was boys.”“And the young captain and that long-haired popinjay met before, haven’t they?”“Often. I was gardener to our captain’s father—the colonel, you know; and that fellow with his headpiece on wrong was gardener to his father as hit our officer.”“Took it pretty quiet, didn’t he?” said the man.“Well, just a little. That’s his way.”“Wasn’t afraid of him, was he?”“Afraid? Why, he don’t know what it means!”“Humph! Looked as if he did,” grumbled the man; and further conversation was stayed by Fred checking his horse, and letting the detachment pass on till he was in the rear.They rode on hour after hour, till the horses began to show the need of water, and the men were eager for a halt to be called, so that they might dine and rest for a couple of hours under some shady tree; but for some time no suitable spot was found, and the advance and rear guards rode on, keeping a keen look-out for danger one minute, for a shady grove and water the next.Once there was an alarm. One of the advance guard came galloping back after seeing a body of horsemen about half a mile away, their arms glittering in the sun; but the party, whatever it was, seemed to be crossing the road at right angles, and for safety’s sake, Fred drew back his men and took refuge among some trees in a hollow a hundred yards from the road, where, to the great satisfaction of all, a spring was found rushing out of the rock.Here in a regular military fashion the horses’ girths were loosened, they were watered, and allowed to crop the grass. Outposts were planted, hidden by the trees; sentries were placed over the prisoners, whose bonds were not unloosed, and the men opened their wallets to partake of a hasty meal.As soon as all the arrangements had been made, Fred saw that his prisoners were supplied with food, a man being deputed to attend to their wants, and this done, the young officer strolled off to the edge of the woodland, where the road could be seen east and west, and stood there watching for the first approach of danger.His thoughts were divided between his charge and Scar’s blow and insulting, contemptuous conduct, which rankled bitterly, for he could not help feeling that the men would judge him according to their lights; and, think of the matter how he would, he felt that he had placed himself at a disadvantage.“If I had only struck him back I wouldn’t have cared.”“Thought that over, sir?”Fred started, and turned to find that Samson had followed him and approached over the soft moist ground beneath the trees unheard.“Thought that over?” faltered the young officer.“Yes, sir. Here’s a splendid place for it just below among the big trees. Nice bit of open turf, quite soft for when you tumble down; and it would just please the men to see my young dandy cockerel’s comb cut after what he did for you.”“Samson, you are talking nonsense. After serving so long in the army, you ought to know something of what an officer’s duties are.”“No, sir; I shall never learn nothing about dooties. I can fight, because it comes nat’ral to a man, and I’m obliged to; but I shall never make a good soldier.”“You don’t know, then, what you are saying.”“Oh yes, I do, sir; and I know what the men are saying; and if you won’t fight, it must be me, for there’s bound to be a rumpus if they go on saying you behaved as if you had a white feather in your cap.”“Who dared to say that?”“Several of ’em, sir; and I wouldn’t hit out, because I thought you would think better of it and fight.”Fred turned away angrily.“Well, sir, I can’t help speaking plainly; and I thought it better to tell you what the lads are saying about it.”“I cannot help what they say, sir; I am doing my duty. Now go back to yours.”“Yes, captain; but don’t be angry with your old servant as followed you to the wars. Give me leave to fight Nat, and that will be something.”“Impossible, sir.”“But it would keep the men’s tongues quiet, sir. Just about a quarter of an hour would do for me to thrash him, and it would be all right afterwards. The men wouldn’t talk so much about you.”Fred marched up and down without a word.“You see, sir, it’s like this. Young Master Scar Markham’s bouncing about and ordering and behaving as if he was everybody.—You won’t fight him, sir?”“No!”—emphatically.“Then why not do something just to show him he isn’t everybody, and that you are not afraid of him?”“You know I am not afraid of him, Samson,” cried Fred, hotly.“Of course I do, sir; but the men don’t know. How could they? There isn’t one there as took you in hand from a little one, when you was always tumbling down and knocking the skin off your knees.”Fred made an impatient gesture.