The White Gauntlet

by Mayne Reid

Little did Scarthe suspect, that the snow-white vision, so suddenly fading from his view, was the real form of that splendid woman, now weirdly woven around his heart. Had he suspected it, he would scarce have retired to his couch; which he did with embittered spirit, and a vile vow, instead of a prayer, passing from his lips. It was but the repetition of that vow, long since conceived to win Marion Wade—to win and wed her, by fair means or by foul.

He besought his couch, but not with the intention of going to sleep.

With a brain, so fearfully excited, he could not hope to procure repose.

Neither did he wish it. He had not even undressed himself; and his object in stretching his limbs upon a bed, was that he might the more effectually concentrate his thoughts upon his scheme of villainy.

In his homeward ride he had already traced out his course of immediate action; which, in its main features, comprehended the arrest of Henry Holtspur, and sending him under guard to the Tower of London. It was only the minor details of this preliminary design that now occupied his mind.

Before parting with his subaltern, he had given orders for thirty of his troopers to be ready to take saddle a little before daybreak; the order being accompanied by cautionary injunctions—that the men were to be aroused from their slumbers without any noise to disturb the tranquillity of the mansion—that they were to “boot and saddle” without the usual signal of the bugle; in short, that they were to get ready for the route with as much secrecy and silence as possible.

There would be just time for the cornet to have these commands executed; and, knowing the necessity of obedience to his superior, Stubbs had promptly proceeded to enforce them.

One by one, the men were awakened with all the secrecy enjoined in the order; the horses were saddled in silence; and a troop of thirty cuirassiers, armed cap-à-pied, ready to mount, stood in the courtyard, just as the first streak of grey light—denoting the approach of dawn—became visible above the eastern horizon.

Meanwhile, Scarthe, stretched along his couch, had been maturing his plan. He had but little apprehension of failure. It was scarce probable that his enemy could escape capture. So adroitly had he managed the matter of the espionage, that Henry Holtspur could have no suspicion of what had occurred.

Scarthe had become sufficiently familiar with Walford and his ways, to know that this traitor would be true to the instincts of jealousy and vengeance. There was no fear that Holtspur would receive warning from the woodman; and from whom else could he have it? No one.