“Out of our reach!” said Kyrle, an odd expression coming over his features, as if some thought had struck him. “Is that so sure?”
“Why not? He’s in Goodrich Castle. You don’t think it possible for us to take it?”
“Not at present; though, by-and-by, it may be within the possibilities. No man wishes more than I to see the proud pile razed to the ground, and Henry Lingen hanged over the ruins. Many the fright he has given my poor father with his cowardly threats. But I hope getting quits with him before the game’s at an end.”
“What chance then of rescuing Trevor? Have you thought of any?”
“I have. And not such a hopeless one either. You’re willing to risk something to get him free?”
“Anything! My life, if need be.”
“That risk will be called for; mine too, if we make the attempt I’m thinking of.”
“An attempt! Tell me what it is. For heaven’s sake, Kyrle, don’t keep me in suspense!”
“It’s this, then. Lingen, it appears, don’t intend lodging any prisoners in Goodrich Castle. Since the affair at Beachley he has some fear of his castle being besieged; and in a siege the more mouths the worse for him. By the merest accident I heard all this yesterday; and that the party he took away from here will be sent on to Hereford under escort first thing to-morrow morning—that is this morning, since it’s now drawing up to it.”
“I think I comprehend you, Kyrle.”