To the landlord, and a few others just entering the inn, he was individually known. These, as he rode forward to the door, could be heard whispering to one another that phrase that had lately become of almost cabalistic import—the black horseman!
He dismounted; and without hesitancy entered along with the rest—simply nodding to them as he passed.
It was not necessary for him to hold up his thumb before the eyes of the stalwart door-keeper. This precaution, against the admission of traitorous spies, was not required in the case of Henry Holtspur. The owner of the hostelry knew the master of the ceremonies about to be performed under its roof; and the latter, passing him with a significant smile, kept on unattended along the dimly-lit corridor—as one who had oft trodden it before.
With like familiarity, he opened the door of the inner apartment, now filled with men—whose manifold voices mingling in earnest conversation could be heard even to the entrance outside.
Suddenly the sounds became hushed; but only for an instant. Then arose something more than a murmur of applause—amidst which could be heard, in many an enthusiastic repetition, the name of him who had entered, and the sobriquet by which to most of them he was better known.
Though the massive door of oak closing again hindered the voices from being any longer heard outside, the conversation was not discontinued. Only was it conducted into its true channel—the master mind of that enthusiastic assemblage guiding it in its course.
It might have been termed treasonable—if such phrase can be applied to speech condemning the conduct of the uxorious tyrant. Freely were the acts of the king commented upon, and his late edicts discussed; until some of the speakers, becoming inspired—partly by the intoxicating tap of the Saracen’s Head, which, at the cost of the cavalier, circulated without stint; and partly from the smart of some recent wrong—shook their clenched fists in the air, to render more emphatic their vows of vengeance.
On that night, in the conclave held in the hostelry of the Saracen’s Head, was foreshadowed a spectacle—not long after to be realised and even witnessed by some there present—a king standing upon a scaffold!
“Thank the Lord!” muttered Holtspur to himself, as he sprang into his saddle, and headed Hubert for the hills. “Thank the Lord for all his mercies!” added he, in the phraseology of some of his Puritan co-conspirators late ringing in his ears. “There can be no mistaking the temper of these fellows. After ten years of tyrannical usurpation they’re aroused at last. The time is come, not only for the dethronement of a tyrant, but for establishing in dear old England the only form of government that—is not a mockery of common sense—the only one upon which Liberty may rely—the Republic!”
After he had given utterance to this speech, a smile—half of regretful bitterness, half of contempt—not only for his fellow countrymen, but his fellow-men—cynically shadowed his countenance: for the sentiment so expressed, naturally led him to reflect: how few there were in his own country who shared it with him!