“You’ve no objection to him having a wet, I suppose?” said this man, addressing himself in a side speech to the soldiers who guarded him. “Poor gentleman! He looks a bit thirstyish—doan’t he?”
“You may give him a drink, or two of them, for aught I care,” said the soldier more immediately interested in making answer. “But you’d better not let the officer see you.”
The speaker nodded significantly towards Stubbs.
“I’ll take care o’ that,” said Gregory Garth: for it was he who held up the flagon.
“Here, master,” he continued, gliding close up to the prisoner. “Take a drop o’ this beer. ’Tan’t a quality liquor, I know—such as I suppose ye’ve been used to; but it be tidyish stuff for all that, an’ ’ll do ye good. Bend downish a bit, an’ I’ll bold it to yer lips. Don’t be afeard o’ fallin’ out o’ yer saddle. I’ll put my hand ahind to steady ye. So—now—that’s the way!”
Gregory’s fingers, as he continued to talk, had found their way around the croup of the saddle, and rested upon the wrists of the prisoner—where they were tied together.
The troopers behind, too much occupied by their potations, and the facetiae of the attendants who administered them, saw not that little bit of shining steel, that, in the habile hands of the ex-footpad, was fast severing the cords that confined Henry Holtspur to his place.
“A goodish sort o’ stuff—ain’t it, master?” asked Gregory aloud, as he held the drinking-vessel to the prisoner’s lips. Then adding, in a quick muttered tone, “Now, Master Henry! yer hands are free. Lay hold o’ the reins; an’ wheel round to the right. Stick this knife into the brute; and gallop back over the bridge, as if the devil war after ye.”
“It’s no use, Gregory,” hurriedly answered the cavalier. “The horse is but a poor hack. They’d overtake me before I could make a mile. Ha!” exclaimed he, as if a real hope had suddenly sprung up. “Hubert! I did not think of him. There is a chance. I’ll try it.”
During all their experience in the Flanders campaign, the cuirassiers of Captain Scarthe had never been more taken by surprise, than when their prisoner was seen suddenly clutching the reins of the steed he bestrode—with a quick wrench drawing the animal out of the rank—and, as if a spur had been applied to every square inch of his skin, they saw the old troop horse spring past them, apparently transformed into a fleet courser!