“You see, sir, if you’d only do something it wouldn’t so much matter. Any one would think, to see the airs he puts on, that he was Prince Rupert himself.”Fred turned away, and stood with his back to his henchman, lest Samson should see from his face how he longed to forget his duty, and to cease being an officer for a few minutes, becoming once more the careless boy who could retaliate sharply for the blow received.“He’s sitting yonder, sir, in his scarlet and gold and feathers, and tossing his head so as to make his ringlets shake all over his shoulders. Proud as a peacock he is, and looking down on us all like my brother Nat did till I sheared off his long hair, and made him a crop-ear too. It’s done him no end of good. I only wish some one would serve his lordship the same.”Samson little thought what effect his words would have on his young leader, who again turned away and walked up and down to master the emotion which troubled him. The blow he had received seemed to smart; he pictured the faces of his men looking at him with covert smiles on their lips, and he seemed to see Scarlett sneering at him as some one so cowardly as to be utterly beneath his notice; and he was suffering all this because he believed it to be his duty.The blood rushed up into Fred’s cheeks, and then to his brain, making him feel giddy as he strode away to avoid temptation, for his nerves were all a-tingle, and the desire kept on intensifying to seize some stout staff and thrash his prisoner till he begged his pardon before all the men.But he could not do such a thing. He told himself he must suffer and be strong. He had certain duties to perform, and he would do them, boy as he was, like a man. And to this end he walked quietly back to the little camp, giving a long look round to see that all was safe.The mossy ground beneath the trees deadened his footsteps as he approached his prisoners to see that all were right; and there, as Samson had described, sat Scarlett, looking proud and handsome in his uniform, while he fanned his face with his broad-leafed felt hat and feathers, each waft of air sending his curls back from, his face.Fred had involuntarily stopped short among the bushes to gaze at the prisoner, heedless of the fact that Nat and the other men were just before him, hidden by a screen of hazels.Then the blood seemed to rush back to his breast, for a familiar voice said—“Don’t tell me. He used to be a decent young fellow when he came over to our place in the old days; but since he turned rebel and associated with my bad brother, he’s a regular coward—a cur—good for nothing but to be beaten. See how white he turned when the captain hit him with that staff. White-livered, that’s what he is. Do you hear, sentries? White-livered!”The men on guard uttered a low growl, but they did not say a word in their officer’s defence; and a bitter sensation of misery crept through Fred, seeming for the moment to paralyse him, and as he felt himself touched, he turned slowly to look in a despondent way at Samson, who stood close behind him, pointing toward the group as another prisoner said—“Why, if we had our hands free, and our swords and pistols, we’d soon send these wretched rebels to the right-about. Miserable rabble, with a miserable beggar of a boy to lead them, while we—just look at the young captain! That’s the sort of man to be over a troop of soldiers.”It was doubtful whether Scarlett heard them, as he sat there still fanning his face, till at last, in a fit of half-maddening pique, Fred turned again on Samson, and signed to him to follow.Then, striding forward, he made his way to the sentry nearest to where Scarlett was seated.“Why are your prisoner’s arms at liberty, sir?” he cried.“Don’t know, sir,” said the man, surlily. “I didn’t undo them.”Fred gazed at him fiercely, for he had never been spoken to before like this, and he grasped the fact that he was losing the confidence of those who ought to have looked up to him as one who had almost the power of life and death over them.“How came your lianas at liberty, sir?” cried Fred, sternly, as he turned now on Scarlett.The latter looked in his direction for a moment, raised his eyebrows, glanced away, then back, in the most supercilious manner, and went on fanning himself.“I asked you, sir, how your hands came to be at liberty?”“And, pray, how dare you ask me, insolent dog?” flashed out Scarlett.The altercation brought three more of the guard up to where they stood, and just in time to see Fred’s passion master him.