“For ye Captain Scarthe,
“Command: H.M. Royal Cuirassiers,
“Bulstrode Park,
“Shire of Buckingham.”
“The intercepted despatch! Here’s a discovery! Henry Holtspur a footpad! In league with one, at all events—else how should he have become possessed of this? So—so! Not a traitor’s, but a felon’s death shall he die! The gibbet instead of the block! Ha! Mistress Marion Wade! you will repent the gift of your pretty glove, when you learn that you have bestowed it on a thief! By Saint Sulpiece! ’twill be a comical éclaircissement!”
“Ho, fellow! You’ve got the flowers?”
“I have, captain. They be the best I can find. There a’nt nothing but weeds about the old place, an’ withered at that.”
“So much the better: I want them a trifle withered. These will do—colour, shape—just the thing. Here I arrange them in a little bunch, and tie it to this hat. Fix them, as if the clasp confined them in their place. Be smart, my man; and make a neat thing of it!” The trooper plied his fingers with all the plastic ingenuity in his power; and, in a few seconds of time, a somewhat ragged bouquet was arranged, and adjusted on the beaver belonging to the black horseman—in the same place late occupied by the white gauntlet.
“Now!” said Scarthe, making a stride in the direction of the door, “Take out this hat. Place it on the head of the prisoner; and hark ye, corporal; you needn’t let him see the transformation that has been made, nor need you show it conspicuously to any one else. You understand me?”
The trooper having replied to these confidential commands with a nod and a knowing look, hurried off to execute them.