“Let me have a look,” said the Governor, stretching out his hand for the telescope, which, of course, the other surrendered to him. Reluctantly though, as Sir Richard felt more than a common interest in the prisoners so escorted.
“You’re right,” said Massey, soon as sighting them. “Prisoners they have. But whither can they be taking them? That’s the road to Ross.”
“To Hereford also, your Excellency. The route; are the same as far as Whitchurch.”
“Ah, true. Still it’s odd their starting out at such an hour! And why carrying prisoners away to Hereford? Surely Monmouth Castle affords gaol room enough. I hope it’s not so full. If so, all the more reason for our doing what we can to empty it.”
“I don’t think they’re for Hereford, either. If I’m not mistaken, I saw something which tells of a different destination. If your Excellency will allow me another look through the telescope, perhaps—”
“Oh, by all means, take it!” said the Governor, interrupting, and again handing over the glass.
“Yes! just as I supposed they were—Harry Lingen’s Horse!” exclaimed Sir Richard, after viewing them for a second or two. “And those poor fellows, their prisoners, likely enough are my own men—one of them, though I can’t identify him, my unfortunate troop captain, young Trevor. They’re en route neither for Ross nor Hereford, but Goodrich Castle, where Lingen has his headquarters. It’s but a short six miles, which may account for their setting out so late.”
“But Trevor’s party was taken at a place near Ruardean—Hollymead House, if I recollect aright.”
“True; the house of Master Ambrose Powell. It was there Lingen surprised them, through a scoundrel who turned traitor.”
“Then why were they brought to Monmouth at all? Ruardean’s but a step from Goodrich.”