The interrogatory had been called forth by a knock heard outside. At the command to enter, the door was opened, showing a cuirassier standing upon the stoop, with his hand raised to his helmet.
“Your business, sergeant?” demanded the captain.
“A messenger has arrived, escorted by three files of dragoniers.”
“Whence?”
“From London.”
“Show him in; and see that his escort are taken care of outside.”
The sergeant disappeared to execute the order.
“This should be the bearer of the duplicate despatch?” said Scarthe conjecturally; “and, if it contains a countermand, I hope it has been also lost.”
“I doubt it,” rejoined the cornet; “the three files of dragoniers ought to have been a match for the dozen dummies!” and, as Stubbs said this, he smiled conceitedly at the pretty speech he had perpetrated.
The courier came in—a cavalier by his costume and bearing; but of a type very different from the one rifled by the robber. He was a grizzled old veteran, armed from the toes to the teeth; and his steel-grey eye, shining sagely through the bars of his helmet, betokened a character not likely to have been duped by Gregory Garth and his scarecrows. Had this individual been bearer of the original despatch, instead of the copy, in all likelihood the repentant footpad would have committed no other crime on that memorable night; and would have been saved the sin of breaking the promise he had made to his master.