“To horse!” was uttered in the usual abrupt tone of command; and at the same instant, the two officers were seen issuing from the doorway of the inn.
The clattering of steel, as the cuirassiers sprang to their saddles, could be heard on the calm air of the autumn noon, to the distance of a mile. The shopkeepers of Uxbridge heard it; and were only too glad when told its interpretation. All night long Scarthe’s royal swashbucklers had been swaggering through the streets, disturbing the tranquillity of their town, and leaving many a score unsettled.
No wonder they rejoiced, when that clinking of sabres, and clashing of cuisses, declared the departure of Captain Scarthe and his following from the hostelry of the Saracen’s Head.
Their men having mounted, the two officers betook themselves to their saddles, though with less alertness. The cornet seemed to have a difficulty in finding his stirrup; and, after he had succeeded in getting into his seat, it appeared an open question whether he should be able to keep it. Stubbs was intoxicated.
His superior officer was affected in a similar fashion, though to a less degree. At all events he did not show his tipsiness so palpably. He was able to mount into the saddle, without the hand of a helper; and when there, could hold himself upright. Habit may have given him this superiority over his comrade: for Scarthe was an old soldier, and Stubbs was not.
The carouse of the preceding night had commenced at the roadside inn—early in the evening.
The incident that had there occurred—not of the most comforting nature, either to Scarthe or his subaltern—had stimulated them to continue at their cups—only transferring the scene to the inns of Uxbridge. A stray cavalier or two, picked up in the town, had furnished them with the right sort of associates for a midnight frolic; and it was not till the blue light of morn was breaking over the meadows of the Colne, that the wearied roisterers staggered across the old bridge, and returned to their temporary quarters at the roadside inn.
While the horses of the troop were in the hands of the farriers, the two officers had passed an hour or two, tossing upon a brace of the best beds the inn afforded; and it was close upon twelve at noon when Scarthe awoke, and called for a cup of burnt sack to steady his nerves—quivering after the night’s carouse.
A slight breakfast sufficed for both captain and cornet. This despatched, they had ordered the troop to horse, and were about to continue their march.
“Comrades!” cried Scarthe, addressing himself to his followers, as soon as he felt fairly fixed in the saddle. “We’ve been spending the night in a nest of rebels. This Uxbridge is a town of traitors—Quakers, Dissenters and Puritans—alike disloyal knaves.”