This, at the sight of the big sergeant, who was just entering the gate, and behind him a score of dismounted troopers. Rob had already received orders from the Castle to report himself with a detachment at Montserrat House.
A scene followed difficult of description. Kings, Sultans, Crusaders—in costume only—with many other disguised dignitaries, were unceremoniously stopped in their masquerading; each taken charge of by a common trooper, and pinned to the spot. Many repented the imprudence of having thrown aside their masks. By keeping these on they might have escaped recognition. It was too late to restore them; and in a few minutes’ time the paroled prisoners were picked out, and ranged in line for transport to the Castle’s keep.
In all this there was much of the comic and grotesque; on both sides even badinage and laughter. But there was anger too—Madame Lalande and her daughter especially indignant—while among the faces late unmasked were some showing serious enough, even rueful. To them it might be no jesting matter in the end.
On the countenance of Reginald Trevor—of course one of the re-arrested—the expression was singularly varied. As well it might, after so many changes quick succeeding one another—jealousy of his cousin; confidence in his sweetheart restored soon to be lost again; and now that cousin confronting him, as was his duty, with a demand terribly humiliating. Yet Eustace had no desire to make it so; instead the reverse. For, meanwhile, Sir Richard had whispered a word in his ear which went far to remove the suspicions late tormenting him. He but said,—
“I’ve orders to take you to the Castle, Reginald.”
Then to avoid speech, which might be unpleasant to both, he turned away, leaving the prisoner to be looked after by Rob Wilde, who had commands to conduct him to his prison.
“Come, captain!” said the big sergeant patronisingly, “we han’t a great ways to go. Not nigh sich a distance as ye ’tended takin’ me—frae Cat’s Hill to the lock-up at Lydney.”
The Royalist officer keenly felt the satirical jibe flung at him by the Forester, but far more the play of a pair of eyes that were looking down upon him from one of the upper windows. For there stood Vaga Powell, a witness to all that was passing below. In a position almost identical he had seen her twice before, with the expression upon her face very similar. It puzzled him then, but did not vex him as now. For now he better understood it; and, as he was marched off from Montserrat House, he carried with him no sustaining faith or hope, as when riding away from Hollymead.
Eustace also saw her at the window, as he was passing off. But different was the look she gave him, and his given back. In their exchanged glances there was a mutual intelligence, which told that their respective guardian angels had kept promise by whispering sweet words to both.