“Dog, yourself, you miserable popinjay!” cried Fred. “Here, Samson! Another of you—a fresh rope and stake. You must be taught, sir, the virtue of humility in a prisoner.”Without a moment’s hesitation, he sprang at the young officer, and seized him by the wrists, but only to hold him for a moment before one hand was wrenched away, and a back-handed blow sent Fred staggering back.He recovered himself directly, and was dashing at his assailant to take prompt revenge for this second blow; but Samson already had Scarlett by the shoulders, holding on tightly while the staff was thrust under his armpits, and he was rapidly bound as firmly as two strong men could fasten the bonds.Fred woke to the fact that his followers were watching him curiously, as if to see what steps he would take now, after receiving this second blow; but, to their disgust, he was white as ashes, and visibly trembling.“Be careful,” he said. “Don’t spoil his plumage. We don’t have so fine a bird as this every day. Mind that feathered hat, Samson, my lad. He will want it again directly. Here, follow me.”Scarlett burst into an insulting laugh as Fred strode away—a laugh foreign to the young fellow’s nature; but his position hadhalf maddened him, and he was ready to do and say anything, almost, to one who, he felt, was, in a minor way, one of the betrayers of his father; while as Fred went on, gazing straight before him, he could not but note the peculiar looks of his men, who were glancing from one to the other.Fred felt that he must do something, or his position with his men would be gone for ever. They could not judge him fairly; all they could measure him by was the fact that they had seen him struck twice without resenting the blows.What should he do?He could not challenge and meet his prisoner as men too often fought, and he could not fight him after the fashion of schoolboys, and as they had fought after a quarrel of old.Fred was very pale as he stopped short suddenly and beckoned Samson to his side, the result being that the ex-gardener ran to his horse, was busy for a few moments with his haversack, and then returned to where his master was standing, looking a shy white now, and with the drops of agony standing upon his brow.The next minute Fred had tossed off the heavy steel morion he wore, throwing it to his follower, who caught it dexterously, and then followed closely at his leader’s heels.“Master or Captain Scarlett Markham,” he said, in a husky voice, “you have taken advantage of your position as a prisoner to strike me twice in the presence of my men. It was a cowardly act, for I could not retaliate.”Scarlett uttered a mocking laugh, which was insolently echoed by his men.Fred winced slightly, but he went on—“All this comes, sir, from the pride and haughtiness consequent upon your keeping the company of wild, roystering blades, who call themselves Cavaliers—men without the fear of God before their eyes, and certainly without love for their country. You must be taught humility, sir.”Scarlett laughed scornfully, and his men again echoed his forced mirth.“Pride, sir,” continued Fred, quietly, “goes with gay trappings, and silken scarves, and feathered hats. Here, Samson, give this prisoner a decent headpiece while he is with us.”He snatched off the plumed hat, and tossed it carelessly to his follower.“And while you are with us, sir, you must be taught behaviour. You are too hot-headed, Master Scarlett. You will be better soon.”Scarlett was gazing fiercely and defiantly in his old companion’s face, hot, angry, and flushed, as he felt himself seized by the collar. Then he sat there as if paralysed, unable to move, stunned, as it were mentally, in his surprise, and gradually turning as white as Fred as there were a few rapid snips given with a pair of sheep shears, and roughly but effectively his glossy ringlets were shorn away, to fall upon his shoulders.Then he flung himself back with a cry of rage. But it was too late; the curls were gone, and he was closely cropped as one of the Parliamentarian soldiers, while his enemy-guard burst into a roar.“There, Master Scarlett Markham,” said Fred, quietly, “your head will be cooler now; and you will not be so ready to use your hands against one whose position makes him unarmed. Samson, the headpiece. Yes, that will do. Master Scarlett, shall I put it on, as your hands are bound?”“You coward!” cried Scarlett, hoarsely, as he gazed full in Fred’s eyes; and then again, with his face deadly pale, “You miserable coward! Bah!”He turned away with a withering look of scorn, and, amid the cheering of his men, Fred tossed the shears to Samson, and strode away sick at heart and eager to walk right off into the wood, where, as soon as he was out of eye-shot, he threw himself down and buried his face in his hands.“Miserable coward!” he said hoarsely. “Yes, he is right. How could I do such a despicable thing!”

