“But we aren’t soldiers yet.”
“I think we are; so be silent.”
“Yes, sir; but if I only had leave, I’d draw my sword, gallop after that bad brother of mine, and fetch him off his horse, or jackass, or whatever the miserable beast is that he has his legs across.”
“And kill him? Your own brother?”
“Kill him? Not I, sir. He arn’t worth it. No; I’d take him prisoner, nearly knock his head off, and then I’d tie his hands to the tail of my horse, and drag him to the king’s camp in triumph.”
Scarlett made no answer, for he had no faith in his servant’s threats; and together they rode on and on after Sir Godfrey, over the pleasant moor, and on to the cultivated lands, and then on and on still into the darkness, which seemed, as it thickened, like the gross darkness of war and destruction, sweeping down upon the fair and sunny west.
So thought Scarlett Markham, as he still rode on through the darkness, and then his thoughts returned to home, and his mother’s attitude as she flung herself upon her knees, her clasped hands toward heaven, as she uttered a prayer for the protection of those she loved.
Sir Godfrey made no sign. He merely turned from time to time to see if those he led were close behind, and then rode slowly on to join those whose hands were raised against their brothers—father and sons to plunge into the terrible warfare, which, once begun, seemed to know no end.