“You’re somewhat of a fool, Frank,” Hugh answered candidly. “Tell me now, have you had news of Dick of late?”
“Ay, he’s still with Butler’s troop; we only learned that on coming out of Worcestershire two days back. He is but just recovered from his wound and fever—”
“Do you think, Frank,” Hugh interrupted, “to-morrow we might walk over to the village and see him?”
“I take it you’ll not,” Frank retorted. “Where have you kept yourself from the news? To-morrow we march southward to flay the skin off that old fox, the rebel Earl of Essex. We’ll make short work of him, and then—” he trailed off into an exact exposition of the way the war would go, which ended only at bedtime.
Next day, as Frank had promised, in a keen, clear weather that made the throngs of troop-horses prance and gave a vividness to every bright coat and sword-hilt, the southward march began. Hugh, riding forth bravely with Frank, Captain Turner, and others of Sir William’s officers, felt he could have shouted for mere pleasure in the sight of the plunging horses, the troops of men, and the throngs of friendly townsfolk that lined the streets of Shrewsbury. In every fibre of him was a bracing sensation, not only from the crisp air and the sunlight, but from the mere feeling of the horse moving beneath him and the ordered motion all about him of men and beasts. Now first it came over him that, even if he might not serve with his father, he was glad that he was one of his Majesty’s great marching army, bound to fight for the king.
At the east gate, by which all must pass, horses and men were wedged thickly, so presently Hugh found himself forced to one side of the gateway, where his progress was checked. An ammunition wagon had broken down and blocked the way ahead, the word ran through the crowd, whereat some men swore, and others, laughing, took the delay merrily. While they were waiting thus, an officer with one trooper attending rode headlong into the thick of them and there stuck fast. “You’ll need slacken pace, sir, you’ll find,” Turner called to him.
“I’ve no wish to show my steed’s quality,” replied the other. “But I’d fain be with a troop of mine that’s somewhere ahead on the road ’twixt here and Staffordshire.” He impatiently thrust back the flapping brim of his felt hat, and Hugh was made sure of what he had guessed by the voice, that it was Colonel Gwyeth himself.
At first he felt a kind of trembling, which was foolish, he told himself; for he no longer feared the man. So he did not even try to urge his horse forward, but suffered the beast to keep his stand, while he gazed fixedly at the colonel. All through the press ran a swaying motion, which soon forced Colonel Gwyeth, still in loud speech with Turner, knee to knee with Hugh, and at the touch he faced toward him. Hugh felt a thrill go through him, but he looked his father squarely in the eyes and, lifting his hat a trifle, said, “Good morrow, sir.”
“In the name of the fiend!” Gwyeth broke out; he had to turn in his saddle to say it, for the movement in the throng had now brought him level with the nose of Hugh’s horse. “Well, sir, you seem fully able to fend for yourself.”
So he was swept away, and next instant Ridydale following him was up alongside. “’Tis all well, Master Hugh?” he asked in a low tone as he brushed by.