No word was spoken as they crossed the fields that separated them from the road, which they reached by the leading men turning their horses into the rapid stream, and letting them wade for a few yards through the flashing water knee-deep, and sending the drops foaming and sparkling in the bright morning sun.

“Left,” shouted Fred, as the road was reached, and the next minute the little detachment was trampling up the dust which rose behind them.

“Did it hurt you much, Master Fred?” whispered Samson.

“Hurt me? I felt as if my leg was cut off; and it is just now as if the bone was broken.”

“Perhaps you’d better not go, sir.”

“Not go? I’d go if it was ten times as bad.”

“And what are you going to do to Master Scar?”

“Half kill him some day.”

“Why not to-day, sir? Draw up somewhere in a wood, and we’ll all see fair. You can whip him, Master Fred; I know you can. We’ll set them free for a bit, and I’ll stand by you, and Nat shall stand by his young master.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Samson.”

“’Tisn’t nonsense, sir. You nearly always used to whip him when you two fell out, and you’re bigger and stronger now.”

“But we are in different positions now, Samson,” said Fred, thoughtfully; “and it is impossible.”

“Don’t say that, sir. The men would like to see you whip him for what he did.”

“No, Samson. It could not be done.”

“You aren’t afraid of him, are you, sir?”

“Afraid? How dare you?”

“Oh, I beg pardon, sir. I was only saying so because I thought the men would think you were, for putting up with a crack like that.”

Samson’s words stung more deeply than he expected, though he had meant then to rankle, for to his mind nothing would have been more fairer or more acceptable than for his young leader to face the Royalist prisoner with nature’s weapons, and engage in a regular up and down fight, such as would, he felt sure, result in victory for their side.

They rode on in silence for some time before Samson hazarded another word.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he then said, humbly. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“No, no; I know that, Samson.”

“It was only because I thought that the men might think you afraid of Master Scarlett.”

Fred turned upon him angrily.

“I beg your pardon again, sir,” whispered Samson; “but it’s just as I say. I know you aren’t scared of him a bit, because I’ve knowed you ever since you was a little tot as I give pigabacks and rides a-top of the grass when I’d a barrow full. But the men don’t know you as I do, sir. Call a halt, sir, and fight him.”

“Samson, I am talking to you as my old friend now, not as your officer. It is impossible.”

“Not it, sir. The men would like it. So would you; and as for me—let me fight brother Nat same time, and I’ll give him such a beating as he won’t know whether it’s next We’n’sday or last We’n’sday, or the year before last.”

“I tell you, man, it’s impossible, so say no more.”

“Very well, Master Fred. I only tell you the truth; and if you find the lads aren’t so willing to follow you, mind, it’s that.”

“I have my duty to do, sir, so say no more.”

“What a nuisance dooty is,” said Samson to himself, as his young leader went slowly to the front, and rode for a time beside the leading file. “They’ll set him down as a coward. ’Course I know he isn’t, but they’ll think so. Ha, ha, ha!”

“What are you laughing at?” said the man on his right.

“At him,” cried Samson, pointing forward at his brother. “Looks just like a trussed turkey.”

“Ah,” said the man, quietly, “and who knows when it may be our turn to ride prisoners just the same? Knew him before, didn’t you?”

“Eh? knew him? Well, just a little,” said Samson, drily. “Come from the same part o’ Coombeland. Me and him’s had many a fight when we was boys.”

“And the young captain and that long-haired popinjay met before, haven’t they?”

“Often. I was gardener to our captain’s father—the colonel, you know; and that fellow with his headpiece on wrong was gardener to his father as hit our officer.”

“Took it pretty quiet, didn’t he?” said the man.

“Well, just a little. That’s his way.”

“Wasn’t afraid of him, was he?”

“Afraid? Why, he don’t know what it means!”

