The spotted skin of a South American jaguar, with housings of scarlet cloth, caparisoned the saddle; over the pommel of which hung a pair of holsters, screened by the thick glossy fur of the North American beaver.
The bit was a powerful mameluke—about that time introduced from the Spanish peninsula—which, clanking between the teeth of the horse, constantly kept his mouth in a state of foam.
This beautiful steed had a name. Walter had heard it pronounced. As the young courtier rode up, the horse was standing—his muzzle almost in contact with the road—and pawing the dust with impatience. The short gallop had roused his fiery spirit. To tranquillise it, his rider was caressing him—as he drew his gloved hand over the smooth skin of the neck, talking to him, as if he had been a comrade, and repeating his name. It was “Hubert.”
After exchanging salutations, the two horse men rode side by side for some moments, without vouchsafing further speech. It was the silence consequent upon such an informal introduction. The rider of the black steed was the first to break it.
“You are Walter Wade—son to Sir Marmaduke, of Bulstrode Park?” said he, less by way of interrogative, than as a means of commencing the conversation.
“I am,” answered the young courtier, showing some surprise. “How learnt you my name, sir?”
“From your own lips.”
“From my own lips! When, may I ask?” inquired Walter, with a fresh scrutiny of the stranger’s countenance. “I don’t remember having had the honour of meeting you before.”
“Only within the last half-hour. You forget, young sir, having given your name in my hearing?”
“Oh! true—you overheard then—you were present—?”