“Aye, the plague! the plague!” he mumbled. “As you say, good sergeant—those were terrible times.”
“Sho!” said the sergeant; knocked the ashes of his pipe with an irritable tap and turned his keen blue eyes out once more to the red westward glare. Even at that instant there rose from the gateway tower the blare of a trumpet, the roll of drums. The sounds caught up and repeated from different quarters.
“God be praised,” said he; “’tis the party home again from the work!”
Back went the pipe into Sergeant Bracy’s pocket. He drew himself from his seat; fell, unconsciously, once more into military bearing, and made for the stairs to seek his officer. Chitterley followed, stirred into a fleeting return of energy.
II
THE TESTAMENT
The Lord Constable halted on the first platform and flung from his head the hat with the singed plumes. His son looked at him in some anxiety: he had felt his father’s hand press ever more heavily on his shoulder as they came up the winding steps. Between the ash-powdered white locks, the handsome face struck him as more than usually drawn and pallid.
“A cup of wine for his lordship, Chitterley.—Haste!” cried he.
Rockhurst staggered slightly and sank down upon a stone bench; then looked up at his son and smiled.