“Humph! Looked as if he did,” grumbled the man; and further conversation was stayed by Fred checking his horse, and letting the detachment pass on till he was in the rear.

They rode on hour after hour, till the horses began to show the need of water, and the men were eager for a halt to be called, so that they might dine and rest for a couple of hours under some shady tree; but for some time no suitable spot was found, and the advance and rear guards rode on, keeping a keen look-out for danger one minute, for a shady grove and water the next.

Once there was an alarm. One of the advance guard came galloping back after seeing a body of horsemen about half a mile away, their arms glittering in the sun; but the party, whatever it was, seemed to be crossing the road at right angles, and for safety’s sake, Fred drew back his men and took refuge among some trees in a hollow a hundred yards from the road, where, to the great satisfaction of all, a spring was found rushing out of the rock.

Here in a regular military fashion the horses’ girths were loosened, they were watered, and allowed to crop the grass. Outposts were planted, hidden by the trees; sentries were placed over the prisoners, whose bonds were not unloosed, and the men opened their wallets to partake of a hasty meal.

As soon as all the arrangements had been made, Fred saw that his prisoners were supplied with food, a man being deputed to attend to their wants, and this done, the young officer strolled off to the edge of the woodland, where the road could be seen east and west, and stood there watching for the first approach of danger.

His thoughts were divided between his charge and Scar’s blow and insulting, contemptuous conduct, which rankled bitterly, for he could not help feeling that the men would judge him according to their lights; and, think of the matter how he would, he felt that he had placed himself at a disadvantage.

“If I had only struck him back I wouldn’t have cared.”

“Thought that over, sir?”

Fred started, and turned to find that Samson had followed him and approached over the soft moist ground beneath the trees unheard.

“Thought that over?” faltered the young officer.

“Yes, sir. Here’s a splendid place for it just below among the big trees. Nice bit of open turf, quite soft for when you tumble down; and it would just please the men to see my young dandy cockerel’s comb cut after what he did for you.”

“Samson, you are talking nonsense. After serving so long in the army, you ought to know something of what an officer’s duties are.”

“No, sir; I shall never learn nothing about dooties. I can fight, because it comes nat’ral to a man, and I’m obliged to; but I shall never make a good soldier.”

“You don’t know, then, what you are saying.”

“Oh yes, I do, sir; and I know what the men are saying; and if you won’t fight, it must be me, for there’s bound to be a rumpus if they go on saying you behaved as if you had a white feather in your cap.”

“Who dared to say that?”

“Several of ’em, sir; and I wouldn’t hit out, because I thought you would think better of it and fight.”

Fred turned away angrily.

“Well, sir, I can’t help speaking plainly; and I thought it better to tell you what the lads are saying about it.”

“I cannot help what they say, sir; I am doing my duty. Now go back to yours.”

“Yes, captain; but don’t be angry with your old servant as followed you to the wars. Give me leave to fight Nat, and that will be something.”

“Impossible, sir.”

“But it would keep the men’s tongues quiet, sir. Just about a quarter of an hour would do for me to thrash him, and it would be all right afterwards. The men wouldn’t talk so much about you.”

Fred marched up and down without a word.

“You see, sir, it’s like this. Young Master Scar Markham’s bouncing about and ordering and behaving as if he was everybody.—You won’t fight him, sir?”

“No!”—emphatically.

“Then why not do something just to show him he isn’t everybody, and that you are not afraid of him?”

“You know I am not afraid of him, Samson,” cried Fred, hotly.

“Of course I do, sir; but the men don’t know. How could they? There isn’t one there as took you in hand from a little one, when you was always tumbling down and knocking the skin off your knees.”

Fred made an impatient gesture.

“You see, sir, if you’d only do something it wouldn’t so much matter. Any one would think, to see the airs he puts on, that he was Prince Rupert himself.”

Fred turned away, and stood with his back to his henchman, lest Samson should see from his face how he longed to forget his duty, and to cease being an officer for a few minutes, becoming once more the careless boy who could retaliate sharply for the blow received.

