“You would counsel making the fraüleins our prisoners then? Is that what you mean, mein Colonel?”
“Their father at least should be made so. There’s every reason and right for it. He your prisoner, taken back with you to Bristol, ’tis but natural his daughters should accompany him, and share his captivity. If they have the true filial affection they’ll be but too willing to do that. Does your Highness comprehend?”
“Quite!” was the laconic response.
The suggestion, cruel and ruffianly, did not jar on Rupert’s ears; rather was it in harmony with his wishes, and half-formed designs. He was proceeding to ponder upon it, having ridden through the gate, when a cry, peculiarly intoned, came from a remote corner of the park, quick followed by a shrill whistle.
The air was still, and sounds could be heard from afar; these being clearly distinguishable.
“Ho-ho!” exclaimed the Prince, reining his horse to a stand. “Sport going on here! Somebody out hawking.”
The hooha-ha-ha was familiar to him.
“Yes,” said Lunsford. “That was a falconer’s cry—the cast-off.”
“Who might it be, Sir Thomas?”
“Impossible to say, Prince. The party must be behind that spinney of Scotch firs. But see! yonder the hawks! Peregrines in chase of a heron.”