“Zounds, sir!” cried the captain of the cuirassiers, stepping a pace or two forward, “from what Bedlam have you broken loose? Me thinks you’ve been tasting too freely of the Saint Giles’s tap; and ’tis that which makes your speech smell so rankly. Come, fellow! Uncover your head, and tune your tongue to a different strain. You go not hence, till you’ve purged your traitorous throat by drinking the toast of every true and loyal gentleman of England—‘The King.’”
“Fellow, indeed!” exclaimed the cavalier, looking scornfully askance at him who had dictated the insulting proposition. “A fellow!” he continued, in a calm but satirical tone, “not in the habit of drinking toasts with strangers. Yours is not to his liking, any more than your fashion. If he had the fancy to drink to England’s king, it would not be in the company of those who have disgraced England’s fame—at the ford of Newburn.”
Gathering up his reins as he spoke, and giving utterance to a taunting laugh, the strange horseman pressed the spur against the sides of his splendid steed, and started off at a swinging gallop along the road.
It was only when that laugh rang in his ears, that the cuirassier captain became roused to the full frenzy of rage; and, with eyes on fire, and brow black as midnight, he rushed forward, sword in hand, in a frantic attempt to strike down the insulter.
“Disloyal knave!” cried he, lungeing out to the full length of his arm, “thou shalt drink the king’s health in thine own blood! Ha! stop him!” he continued, as the horseman glided beyond his reach—“My pistols!”
“Ho, there!” shouted he to his followers. “Your carbines! Fire upon him! Where are your weapons, you careless vagabonds? To horse, and follow!”
“An ye take my advice, masters,” put in the landlord of the inn—a sturdy tapster of independent speech—“ye’ll stay wheer ye are. An ye doan’t, ye’ll be havin’ yeer ride for nothin’. Ye mawt as well gie chase to a wild goose. He’ll be two mile frae this, ’fore you can git astride o’ your nags.”
“What, varlet!” cried the cuirassier captain, turning furiously upon the speaker—“you presume—”
“Only, great coronel, to gie ye a bit o’ sound advice. Ye ma’ folla it or no’ an’ ye pleeze; but if ye folla him ye won’t catch him—not this night, I trow, though theer be a full moon to light ye on his track.”
The air of imperturbable coolness, with which the Saxon Boniface made rejoinder, instead of increasing the fury of the officer, seemed rather to have the effect of tranquillising him.