“So, Master Henry Holtspur, I thought there was something not sound about you—ever since you drank that toast to taunt me. Aha! If I don’t have you on the hip—as Will Shakespeare says—then I’m not Dick Scarthe, captain of the king’s cuirassiers!
“Stay! I must go gently about this business—gently and cautiously. The king counsels it so. No fear for my rashness. I know when to be stormy, and when to be tranquil. Proofs are required. That won’t be difficult, I ween—where a red rebel stands before the bar. I’ll find proofs. Never fear, your Majesty. I’ll find, or frame them—proofs that will satisfy that scrupulous tribunal—the Star Chamber! ha! ha! ha!”
And, as he gave utterance to the satirical laugh, he passed rapidly out of the room—as if starting off in search of those proofs he so confidently expected to obtain.
Volume Two—Chapter Eight.
We left the beautiful Bet Dancey, with her eyes fixed on the man she admired—waiting his entrance into her father’s cottage, and with a throbbing bosom.
Hers were not the only eyes that were watching Henry Holtspur—nor the only bosom throbbing at his approach. There was one other beating as wildly as hers, though with emotions of a far different kind. It was that of her discarded suitor.
On parting with his cruel sweetheart, Will Walford had walked on among the trees, not caring what direction he took. The horoscope of a happy life, as the husband of Bet Dancey—which he had been long contemplating—had become dim and dark by the very decided dismissal he had just received; and the young woodman’s world, circumscribed though it might be, was now, to his view, a vast chaos.
For a time he could find no other occupation for either thought or speech, than to repeat the revengeful phrase with which he had signalised his departure.