“No, Colonel; not mad. Some one has betrayed us into an ambuscade. The Roundheads are up the hill; hundreds—thousands of them?”
“Who says so?”
“We saw them, Sir Henry.”
“You couldn’t have seen Roundheads. There are none on these roads. It must be some of Scudamore’s men from Hereford. Fools! you’ve been frightened at your own shadows.”
“But, Colonel, they’ve taken a party of ours prisoners; all that were ahead of us. We heard the ‘Surrender!’ and saw them surrounded.”
“I shall see it myself before I believe it. About, and on with me!”
The men thus commanded, however reluctant to return towards the summit, knew better than to disobey. But their obedience was not insisted upon. In the narrow way, ere he could pass to place himself at their head, a horseman came galloping from below, and pulled up by his side. A courier with horse in a lather of sweat, showing he must have ridden far and fast. But the slip of paper, hurriedly drawn from his doublet and handed to the Sheriff, told all.
Unfolding it, he read,—
“Kyrle has betrayed us. Massey in Monmouth. Large body of Horse—several hundred—Walwyn’s Forest troop, and some of Kyrle’s old hands with the traitor himself, gone out along the Hereford road this morning before daybreak. Destination not known. Be on your guard.”
The informal despatch, which showed signs of being written in great haste, was without any signature. None was needed; the bearer, personally known to Lingen, giving further details vivâ voce; while its contents too truly confirmed the report just brought by the soldiers from the other side.