Saying this, the cavalier snatched up his pistols—at the same time grasping his sword—as if with the intention of making an attempt to defend himself.
The ex-footpad also armed himself with his terrible pike—which chanced to be standing in the hall; while Oriole’s weapon was a tomahawk, habitually worn about his person.
Drawing his blade from its scabbard, Holtspur rushed towards the front entrance—close followed by Garth and the Indian.
On reaching the door, which was still standing open, the conspirator saw at a glance, that resistance would be worse than idle: since it could only end in the sacrifice of his own life, and perhaps the lives of his faithful followers.
In front of the house was ranged a row of steel-clad cuirassiers—each with his arquebus ready to deliver its fire; while the trampling of hoofs, the clanking of armour, and the voices of men resounding from the rear of the dwelling, told that the circumvallation was complete.
“Who are you? What is your business?” demanded Holtspur of one, who from his attitude and gestures appeared to act as the leader—but whose face was hidden behind the closed visor of his helmet.
The demand was mechanical—a mere matter of form. He who made it knew—without the necessity of asking—to whom he was addressing himself, as well as the business that had brought him there.
He had not encountered that cavalier in the field of fight—and conquered him too—without leaving a souvenir by which he could be recognised.
But it needed not the wounded arm—still carried in its sling—to enable Henry Holtspur to recognise Richard Scarthe, his adversary in the equestrian duel. Without such evidence both horse and rider might have been identified.
“I came not here to answer idle questions,” replied Scarthe, with a laugh that rang ironically through the bars of his umbril. “Your first, I presume, needs no answer; and though I shall be over-courteous in replying to your second, you are welcome to the response you have challenged. My business, then, is to arrest a traitor!”