“He’s sitting yonder, sir, in his scarlet and gold and feathers, and tossing his head so as to make his ringlets shake all over his shoulders. Proud as a peacock he is, and looking down on us all like my brother Nat did till I sheared off his long hair, and made him a crop-ear too. It’s done him no end of good. I only wish some one would serve his lordship the same.”

Samson little thought what effect his words would have on his young leader, who again turned away and walked up and down to master the emotion which troubled him. The blow he had received seemed to smart; he pictured the faces of his men looking at him with covert smiles on their lips, and he seemed to see Scarlett sneering at him as some one so cowardly as to be utterly beneath his notice; and he was suffering all this because he believed it to be his duty.

The blood rushed up into Fred’s cheeks, and then to his brain, making him feel giddy as he strode away to avoid temptation, for his nerves were all a-tingle, and the desire kept on intensifying to seize some stout staff and thrash his prisoner till he begged his pardon before all the men.

But he could not do such a thing. He told himself he must suffer and be strong. He had certain duties to perform, and he would do them, boy as he was, like a man. And to this end he walked quietly back to the little camp, giving a long look round to see that all was safe.

The mossy ground beneath the trees deadened his footsteps as he approached his prisoners to see that all were right; and there, as Samson had described, sat Scarlett, looking proud and handsome in his uniform, while he fanned his face with his broad-leafed felt hat and feathers, each waft of air sending his curls back from, his face.

Fred had involuntarily stopped short among the bushes to gaze at the prisoner, heedless of the fact that Nat and the other men were just before him, hidden by a screen of hazels.

Then the blood seemed to rush back to his breast, for a familiar voice said—

“Don’t tell me. He used to be a decent young fellow when he came over to our place in the old days; but since he turned rebel and associated with my bad brother, he’s a regular coward—a cur—good for nothing but to be beaten. See how white he turned when the captain hit him with that staff. White-livered, that’s what he is. Do you hear, sentries? White-livered!”

The men on guard uttered a low growl, but they did not say a word in their officer’s defence; and a bitter sensation of misery crept through Fred, seeming for the moment to paralyse him, and as he felt himself touched, he turned slowly to look in a despondent way at Samson, who stood close behind him, pointing toward the group as another prisoner said—

“Why, if we had our hands free, and our swords and pistols, we’d soon send these wretched rebels to the right-about. Miserable rabble, with a miserable beggar of a boy to lead them, while we—just look at the young captain! That’s the sort of man to be over a troop of soldiers.”

It was doubtful whether Scarlett heard them, as he sat there still fanning his face, till at last, in a fit of half-maddening pique, Fred turned again on Samson, and signed to him to follow.

Then, striding forward, he made his way to the sentry nearest to where Scarlett was seated.

“Why are your prisoner’s arms at liberty, sir?” he cried.

“Don’t know, sir,” said the man, surlily. “I didn’t undo them.”

Fred gazed at him fiercely, for he had never been spoken to before like this, and he grasped the fact that he was losing the confidence of those who ought to have looked up to him as one who had almost the power of life and death over them.

“How came your lianas at liberty, sir?” cried Fred, sternly, as he turned now on Scarlett.

The latter looked in his direction for a moment, raised his eyebrows, glanced away, then back, in the most supercilious manner, and went on fanning himself.

“I asked you, sir, how your hands came to be at liberty?”

“And, pray, how dare you ask me, insolent dog?” flashed out Scarlett.

The altercation brought three more of the guard up to where they stood, and just in time to see Fred’s passion master him.

“Dog, yourself, you miserable popinjay!” cried Fred. “Here, Samson! Another of you—a fresh rope and stake. You must be taught, sir, the virtue of humility in a prisoner.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, he sprang at the young officer, and seized him by the wrists, but only to hold him for a moment before one hand was wrenched away, and a back-handed blow sent Fred staggering back.

