“The same as yourself. Nay, more, I’m sure of it, now. That’s my cousin Rej at their head, on the grey mare, with the red feathers in his hat. You remember them?”
“I do. You’re right; ’tis he. Somebody beside him, though, who appears to be in command. Don’t you see him turn in his saddle, as though calling back orders?”
“Yes, yes;” was the repetitive rejoinder, Eustace Trevor, despite his late sojourn at Court, still retaining some of the idiomatic forms of Welsh colloquy. “But who are those in the rear?” he added, interrogatively.
His question had reference to a number of men afoot, neither in uniform nor formation, who were seen coming behind the horse troop, pressing close upon its heels. Women among them, too, as could be told by the brighter hues and looser draping of their dresses.
“People from Mitcheldean,” answered Sir Richard, “following the troop out of curiosity, no doubt.”
The knight knew better; knew that, but for himself, and some action he had lately taken, the people spoken of, or at least the majority of them, would not have been there. For, since his arrival at Hollymead, he had made many excursions unaccompanied—save by his henchman, Hubert—to Mitcheldean, Coleford, and other Forest centres, where he had held converse with many people—spoken words of freedom, which had found ready and assenting response. Therefore, as he now gazed at that crowd of civilians coming on after the soldiers, though his glance was one of inquiry, it was not as to who they were who composed it, but to make estimate of their numbers, at the same time comparing it with the strength of the troop.
There was no time left him to arrive at any exactitude. The horsemen were on the way to Hollymead, for sure; and he must needs be there before—long before them.
So the hawking party made no longer stay on Ruardean Hill, but a start and return homeward—so rapid as to seem retreat; the understrappers and other attendants wondering why it was so—all save Hubert.