At the same instant, the hour was proclaimed in sonorous cadence from the tower o’ertopping the mansion.
It was not to assist her in conjecturing the purpose of that matutinal commotion that Marion had so eagerly glanced to the dial of her watch. After the events of the night, she could have had but one surmise: that Holtspur’s escape had been discovered; and the noises outside were made by those preparing to go off in pursuit of him. She had looked at her watch, to ascertain the time that had elapsed since Holtspur’s departure. She was gratified at perceiving the lateness of the hour.
But why did Scarthe appear to be so happy? Those peals of laughter were inappropriate to the occasion—proceeding from one who should have been suffering chagrin?
At the thought, Marion sprang from her couch, and glided towards the window. From that window, but the morning before, she had witnessed the most painful spectacle of her life. Very similar, and scarce less painful, was that which now greeted her glance: Henry Holtspur, bound upon the back of a horse, and encompassed by a troop of cuirassiers, who, in full armour, were keeping close guard upon him!
They were all mounted, with accoutrements and valises strapped to their saddles—as if ready for a journey. Scarthe himself a journey, pacing back and forth upon the gravelled walk; but in a costume that showed he had no intention to accompany the party, on whatever expedition it was bent. Cornet Stubbs was to be its leader. Mounted upon Holtspur’s steed, he was at that moment placing himself at the head of the troop, preliminary to commencing the march.
Marion had scarce time to take in the details of this tableau—equally unexpected and sad—when a bugle brayed out the signal, “Forward.” Its notes drowned the scream that escaped from her quivering lips, as the form of her beloved was ruthlessly borne away out of sight.
Nearly half an hour had elapsed before the confusion of ideas—consequent on such a painful scene—permitted on the part of Marion Wade, a return to anything like calm reflection. Even then her mind was still wandering amidst a maze of unavailing thoughts, when voices, again heard below, recalled her to the window.
She looked out as before. The tableau was changed from that she had already contemplated.
Only two individuals composed it—Scarthe and a stranger.
The latter was a man in civilian costume; but of a certain guise that betokened him to be in the service of the king. He was on horseback—his horse frothing, smoking, and panting, as if after a long gallop at top speed.