“Faith, ’tis a question if there is aid to send,” Frank cried, in equal excitement, as he made a hindering effort to help Hugh into the coat; “they have taken away so many of our regiment; we are scant a hundred men all told; they say ’tis doubtful if we can send—”
“Then I’ll go to Kingsford alone. Run bid them saddle Bayard, Frank, quick.” With that Hugh caught up his sword, and, going full speed out of the chamber, drowned in the clatter of his boots the protests Frank sent after him.
Below, in the tower room that served for conferences, Sir William would be with his officers, and he hoped there to learn farther news. Almost at the door he ran upon a man from Turner’s troop, all accoutred, who drew back and saluted him. “What seek you? Know you what they are planning?” Hugh asked excitedly.
“Nay, sir; only I was bid have my horse ready, and stand at their service.”
Hugh could guess the service. Pushing by the trooper to the door of the chamber, he knocked a rattling, peremptory knock, and another right upon it. At that the door was wrenched open, and Leveson, grim and dignified, had begun, “What brings you, sirrah?” when Turner’s voice interrupted: “Hugh Gwyeth, is it? Let him come in.”
After that Hugh had a confused sight of the high-studded room, with the sunlight far up on the walls and the corners dusky, and of the men by the table, who had faced toward him. Then he found himself over by Sir William’s armchair, his hand resting hard upon the table, and he was speaking rapidly: “I am going to Kingsford, Sir William, to my father. If you are seeking a messenger for anything, I’ll bear it safely. For I am going straightway.”
“Nay, I shall not suffer it, Hugh Gwyeth,” the baronet cut him short. “Do you understand? The roads are close beset; the trooper who brought us the tidings was shot in the arm and the side.”
“But I know the Kingsford roads. I can make it,” Hugh protested, and looked from one to another of the three dubious faces. “Sure, you’ll let me go,” he burst out. “I must. If he be—harmed and I not there. I must go.” His eyes dropped to his hands that were clinching his hat fast, and rested there; he dared not glance again at those about him lest he find refusal in their looks, and he hoped they might not be gazing at him, for he knew his mouth was working.
Then Turners voice sounded quick and decided: “Let him go, Sir William.”
“Ay, he is a light rider and he knows the roads. A good messenger, after all,” Leveson added in a matter-of-fact tone.