Ere long Mer made exhibition of her high strain and training—for the little falcon was also a female—sufficient to prove herself neither tercel nor haggard. First she raked down a lark, then a corn bunting; and at the third cast-off overtook and bound on to a turtle-dove, big as herself. For all she speedily brought it to the earth, there instantly killing it.
Just as she had brought this quarry to ground a cry was heard, which caused interruption of the sport,—
“Soldiers!”
It was the falconer who so exclaimed; for now that they were merlin-flying his services were scarce required, and one of his aids did the whistling and whooping. Left at leisure to look around, his eyes had strayed up the road beyond Drybrook, there to see what had called forth his cry.
Instantly all other eyes went the same way, more than one voice muttering in confirmation,—
“Yes; they’re soldiers.”
This was evident from their uniformity of dress—all alike, or nearly—as also by the glancing of arms and accoutrements. Moreover, they were in military formation, riding in file, “by twos”—for they were on horseback.
At sight of them all thoughts of sport were at an end, and the hawking was instantly discontinued. Mer, lured back to her mistress’s wrist, was once more hooded, and the leash run through the varvels of her jesses; while the falconer and his helps, with the other attendants, gathered into a group preparatory to leaving the field.
Meanwhile, by no accident, but evidently from previous understanding, Sir Richard Walwyn and Eustace Trevor had drawn their horses together, at some distance from the spot occupied by the ladies, the knight saying,—
“It’s Wintour’s troop from Lydney, I take it. What do you think, Master Trevor?”