Fred winced slightly, but he went on—
“All this comes, sir, from the pride and haughtiness consequent upon your keeping the company of wild, roystering blades, who call themselves Cavaliers—men without the fear of God before their eyes, and certainly without love for their country. You must be taught humility, sir.”
Scarlett laughed scornfully, and his men again echoed his forced mirth.
“Pride, sir,” continued Fred, quietly, “goes with gay trappings, and silken scarves, and feathered hats. Here, Samson, give this prisoner a decent headpiece while he is with us.”
He snatched off the plumed hat, and tossed it carelessly to his follower.
“And while you are with us, sir, you must be taught behaviour. You are too hot-headed, Master Scarlett. You will be better soon.”
Scarlett was gazing fiercely and defiantly in his old companion’s face, hot, angry, and flushed, as he felt himself seized by the collar. Then he sat there as if paralysed, unable to move, stunned, as it were mentally, in his surprise, and gradually turning as white as Fred as there were a few rapid snips given with a pair of sheep shears, and roughly but effectively his glossy ringlets were shorn away, to fall upon his shoulders.
Then he flung himself back with a cry of rage. But it was too late; the curls were gone, and he was closely cropped as one of the Parliamentarian soldiers, while his enemy-guard burst into a roar.
“There, Master Scarlett Markham,” said Fred, quietly, “your head will be cooler now; and you will not be so ready to use your hands against one whose position makes him unarmed. Samson, the headpiece. Yes, that will do. Master Scarlett, shall I put it on, as your hands are bound?”
“You coward!” cried Scarlett, hoarsely, as he gazed full in Fred’s eyes; and then again, with his face deadly pale, “You miserable coward! Bah!”