Stubbs, in charge of the guards outside, had already mounted Holtspur on horseback; where, with hands fast bound, and, for additional security, tied to the croup of the saddle,—his ankles also lashed to the stirrup leathers, and a steel-clad cuirassier, with drawn sword on each side of him—he looked like a captive left without the slightest chance of escape.
Even thus ignominiously pinioned, no air of the felon had he. His head, though bare, was not bowed; but carried proudly erect, without swagger, and with that air of tranquil indifference which distinguishes the true cavalier, even in captivity. His rough, and somewhat vagabond captors, could not help admiring that heroic courage—of which, but a few days before, they had witnessed such splendid proof.
“What a pity,” whispered one, “what a pity he’s not on our side! He’d make a noble officer of cavalry!”
“Help Master Holtspur to his hat!” tauntingly commanded Scarthe, as he clambered upon his own steed. “The wind must not be permitted to toss those waving locks too rudely. How becoming they will be upon the block! Ha! ha! ha!”
As commanded, his hat was placed upon the prisoner’s head.
The “forward,” brayed out by the bugle, drowned the satirical laugh of their leader, while the troopers, in files of two—with Scarthe at their head, Stubbs in the rear, and Holtspur near the centre—moved slowly across the lawn, leaving the mansion of Stone Dean without a master!
Volume Two—Chapter Fourteen.
On perceiving that his presence could no longer be of any service to his patron, and might be detrimental to himself, Gregory Garth had betaken his body to a place of concealment—one of the garrets of Stone Dean—where, through a dormer window, he had been witness to all that transpired outside.