Hundreds of the citizens were flocking out of Oxford to see the return of the victors and Waller’s vanquished soldiers. The day was insufferably hot, and the Court party did not care to ride far on the road, but drew rein under a clump of trees by the wayside. As they waited the approach of the troops, the King discussed with Prince Rupert some of the details of the battle which Falkland had mentioned to him, and spoke also of Colonel Norton’s conduct at Marlborough.
“I have met the Colonel,” said Rupert. “He hath a merry wit and a sharp tongue, and is the very man to enjoy a rough jest at the expense of one who had crossed his path. He is an excellent soldier though. My lord,” he said, turning to Falkland, “you must show us this young Lieutenant Harford as the prisoners go past. The fellow must be worth his salt if he has dared to withstand a hectoring officer like Colonel Norton.”
By this time the troops were in sight, and loud cheers rose from the spectators as they rode by.
Then in striking contrast came the weary prisoners on foot, escorted by a second troop of cavalry. As the line passed by, tied together in pairs, many of them wounded, and all of them suffering acutely from thirst, they might have inspired pity in the hardest heart. Falkland noted, however, that the courtiers around him looked on, either with utter indifference, or with derisive smiles, as their fellow-countrymen were beaten and driven along the road like dogs.
“Yonder comes the young lieutenant you bade me point out to your Highness,” he said to Prince Rupert. “The nearest to us behind the gun, and tied to a man with a bandaged head.”
Both the King and the Prince glanced at the prisoner.
“In good sooth the fellow is sunburnt till he is the colour of an Italian!” exclaimed Rupert. “He hath an undaunted air and looks like a man of mettle though.”
“Copper metal, your Highness,” interjected a shallow-brained fop behind him with a laugh.
The laugh reached Gabriel; he glanced to the left, and catching sight of Falkland saluted him, a look of reverence and gratitude lighting up his tired eyes. His pace had involuntarily slackened a little, and the wounded man tied to his right arm, had throughout the march been a heavy drag upon him; a smart blow across his shoulders from the swynfeather, or spiked pole, of the nearest soldier made his eyes flash, and added a touch of dignity to his bearing. But his salute to the King, though courteous, was merely formal, while the rapid, searching glance that accompanied it had none of that deep reverence with which he had returned Falkland’s gaze.
He saw for a moment the well-known handsome features, the cold impassive expression, and remembered how, when he had last looked upon the King, it had been on that memorable January day, at the entrance to Westminster Hall, when Charles had been on his way to arrest the five Members. Now Hampden, the patriot, had been slain; thousands of Englishmen had fought, and bled, and died, and he himself was a prisoner, just when the cause he held at heart most needed service.