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<h3 class="chapter">Chapter Sixteen.</h3> <h4 class="event">Trouble Anticipated.</h4> On return for Hollymead, the hawking party did not pass through Ruardean, as it would have been round about. Nevertheless, Sir Richard went that way. At a forking of the forest paths the knight excused himself to the ladies, leaving Eustace Trevor to escort them home; he, with his own servant, turning off towards the village. Some matter of importance must have influenced him to deviate from the direct route; and that it was pressing might be deduced from the speed to which he put his horse. Soon as parted from the others, he and Hubert made free use of their spurs, going in reckless gallop down the steepest pitches, nor drawing bridle till they had reached Ruardean. A small place then as now, of some two hundred houses, contiguous to a fine old church, and ancient hostelry opposite, the streets all declivities, with some scattered dwellings that radiated off into quaint nooks and by-ways. The clattering of hoofs had brought faces to every window, and figures into every door; for this had been heard long before the two horsemen made their appearance. And now, as these came to a halt in front of the inn, their horses breathing hard, all eyes were bent upon them with inquiring curiosity. “Wind your horn, Hubert!” commanded the knight, in an undertone, without waiting for any one to come up to them. A command which Hubert instantly obeyed by drawing a small cornet from under his doublet, clapping it to his lips, and sounding the “Assembly.” He had been troop-trumpeter in “the army that swore so terribly in Flanders,” and so understood the cavalry calls. No cavalry, however, answered this one, nor soldiers of any arm; though it was answered by what looked the right material for making soldiers. Before the cornet’s notes had ceased reverberating from the tower of the church, and the walls of the old castle—then in ruins—men could be seen issuing from the doors of the nearer houses, others hastening along the lanes from those more remote, all making for the spot where the horsemen were halted. In a few seconds nearly twenty had gathered, up and grouped around the horses; the expression on their faces showing that they understood the signal in a general way, but not the reason for its having been sounded to summon them just then. All looked inquiry, one putting it in the form of speech,— “What belt, Sir Richard?” He who interrogated was a man of gigantic size, inches taller than any of the others. But something more than his superior stature privileged him to be first spokesman, as could be deduced from Sir Richard’s answer. “A troop coming from Lydney, Rob. They’re through Drybrook by this, making for Hollymead. You and your friends will, no doubt, be there, too, curious to see how the soldiers behave themselves?” “We’ll be there, sure, Sir Richard. Rob Wilde for one, an’ belikes a good many more.” “So well,” rejoined the knight, with a satisfied look. Then leaning over on his saddle he whispered some words of a confidential character into the ear of the deer-stealer. After which, setting himself straight in the stirrups, he again set his horse into a gallop, and rode out of the village as rapidly as he had entered it. <hr /> “I hear they’re coming, Sir Richard?” “They are, Mr Powell. By all signs, it’s the party you’ve been expecting. Indeed, there can be no doubt about its being Wintour’s troop. One of the officers at its head we made out to be Master Trevor’s cousin, as you’ve heard, I suppose?” “Oh, yes. And of their purpose there can be as little doubt—to levy for that 3,000 pounds the King facetiously terms loan. A downright robbery, I call it.” “I too.” “What ought I to do, Sir Richard? I have the money in the house, and suppose I must give it to them. But if you say the word, I’ll refuse.” “Let me leave the word unsaid till I see what sort of following is after them. There appeared to be a good many from Mitcheldean, likely to be joined by more at Drybrook, to say nothing of the contingent from nearer home. Everything must depend on their numbers and the spirit we find them in.” “I understand,” said the other, with an assenting nod, “and will trust all to you.” This brief dialogue was at the door of Hollymead House, its owner standing in the porch, Sir Richard still on horseback, just arrived from that passage at courier-speed through Ruardean. It ended by his dismounting and giving his horse to Hubert, with directions to take both their animals round to the stable-yard, and there keep them under saddle and bridle. Some other instructions were delivered to the same sotto voce. Then to the symphony of clanking spurs the knight ascended to the porch; and after a few more words exchanged with the master of the house, he passed on into the withdrawing-room. His entrance was a welcome intrusion, as the company inside consisted of the awkward number three. And soon they paired, each pair passing into the embayment of a window, and there taking stand. Not to talk of love, or even think of it; though something equally serious occupied their thoughts—something less agreeable. All were alike imbued with an instinct of danger drawing nigh, and so close, their eyes were now on the alert, apprehensively gazing down the oak-shadowed avenue. A few seconds more and they saw what they were expecting—horses, plumed hats, and the glancing of armour—a troop outside the park gate halted till its fastenings could be undone. In an instant it was dashed open, and soldiers seen filing through—the same as they had descried on the hill beyond Drybrook. On came they up the avenue, without making stop till within fifty yards of the house, where they were again brought up at the entrance to the ornamental grounds. These were enclosed by a haw-haw; the causeway which crossed it having a gate also. And while this was being got open all four looking from the windows had now no difficulty in identifying Reginald Trevor in one of the officers at the head of the troop; while two of them at the same time recognised the other. “Why, bless me!” exclaimed the ex-gentleman-usher, “that’s Colonel Lunsford.” “As I live, Tom Lunsford!” was the almost simultaneous exclamation of the knight. “Colonel Lunsford?” interrogated Vaga, addressing herself to him by her side. “Tom Lunsford?” in like manner questioned Sabrina, but with more earnestness as she saw Sir Richard’s brow suddenly darken. “Who and what is he?” “One of the most notorious—but never mind, now. By-and-by we’ll talk, of him. Like enough he’ll favour us with a taste of his quality before leaving Hollymead. But,” he added, the cloud upon his brow becoming darker, “if he do—.” The knight did not finish what was evidently intended to be a threat, partly because he saw fear coming over the face of his betrothed, and partly that the man for whom his menace was meant had got through the gate, and, with Reginald Trevor by his side, and the soldiers filing in behind them, was now close up to the house. <hr /></div> <div class="page-break"></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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