Part 82 (1/2)
The individuals who composed it appeared to be of every condition in life, and equally varied as to their costumes. But the greater number of them could be identified as men of the farmer and mechanic cla.s.s--the ”bone and sinew” of the country.
The miller under his h.o.a.ry hat; the butcher in his blood-stained boots; the blacksmith in grimy sheepskin; the small shopkeeper, and pale-faced artisan; the grazier and agriculturist of ruddy hue--alongside the tavern-keeper and tapster of equally florid complexion--could be distinguished in that crowd coming on towards the walls of Bulstrode mansion.
The cuira.s.sier captain had seen such an a.s.semblage before. It might have been the same, that saluted him with jeers--as he crossed the Colne bridge, returning from his unsuccessful pursuit of the black horseman.
With slight exceptions, it _was_ the same.
One of these exceptions was an individual, who, mounted on horseback, was riding conspicuously in front; and who appeared to occupy a large share of the attention of those who followed him. He was a man of mature age, dressed in dark velvet tunic, and with trunk-hose of a corresponding colour. A man with an aspect to inspire regard--even from a crowd to which he might have been a stranger.
But he was evidently no stranger to the men who surrounded him: for at every step of their progress, they could be heard vociferating in hearty hurrah, ”Long live Sir Marmaduke Wade!”
It was the Knight of Bulstrode who headed that cheerful procession.
Though much-loved, Sir Marmaduke did not monopolise the enthusiasm of the a.s.semblage. Mounted upon a magnificent horse--black as a coal fresh hoisted upon the windla.s.s--rode by his side a cavalier of more youthful, but equally n.o.ble, aspect.
It did not need the cry, ”Hurrah for the black horseman!” at intervals reaching his ears, to apprise Captain Scarthe, who was the second cavalier at the head of the approaching cortege. The images of both horse and rider were engraven upon his memory--in lines too deep ever to be effaced.
What the devil _did_ it mean?
This was the thought in Scarthe's mind--the identical expression that rose to his lips--as he looked forth from the opened cas.e.m.e.nt.
Sir Marmaduke Wade, on horseback--unguarded--followed by a host of sympathising friends! The _rebel_ Henry Holtspur riding by his side!
Marion with her yellow tresses afloat behind her--like a snow-white avalanche under the full flood of a golden sunlight--gliding forward to meet them!
”What the devil _can_ it mean?” was the interrogatory of Captain Scarthe repeatedly put to himself, as the procession drew near.
He was not allowed much time to speculate on a reply to his self-asked question. Before he had quite recovered from the surprise caused by the unexpected sight, the crowd had closed in to the walls; where they once more raised their voices in shouts of congratulation.
”Three cheers for John Hampden!” ”Three more for Pym!” were proposed, and unanimously responded to. With equal unanimity were accepted two cries, of far more significance in the ear of the royalist officer: ”_Long live the Parliament!” ”Death to the traitor Strafford_!”
Though still unable to account for what appeared to him some strange travestie, Scarthe could endure it no longer. Strafford was his peculiar patron; and, on bearing him thus denounced, he sprang forth from the cas.e.m.e.nt; and ran with all speed in the direction of the crowd.
The cuira.s.sier captain was followed by a score of his troopers, who chanced to be standing near--like himself at a loss to make out the meaning of that unlooked-for invasion.
”Disloyal knaves!” shouted he, confronting the crowd, with his sword raised in a threatening manner, ”Who is he that has dared to insult the n.o.ble Strafford? Let me hear that traitorous phrase once more; and I shall split the tongue that repeats it!”
”Not so fastish, Master!” cried a stalwart individual, stepping to the front, and whose black bushy whiskers, and fantastic fas.h.i.+on of dress, proclaimed him to be the ex-footpad, Gregory Garth--”doan't a be so fastish wi' your threets--you mayen't be able to carry 'em out so easyish as you suppose. Ye can have a try, though. I'm one o' them as cried: '_Death to the treetur Strafford_!'”
As he p.r.o.nounced the challenging speech, Garth drew from its scabbard a huge broadsword--at the same time placing himself in an att.i.tude of defence.
”Goo it, Gregory!” cried another colossal individual, recognisable as d.i.c.k Dancey, the deer-stealer. ”Gooit like bleezes! I'll stan' to yer back.”
”And we!” simultaneously shouted a score of butchers, bakers, and blacksmiths, ranging themselves by the side of Garth, and severally confronting the cuira.s.siers--who had formed a phalanx in rear of their chief.
Scarthe hesitated in the execution of his threat. He saw that his adversaries, one and all of them, wielded ugly weapons; while his own men had only their light side-arms--some even without arms of any kind.
The att.i.tude of the opposing party--their looks, words, and gestures-- told that they were in earnest in their resolution to resist. Moreover, it was stronger than his own; and constantly gaining accessions from the crowd in the rear.
With the quick perception of a skilled strategist, Scarthe saw that in a hand-to-hand fight with such redoubtable antagonists, his men would have the worst of it. This influenced him to pause in his purpose.
The unexpected opposition caused him to change his design. He suddenly resolved to retire from the contest; arm and mount his whole troop; sally forth again; and rout the rabble who had so flagrantly defied him.