The officer had halted his men about fifty yards from the outer gate, and rode forward a few paces before drawing rein and waiting for some action on the part of those he had come to see; and he looked rather surprised as they stepped forward now, crossed the bridge, and advanced to meet him. For he had not anticipated to find such careful preparations, nor to see the personage who came to meet him in so perfect a military trim, and supported by a couple of soldiers whose bearing was regular to a degree.
The officer was a grim, stern, hard-looking, middle-aged man, and his garb and breastplate were of the commonest and plainest description. He seemed to glance with something like contempt at the elegantly fluted and embossed armour the boy was wearing, and, above all, at the gay sash Lady Royland’s loving hands had fastened across his breast. But his attention was keen as he scanned the soldierly bearing of Ben and the corporal, and a feeling of envy filled his breast as he compared them with his own rough following. Perhaps he would not have thought so much if he had seen the rest of the garrison, but they were too distant.
Roy saluted the officer, and drew a deep breath as he tried to string up his nerves till they were stretched like a bow. For Ben’s words had gone home, and he felt fully how big a part he had to play.
The officer saluted in response in a quick, abrupt manner, and said shortly:
“I come from the general commanding the army here in the west, to demand that you give up peaceable possession of this castle, once the property of the rebel, Sir Granby Royland, who is now in arms against the Parliament of England.”
Roy gave a start at the word “rebel,” and felt the hot blood rise to his cheeks. That insult acted like a spur. The nervous trepidation had gone, for there was no room for it alongside of the anger which flashed through him. Ben was right: the boy knew what to say. It was there ready, and only wanted bringing out.
“Look here, sir!” he cried, sharply; “you come here under a flag of truce to deliver a message, but that does not warrant insolence.”
“Insolence?” said the officer, sternly.
“Yes. I hold no parley with a man who dares to call my father, King Charles’s faithful servant, a rebel.”
“Then go back, boy, and send your mother to make the arrangement for handing over the keys of the castle,” said the officer, with a smile of contempt, “for I suppose the Dame Royland is here.”