“You, Eust!” he exclaimed, drawing his horse round, and trotting towards his kinsman; his glance given to the other being as that to a stranger; for he was not acquainted with Sir Richard Walwyn.
“You, Rej!” was the all-but echo of a response, and the cousins came together, Sir Richard passing on into the park. The gentleman tax-gatherer, still smarting under the rebuff given him, the smart shared by his servant, had ill-manneredly left the gate open behind them.
It was months since the cousins had met; though each knew where the other was, or ought to be. Hence Reginald’s surprise to see Eustace there, supposing him to be engaged in his duties at Court. He spoke it inquiringly, as they held out to shake hands; but, before the other could make answer, he saw that which gave him a start—blood upon the hand extended to him! The white buckskin glove was reddened with it all over up to the gauntlets.
“God bless me, Eust! what’s this? A wound! Have you been quarrelling?”
“Oh! nothing much. Only a little prick in the wrist.”
“Prick in the wrist! But from what?”
“The point of a rapier.”
“The deuce! Then you have been quarrelling. With whom, pray?”
“Speak a little lower, Rej. I’d rather he didn’t hear us.”
And Eustace nodded towards Sir Richard, who was not yet quite beyond earshot.