Before him lay the dense forest, the deep embowered shades of Chiddingly woods.
Ralph was in high spirits, and as his stout cob gaily cantered along the trackway he broke into song, as if in emulation of the sweet-toned larks rising into the deep-blue sky on quivering wing.
He was now nearing the point of the rendezvous, and he checked his song as he caught sight of one of his stalwarts trudging along in front of him.
"You are in good time, Roger," he cried to the man as he overtook him.
"Yes, Mr. William, and the others are all in front of me. I am the rear-guard."
"Good," cried Ralph, "but tell me, Roger, why do you call me Mr. William?—alas, he is not here."
"I beg your pardon, sir," replied the man with a laugh. "I thought for the moment that Mr. William had joined us—it was your grey cap which misled me."
Ralph pulled the cap from his head and looked at it with an air of astonishment.
"It is true," he said, "I have put on my brother's cap; it was dark when I left home, and I did not mark the colour of it."
Then he rode rapidly ahead, and in a few minutes he arrived at the rendezvous.