He recovered himself directly, and was dashing at his assailant to take prompt revenge for this second blow; but Samson already had Scarlett by the shoulders, holding on tightly while the staff was thrust under his armpits, and he was rapidly bound as firmly as two strong men could fasten the bonds.

Fred woke to the fact that his followers were watching him curiously, as if to see what steps he would take now, after receiving this second blow; but, to their disgust, he was white as ashes, and visibly trembling.

“Be careful,” he said. “Don’t spoil his plumage. We don’t have so fine a bird as this every day. Mind that feathered hat, Samson, my lad. He will want it again directly. Here, follow me.”

Scarlett burst into an insulting laugh as Fred strode away—a laugh foreign to the young fellow’s nature; but his position hadhalf maddened him, and he was ready to do and say anything, almost, to one who, he felt, was, in a minor way, one of the betrayers of his father; while as Fred went on, gazing straight before him, he could not but note the peculiar looks of his men, who were glancing from one to the other.

Fred felt that he must do something, or his position with his men would be gone for ever. They could not judge him fairly; all they could measure him by was the fact that they had seen him struck twice without resenting the blows.

What should he do?

He could not challenge and meet his prisoner as men too often fought, and he could not fight him after the fashion of schoolboys, and as they had fought after a quarrel of old.

Fred was very pale as he stopped short suddenly and beckoned Samson to his side, the result being that the ex-gardener ran to his horse, was busy for a few moments with his haversack, and then returned to where his master was standing, looking a shy white now, and with the drops of agony standing upon his brow.

The next minute Fred had tossed off the heavy steel morion he wore, throwing it to his follower, who caught it dexterously, and then followed closely at his leader’s heels.

“Master or Captain Scarlett Markham,” he said, in a husky voice, “you have taken advantage of your position as a prisoner to strike me twice in the presence of my men. It was a cowardly act, for I could not retaliate.”

Scarlett uttered a mocking laugh, which was insolently echoed by his men.

Fred winced slightly, but he went on—

“All this comes, sir, from the pride and haughtiness consequent upon your keeping the company of wild, roystering blades, who call themselves Cavaliers—men without the fear of God before their eyes, and certainly without love for their country. You must be taught humility, sir.”

Scarlett laughed scornfully, and his men again echoed his forced mirth.

“Pride, sir,” continued Fred, quietly, “goes with gay trappings, and silken scarves, and feathered hats. Here, Samson, give this prisoner a decent headpiece while he is with us.”

He snatched off the plumed hat, and tossed it carelessly to his follower.

“And while you are with us, sir, you must be taught behaviour. You are too hot-headed, Master Scarlett. You will be better soon.”

Scarlett was gazing fiercely and defiantly in his old companion’s face, hot, angry, and flushed, as he felt himself seized by the collar. Then he sat there as if paralysed, unable to move, stunned, as it were mentally, in his surprise, and gradually turning as white as Fred as there were a few rapid snips given with a pair of sheep shears, and roughly but effectively his glossy ringlets were shorn away, to fall upon his shoulders.

Then he flung himself back with a cry of rage. But it was too late; the curls were gone, and he was closely cropped as one of the Parliamentarian soldiers, while his enemy-guard burst into a roar.

“There, Master Scarlett Markham,” said Fred, quietly, “your head will be cooler now; and you will not be so ready to use your hands against one whose position makes him unarmed. Samson, the headpiece. Yes, that will do. Master Scarlett, shall I put it on, as your hands are bound?”

“You coward!” cried Scarlett, hoarsely, as he gazed full in Fred’s eyes; and then again, with his face deadly pale, “You miserable coward! Bah!”

He turned away with a withering look of scorn, and, amid the cheering of his men, Fred tossed the shears to Samson, and strode away sick at heart and eager to walk right off into the wood, where, as soon as he was out of eye-shot, he threw himself down and buried his face in his hands.

“Miserable coward!” he said hoarsely. “Yes, he is right. How could I do such a despicable thing!”

Chapter Nineteen.A Clever Schemer.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.”

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.”

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