“By no means,” replied Stubbs. “By no means. I should be most happy to drink with you; but you see, my friends, we’re on duty; and must not be detained—mustn’t, by Ged!”
“We won’t detain ye a minnit,” urged the first speaker—a stalwart blacksmith, as hard of face as his own hammer. “We won’t, by Ged!” added he in a tone which, coupled with the peculiar form of expression, led Stubbs to conceive some doubts about the sincerity of his proffered friendship.
“Look alive there, lads!” continued the village Vulcan. “Bring out the stingo, landlord! Some of your best wine for the officer; and your strongest home-brew for his brave men. Ding it—the day’s hot and dusty. You have a long ride atween this and Lunnun. You’ll feel fresher, after sluicin’ your throats with a can o’ our Uxbridge ale. Won’t ye, masters?”
The last appeal was made to the troopers; who, without making any verbal reply, signified by nods and other gestures, that they were nothing loath to accept the offer, without calling in question the brusquerie of him who made it.
Almost as if by enchantment a number of men, with drinking-vessels in their hands, appeared on both flanks of the mounted escort—each holding a cup, or can, temptingly before the eyes of a trooper.
These ready waiters were not the regular tapsters of the establishment, but men of other and different crafts: the shoemakers already spoken of, in their wax-smeared aprons—the millers in their snow-white jackets—the blacksmiths in the grimy garments—and the butchers redolent of suet.
Notwithstanding the sans façon of the invitation, and the odd apparel of the attendants, the liquor frothing up before their eyes, and within scenting distance of their nostrils, was too much for the troopers to withstand. A five miles’ ride along a hot and dusty road had brought them to that condition called “drouthy;” and, under such circumstances, it would not have been human nature to have denied themselves the indulgence of a drink, thus held, as it were, to their very lips.
It would not have been Scarthe’s cuirassiers to have done so; and, without waiting the word—either of permission or command—each trooper took hold of the can nearest to his hand; and, raising it to his lips, cried out: “The King!”
The crowd echoed the loyal sentiment; while the improvised cup-bearers—as if still further to testify their respect—took hold of the bridles of the horses, and kept them quiet, in order that their riders might quaff in comfort, and without spilling the precious liquor.
There were two of these attendants, however, who deviated slightly from the fashion of the rest. They were those who waited upon the two troopers that on each side flanked the prisoner. Instead of contenting themselves with holding the horses at rest, each of these attendants led the one whose bridle he had grasped a little out of the alignment of the rank. It was done silently, and as if without design; though the moment after, there was an apparent object—when a tall man, with black whiskers and swarth complexion, passed around the head of one of the horses, and holding up a flagon invited the prisoner to drink.