“Why, they’re dragoons!” cried the old fellow, excitedly. “Enemies, perhaps, and we’re without a drawbridge as’ll pull up. Here, quick, take a sword, Master Roy. Here’s mine. Let’s make a show. They won’t know but what there’s dozens of us.”
Roy followed the old soldier’s commands, and, buckling on the sword, hurried with him down to the outer gate, just as the venerable old retainer slammed it to with a heavy, jarring sound, and challenged the horsemen, whom he could hardly see, to halt.
“Well done, old man!” muttered Ben. “The right stuff, Master Roy, though he is ninety-four.”
“What is it?” cried Roy, as he reached the gate, where the men were dismounting and patting their weary troop-horses.
“Despatches for Lady Royland,” said one, who seemed to be the leader. “Are you Master Roy, Sir Granby’s son?”
“Yes. Have you come from my father?”
“Yes, sir, and made all the haste we could; but we’ve left two brave lads on the road.”
“What! their horses broke down?”
“No, sir,” said the man, significantly; “but they did.”
He took off his cap as he spoke, and displayed a bandage round his forehead.