“I say, Stubbs,” called out the captain, spurring a length or two out from the troop, and pointing towards the camp, “What are those rustics doing up yonder? Can you guess?”
“Haven’t the most distant idea,” answered the individual addressed.
“They appear to be in their holiday toggery—best bibs and tuckers. Is’t a Whitsun-ale or a May-making?”
“Can’t be either,” rejoined Stubbs. “Isn’t the season. No, by Ged!”
“By the smock of Venus! there appear to be some pretty petticoats among them? Mayn’t be such dull quarters after all.”
“No, by Ged! Anything but dull, I should say.”
“Ride within speaking distance; and ask them, what the devil they are doing.”
The cornet, thus commanded, clapped spurs to his horse; and, after galloping within fifty paces of the fosse, pulled up.
“What the devil are you doing?” cried he, literally delivering the order with which he had been entrusted.
Of course to such a rude interrogatory, neither Sir Marmaduke, nor any of those standing around him, vouchsafed response. Some of the common people in the crowd, however, called out—“We’re merry-making. It’s a fête—a birthday celebration.”