“Ah! now I can understand why your blood boiled up at my strenuous defence of the Parliament—the son of Sir William Trevor. But we won’t enter upon politics again. After blows, words are inadmissible, as ungracious. Your father’s house is near Abergavenny, if I remember rightly?”
“It is.”
“That’s good twenty-seven miles from here. You don’t purpose going on there to-night?”
“No; I intend putting up for the night at Monmouth.”
“Well, that’s within the possibilities; but not with daylight, unless you press your horse hard—and he looks rather jaded.”
“No wonder. I’ve ridden him all the way from Witney, in Oxfordshire, since six this morning.”
“He must be good stuff to stand it, and show the spirit he did just now. But for all he seems rather badly done up—another reason for my having got the better of you.”
At this both smiled, the young Cavalier, as before, refusing to accept the complimentary acknowledgment.
“A pity,” ran on Sir Richard, “to press the poor animal farther to night—that is, so far as Monmouth. It’s all of ten miles yet, and the road difficult—pitches up and down. You should rest him nearer, by way of reward for his noble performance of the day.”
“Indeed, I was thinking of it; had half made up my mind to sleep at Coleford.”