When the horseman, emerging from under the arcade of the trees, rode out into the open ground, and the moonlight fell upon him and his horse, the footpad was slightly taken by surprise. Instead of a farmer, fuddled with cheap tipple obtained at the “Saracen’s Head,” Garth saw before him an elegant cavalier, mounted upon a smoking but handsome steed, and dressed in a full suit of shining satin!
Though surprised, Gregory was neither dismayed, nor disconcerted. On the contrary, he was all the better satisfied at seeing—in the place of a drunken clod-hopper, perchance with an empty wallet—a gentleman whose appearance gave every promise of a plethoric purse; and one also, whose aspect declared to the practised eye of the footpad, that compelling him to part with it, would be an achievement neither difficult nor dangerous.
Without losing an instant, after making this observation, the robber rushed out from under the shadow of the hut; and, just as he had hailed the two horsemen half-an-hour before, did he salute the satin-clad cavalier.
Very different however was the response which he now received in return to the stereotyped demand, “Stand and deliver!” Such travellers as the black horseman were rare upon the road; and he of the smoking steed, and satin vestments, instead of drawing a pistol from his holsters, or a sword from its sheath, threw up both hands in token of surrender; and, in a trembling voice, piteously appealed for mercy.
“Hang it, Master!” cried Garth, still keeping his pike pointed at the breast of the frightened traveller. “Doant be so skeeart! They woant hurt ye, man. Nee’r a one o’ ’em’s goin’ to lay a finger on ye—that be, if ye doant make a fool o’ yerself by showin’ resistance. Keep yeer ground, boys! The gentleman han’t no intention to gie trouble.”
“No—I assure you, no!” eagerly ejaculated the traveller. “I mean no harm to anybody. Believe me, friends! I don’t, indeed. You’re welcome to what money I’ve got. It isn’t much: I’m only a poor messenger of the king.”
“A messenger of the king!” echoed the captain of the robbers, showing a new interest in the announcement.
“And, if I may ask the question,” proceeded he, drawing nearer to the traveller, and rudely clutching hold of his bridle-rein, “Whither be ye bound, good Master?”
“O sir,” replied the trembling courtier, “I am glad I’ve met with some one who, perhaps, can tell me the way. I am the bearer of a message from his gracious Majesty to Captain Scarthe, of the King’s Cuirassiers; who is, or should be, by this time, quartered with Sir Marmaduke Wade, of Bulstrode Park—somewhere in this part of the county of Buckingham.”
“Ho, ho!” muttered Gregory Garth, speaking to himself, “message from his Majesty to Captain Scarthe!—Sir Marmaduke Wade! Bulstrode Park! What the ole Nick be all this about?”