The arrest would be simple and easy. It would be only necessary to surround the house, cut off every loophole of escape, and capture the conspirator—in all probability in his bed. After that the Tower—then the Star Chamber; and Scarthe knew enough of this iniquitous tribunal, to feel sure that the sentence it would pass would for ever rid not only Walford, but himself, of a hated rival. It would also disembarrass the king of a dangerous enemy; though of all the motives, inspiring Scarthe to the act, this was perhaps the weakest.
His hostility for Holtspur—though of quick and recent growth—was as deeply rooted, as if it had existed for years. To be defeated in the eyes of a multitude—struck down from his horse—compelled to cry “quarter”—he, Richard Scarthe, captain of the King’s cuirassiers—a preux chevalier—a noted champion of the duello—this circumstance was of itself sufficient to inspire him with an implacable hostility towards his successful antagonist. But to suffer this humiliation in the presence of high-born women—under the eye of one whom he now loved with a fierce, lustful passion—worse still; one whom he had reason to believe was lovingly inclined towards his adversary—all this had embittered his heart with more than a common hatred, and filled his bosom with a wild yearning for more than a common vengeance.
It was in planning this, that he passed the interval upon his couch; and his actions, at the end of the time, along with his muttered words, proved that he had succeeded in devising a sure scheme of retaliation.
“By heavens!” he exclaimed aloud, springing to his feet, and measuring the floor of his chamber with quick, nervous strides; “it will be a sweet revenge! She shall look upon him in his hour of humiliation. Stripped of his fine feathers, shall he appear under her window, under her aristocratic eyes—a prisoner—helpless, bayed, and brow-beaten. Ha! ha! ha!”
The exulting laugh told how pleasant was his anticipation of the spectacle his fancy had conjured up.
“Shall he wear the white gauntlet in his beaver?” he continued, pondering over new modes of humiliating his adversary. “There would be something sweet in such a sublime mockery? No: better not—he will appear more ridiculous with his head bare—bound like a felon! Ha! ha! ha!”
Again he gave way, unchecked, to his exultant laugh, till the room rang with his fierce cachinnations.
“Zounds!” exclaimed he, after an interval, during which the shadow of some doubt had stolen over his face. “If she should smile upon him in that hour, then my triumph would be changed to chagrin! Oh! under her smile he would be happier than I!”
“Aha!” he ejaculated, after another pause, in which he appeared to have conceived a thought that chased away the shadow. “Aha! I have it now. She shall not smile. I shall take precautions against it. Phoebus! what a splendid conception! He shall appear before her, not bareheaded, but with beaver on—bedecked with a bunch of flowers!”
“Let me see! What sort were those the girl gave him? Red, if I remember aright,—ragged robin, corn poppies, or something of the kind. No matter about that, so long as the colour be in correspondence. In the distance, Marion could scarce have distinguished the species. A little faded, too, they must be: as if kept since the day of the fête. She will never suspect the ruse. If she smile, after beholding the flowers, then shall I know that there is nothing between them. A world to see her smile? To see her do the very thing, which but an instant ago, I fancied would have filled me with chagrin!”