The elevated causeway of the bridge had placed him in a position, from which he could view the long avenue leading down to the road. Far down it, near the gateway, a steed, saddled and bridled—as if ready for a rider to mount—was standing on the path.
There was no one holding the animal—no one looking after him—no one near!
It was not the circumstance of seeing a horse thus caparisoned, and uncared for—though this was odd enough—that flushed the face of the cuirassier captain, and caused his fingers to tremble on the uplifted latch. It was the sight of that particular horse which produced such effect: for the curving neck and sable coat of the animal—visible even through the grey gloaming of the twilight—enabled Scarthe to recognise the steed, that had played so conspicuous a part in his own humiliation!
“Holtspur’s horse, by Heaven!” were the words that fell mechanically from his lips. “The man must be there himself—behind the trees? There, and what doing there?”
“I shall go down, and see,” he muttered, after a moment of indecision.
Opening the wicket he passed through; quickly traversed the remaining portion of the causeway; and continued on towards the spot where the steed was standing.
He did not go in a direct path towards the object that had thus interested him—which would have been the avenue itself—but proceeded in a circuitous direction, through some copsewood that skirted the slope of the hill.
He had his reasons for thus deviating.
“Holtspur in the park of Sir Marmaduke Wade!” muttered he, as he crept through the thicket with the cautious tread of a deer-stalker. “Where is Sir Marmaduke’s daughter?”
As the suspicion swept across his brain, it brought the blood scorching like fire through his veins. His limbs felt weak under him. He almost tottered, as he trod the sward!