Chaloner again saluted as his superior and his officers rode off; then, scowling blankly with ill-concealed hatred, he ordered his troop to fall in, and, with Firestone and I still bound in their midst, the Roundheads set off at a trot towards their headquarters.
CHAPTER VIII
OUR ADVENTURE IN LOSTWITHIEL CHURCH
THE troopers kept up their rapid pace, as if anxious to reach the shelter afforded by Lostwithiel without delay, and as we proceeded the nature of their anxiety became apparent.
A burly dragoon rode between us, sternly checking any attempt at conversation, while the sergeant, who had possessed himself of my sword—the gift of the armourer at Newport—placed a couple of men, armed with petronels, immediately behind us, giving them orders to shoot us through the head at the first sign of an attempt to escape.
This order was, I felt certain, given to the sergeant by Chaloner, who would have been only too glad to get us out of the way, knowing that we were acquainted with his past treachery, and also because he was aware of the fact that I was the son of Sir Reginald Markham, who still held Ashley, in spite of the Parliamentarian mandate bestowing it upon the renegade.
Long before midday we had passed through Liskeard, where the inhabitants were manifestly in sympathy with us, though overawed by the menaces of Chaloner's troopers.
About four miles beyond the town we came to the fork roads, where one road leads to Bodmin and the other to Lostwithiel, and hardly had we proceeded a hundred yards along the latter when two dragoons, who had been riding some distance ahead, came back at a gallop with the intelligence that a troop of malignant cavalry were drawn up beyond the brow of the hill.
My spirits rose at the thought of a rescue, though, at the same time, it occurred to me that, should an affray take place, Chaloner would have no scruples in shooting us, and putting the blame on the bullets of our friends.