The White Gauntlet

by Mayne Reid

There was but little probability in these conjectures. For all that the jealous Scarthe, under the influence of the wine, earnestly indulged in them, until he began to feel a sort of hope of their being true. It was but for a moment—short and evanescent—and again did his mind relapse into a doubting condition.

Henry Holtspur had, by this time, become the bête noire of his existence—against whom his bitterest hostility was henceforth to be directed. He had already taken some steps to inform himself of the position and character of his rival; but in this he had met with only slight success. A mystery surrounded the movements of the black horseman; and all that Scarthe could learn in relation to him was: that he was a gentleman of independent means, who had lately taken up his residence in the neighbourhood—his domicile being an old mansion known by the quaint appellation of “Stone Dean.”

Scarthe ascertained, also, that Holtspur was a stranger to most, if not all, the distinguished families of the neighbourhood; though it was believed that he associated with others at a greater distance; and that he had hitherto stood aloof from those near him, not from any want of the opportunity of being introduced, but rather from the absence, on his part, of the inclination.

It was rumoured that he had spent a portion of his life in the colonies of America; and the fact that he was occasionally seen accompanied by a young Indian, in the capacity of body-servant, gave confirmation to the rumour.

Scarthe had learnt nothing more in relation to his conqueror—excepting that two men of the neighbourhood were occasionally employed by him in matters of service. These were a woodman of the name of Dancey, and another of the like ilk—a younger man, called Walford.

The cuirassier captain had not taken the trouble to collect this information without some glimmering of a design; though, as yet, he saw not very clearly in what way he could benefit by the knowledge. In fact, Captain Scarthe had never in his life felt more powerless, to rid himself of a rival who had so rudely crossed his path.

To challenge his late antagonist, and fight him again, was not to be thought of—after such a termination to the first combat. The life of Scarthe had been conceded to him; and the laws of honour would have precluded him from seeking a second affair—had he been so inclined. But the touch of the cavalier’s steel had taught him its sharp quality; and he had not the slightest inclination to tempt it again. Though yearning fiercely for vengeance, he had no thought of seeking it in that way; and in what fashion he was to find it, he had as yet conceived no distinct idea.

The séance with his own thoughts had been protracted for more than an hour; and the cloud that still sate upon his brooding brow betokened that it had been unsuccessful. The wine, quaffed spasmodically, had been quaffed in vain. His vengeance, even so stimulated, had failed to suggest a scheme for its satisfaction.

At length an idea seemed to occur to him, that called for the presence of some second personage. He rose to his feet; and, striding to the door, passed rapidly out of the room.

In a few seconds he re-entered, followed by one of his troopers—a young fellow, whose countenance might have appeared pleasing enough, but for an expression of softness, almost silliness, that marked it.