“Enough! I may need them ere long. Place them in the holsters.”
“And now, Oriole,” continued his master, after a reflective pause, and regarding his attendant with some sadness; “I am going upon a journey. I may be absent for some time. You cannot accompany me. You must stay here—till I either return, or send for you.”
The Indian listened, his countenance clouding over with an expression of disquietude.
“Don’t be downhearted, my brave!” pursued Holtspur. “We shall not be separated for long—no longer than I can help.”
Oriole asked by a gesture why he was to be left behind; adding in a pantomime equally intelligible to Holtspur, that he was ready to follow him to the death—to die for him.
“I know all that, faithful boy,” responded his patron and protector; “right well do I know it: since you’ve given proof of it once before. But your prowess, that might avail me in the pathless coverts of your native forest, and against enemies of your own colour, would be of little service here. The foe I have now to fear is not a naked savage with club and tomahawk; but a king with sword and sceptre. Ah! my brave Oriole, your single arm would be idle to shield me, where a whole host are to be my adversaries. Come, faithful friend! I lose time—too much have I lost already. Quick with my valise. Pack and strap it to the croup. Put these papers into it. The rest may remain as they are. Quick, good Oriole! Hubert should be saddled by this time. Garth, what is it?”
Garth stood in the doorway—breathless, ghastly pale.
“Ho! what’s that? I need not ask. Too well do I understand those sounds!”
“Lor’, O lor’! Master Henry! The house be surrounded wi’ horsemen. They be the kewreseers from Bulstrode.”
“Ha! Scarthe has been quick and cunning! I’m too late, I fear!”