It was a lovely night, the stars shone brilliantly in the autumnal sky, a light refreshing breeze had sprung up.
Outside the tent six horses stood awaiting their riders. Three of these were held by Lord Clinton's grooms; they were great Flemish war-horses of a renowned breed, beside which the three English horses, held by the Sussex lads, looked small and insignificant. Yet these latter were wiry and strong; happily they were in excellent condition and fit for the long journey before them.
Before they mounted their horses the Englishmen closely inspected every part of the harness, to assure themselves that nothing was amiss. The lads' horses were examined with equal care, and the weapons of their riders underwent Geoffrey's keen scrutiny. Every man was armed with a brace of pistolets and with poniard and dagger. The inspection was over, and, at the word of command, the six men swung into their saddles.
"Slowly through the camp," said Geoffrey in a low voice.
As they moved forward a camp follower, apparently the worse for drink, lurched heavily against one of the lads' horses and caught at his stirrup to steady himself.
"Where away, comrade?" he hiccuped to the lad, who in reply slashed at the impudent villain with his whip.
Geoffrey's quick ear had caught the sound of a voice, and he instantly reined up his horse.
"Stop that man," he cried; but it was too late, he had darted out of sight in the darkness.
The party went on, the three young masters riding abreast, the lads following closely behind. They wound their way carefully through the camp, now thronged with soldiers, sutlers and followers of all kinds.
It was a striking sight. Huge fires burned high at regular intervals, and around them all the revelry of a camp in time of war was beginning.