By this time the two comets were crossing swords; but before either could give the other a death wound, the royalist bugles brayed the “Retreat;” and the gallant “green coats,” sweeping over the field, put the discomfited cuirassiers to flight; who from that moment, with the rest of Rupert’s army, made more use of their spurs, than their sabres.
One more act, and the curtain must close upon our drama.
The mise en scène of this act has been already presented; and, as often on the stage, it is again repeated; with but little change in the dramatis personae.
Bulstrode Park is once more enlivened by a fête champètre—as before, the old Saxon camp being its arena.
An occasion, even more joyful than then, has called together the friends of Sir Marmaduke Wade; in which category might be comprised every honest man in the shire of Bucks.
The camp enclosure is capable of containing many thousands. It is full: so full, that there is hardly room for the sports of wrestling and single stick, bowls, and baloon—which are, nevertheless, carried on with zealous earnestness by their respective devotees.
What is the occasion? Another son come of age? It cannot be that: since there is but one heir to Sir Marmaduke’s estate; and his majority has been already commemorated?
It is not that. An event of still greater interest has called together the concourse in question. A double event it might be designated: since upon this day the knight of Bulstrode has given away two brides; one to his own son—the other to an “adventurer,” formerly known as Henry Holtspur, the “black horseman,” but of late recognised as Sir Henry —, a colonel in the Parliamentary army, and a member of the Parliament itself.
I have told who are the bridegrooms. I need not name the brides: you have already guessed them!
Behold the two couples, as they stand upon the green-tufted bank—overlooking the sports—pleased spectators of the people’s enjoyment.