"Then we have been brought to bay at last. With 6000 horse on our flanks, it was not likely we would pass the Ridings of Yorkshire without a camisado. Strike up the Scottish point of war, and let these knaves show themselves."
The shrill fifes and brattling drums rang clear and sharp in the pure frosty air, and ere the last note had died away, a body of horse appeared on an opposite eminence. Their broad beaver hats and waving feathers, polished corslets and scarlet coats, declared them English.
"'Sdeath," said the earl, "they are Langstone's Red Dragoons, so de Ginckel's Black Riders are not far off."
"'Tis but a troop of sixty, my lord," said Walter.
"Dost think thee are within range?" asked Gavin, as his grenadiers began to open their pouches and blow their fuses.
"Scarcely, and we have no ammunition to spare; so if they molest us not, I freely bid them good speed in God's name."
A single cavalier was now seen to spur his horse to the front, and after riding along the roadway a few yards, to rein up and fire a pistol in the air. By the military etiquette of the time, this was understood to be a challenge to single encounter, or to exchange shots with any cavalier so inclined.
Full of ardour and youthful rashness, and burning to distinguish himself, Walter Fenton exclaimed,
"I accept the challenge of this bravadoer; you will permit me, my Lord Dunbarton?"
"Doubtless, my brave lad, but beware; yonder fellow appears an old rider; his harness is complete, à la Cuirassier, as we used to say in France."