"I fear not Juana," replied L'Estrange; "a whisper from her would cut her own throat."
"It might, indeed, were she rash enough to inculpate me," said the Captain, with a cruel laugh. "We must push on, Ned, or some of these carriages will overhaul us before I have seen old Stacy."
So saying he spurred his horse, nothing loth, into a hand gallop, and the two intriguers rode side by side up the rising road, on either bank of which rose dark pines, which had scattered their sprays on the pathway, and made a soft yet firm footing for the horses. It was going on for noon, but the sun could not pierce the dense fir woods, save here and there where his ray formed a bright line across the road. The air was still sultry in the extreme, and not a breath of wind was stirring. Squirrels and rabbits, scared by the approaching riders, from time to time crossed the road, and the wood pigeons, alarmed by the clatter, flew off, flapping their wings loudly. As the two officers rode side by side—dressed almost alike as they were—the resemblance found out by their fellow-comrades in arms was all the more striking. The same military seat and air—the same bronzed complexions and arched noses—the same dark hair and moustache; there was yet a distinctive difference: L'Estrange was still more sunburnt and swarthy in look, probably from his having served in India, as well as his early life spent in the tropics, yet there was a softer expression, a milder air about his face than was to be found in the Captain's, whose eyes, more dark and unrelenting, stood avenged against his friend's, rather soft than fiery.
But if in feature they resembled each other, in character they were as different as light from darkness. Captain de Vere was a bold, fearless man, whose boast was he neither feared God nor regarded his fellow-creatures; in his affections light, in his passions headstrong, he loved no one but himself, nor cared how he hurt another's feelings provided he pleasured his own. If he took offence he was a terrible foe—implacable, vindictive, and unforgiving. L'Estrange was brave, without being the same fearless, dare-devil man the Captain was; naturally inclined to be devotional and benevolent, it was his misfortune, rather than his fault, to see and approve the better, while he followed the worse; by nature also full of affection, he more deeply felt rejected love, and yet was generally able to have full mastery over his passions, and hold them under his control. He was neither selfish nor unforgiving in character, and it was an evil day that he linked himself with the Captain, who, being of a far stronger character, naturally led L'Estrange, more weak and vacillating, into all sorts of evil he would never have fallen into if left to himself. Some men are wicked by nature, such was the Captain—others are wicked by evil example and misfortune, such was L'Estrange.
Half an hour's gallop brought the friends to their journey's end. Cessford's Peel, or Castle, was an old watch tower, once strongly fortified, and still in excellent repair. Built at the bottom of a dark glen, through which foamed a mountain burn, its gray crest just peeped above the woods; the keep was covered with ivy, amid which numbers of jackdaws had built their nests. The Peel was built close to the march of the Earl's estates; a cross-road led from its doorway to the high-road, which ran along the top of the dell. The tower had an ill reputation, having been the scene of some terrible murder in olden times, and the popular belief was it was haunted by the spirit of the sufferer. In front was a large open lawn, surrounded by woods on all sides, and sloping down to the torrent. Beneath the shadow of the trees to the right was a huge stone, perhaps ten feet in diameter, and round as Arthur's table; its top was as level as the nether millstone, and was covered with moss. On this verdant table it was proposed to spread the banquet. Indeed, if it had been created on purpose, a better place for a picnic could hardly be found: the turreted castle, with its woods and hills around, formed a landscape on which the eye delighted to rest,—the level stone for a table,—the green grass for a dancing-board,—the burn for a well to cool the wines;—while the hum of bees, the carol of wood warblers, and distant murmur of falling waters made music to the ear.
On a broken-down dyke sat an old man in seaman's dress, smoking his pipe in the sunshine, and apparently little caring for the prospect around. The young officers, when they reached this delightful spot, dismounted, and taking off the saddles and bridles from their horses tethered them to a stone beneath the shadow of the trees, and left them to pasture there at their pleasure. Having seen their steeds well cared for, their next action was to cross the meadow and address the old man.
"What fool's errand is this? The foul fiend take your merry makings."
"How now, old drudge—dare you blaspheme?" said the Captain; "nevertheless, I hate your picnics, and you may be sure had no hand in this."
"Could you not have steered elsewhere? is there not sea-room enough without tacking here with your mummeries?"
"What the devil had I to do with it? However, you will see laughing, and dancing, and merriment enough to make the fiends howl. Is Antonia to do what I asked?"