“Enough!” impatiently exclaimed the officer; “I dare say we shall easily find the fellow. Dismount, men,” continued he, turning to some of the troopers, who had sprung into their saddles. “Return your horses to their stalls. We may as well stay here for the night,” he added in a whisper, to his cornet; “it’s no use going after him till the morning. As the old prattler says, we might have our ride for nothing. Besides, there’s that little appointment in Uxbridge. By the angel Gabriel! I’ll find the knave if I should have to scour every corner of the county. More wine, landlord!—burnt sack!—and beer for these thirsty vagabonds! We’ll drink the king once more, with three times three. Ha! where’s our courtier? Gone too?”
“He’s just ridden off, captain,” answered one of the troopers, still seated in his saddle. “Shall I gallop after, and bring him back?”
“No,” replied the officer, after a moment’s consideration. “Let the stripling go his way. I know where he’s to be found; and shall do myself the honour of dining with him to-morrow. The wine! Come! fill your cans, you right royal rascals, and drink—The King!”
“The King! Hurraw!”
Volume One—Chapter Eight.
Desirous of escaping from the disagreeable companionship—into which he had been so unceremoniously, as well as unwillingly, drawn—the young courtier had taken advantage of the confusion, and trotted quietly away.
On rounding a corner—beyond which the road was not visible from the inn—he put spurs to his horse, and urged the animal into a gallop.
Though he had given no offence, he was not without apprehension, that he might be followed, and summoned back: for the brace of bullies, from whom he had just parted, appeared quite capable of committing further outrage. He knew that, in the name of the king, excesses were of every-day occurrence. The Monarch’s minions had become accustomed to insult the people with impunity. The soldiers in particular bore themselves offensively—more especially those hungry troopers, who, returning unpaid from the Northern campaign, were thrown idle upon the country. The disgrace they had fairly earned—by fleeing before the Scots, from the ford of Newburn—had deprived them of the sympathies of their own countrymen: as a natural consequence provoking towards the latter a sort of swaggering and reckless hostility.