Neither on the road, nor the bridge, nor in the meadows below, did there appear aught that should have attracted the attention of the idlest loiterer; though it was evident from the glances occasionally cast westward over the water, that some object worth seeing was expected to show itself in that direction.
The expression upon the countenances of most was that of mere curiosity; but there were eyes among the crowd that betrayed a deeper interest—amounting almost to anxiety.
The tall man in odd apparel, with the bushy black whiskers, though bandying rough jests with those around him, and affecting to look gay, could be seen at intervals casting an eager look towards the bridge, and then communicating in whispers with the individual in the faded velveteens—who was well-known to most of the bystanders as “Old Dick Dancey the deer-stealer.”
“What be ye all gathered here about?” inquired a man freshly arrived in front of the inn. “Anything to be seen, masters?”
“That there be,” answered one of those thus interrogated. “Wait a bit and maybe you’ll see something worth seeing.”
“What might it be?”
“Dragoniers—royal soldiers of his Majesty the King.”
“Bah! what’s there in that to get up such a row for? One sees them now every day.”
“Ay, and once a day too often,” added a third speaker, who did not appear to be amongst the most loyal of His Majesty’s lieges.
“Ah! but you don’t see them every day as you will this morning—taking a prisoner to the Tower—a grand gentleman at that!”