“That would be John Rich. Nothing more?”
“There is a shining of something, back in the beech wood.”
“Steel, man, steel.”
The trumpeter blew a second blast, and John Rich and his banner-bearer rode down nearer to the water. They were scanning the island, and had sighted Martin on the tower.
“A summons, Greenshield.”
“I have nothing to say to them.”
“Then say nothing. They will take to other music.”
Swartz, raising his head to look, saw John Rich turn his horse and ride back slowly to the beech wood, followed by his trumpeter and the man who carried my Lord of Troy’s banner.
“Ha, the old fox! John Rich takes his time. You will not see until you do see.”
An hour passed, and nothing happened. The beech wood looked black, mysterious, and inscrutable, while Martin stood to arms upon the tower, feeling that the wood above was full of eyes that watched and waited. Swartz had grown restless. His heart was taking sides in the adventure.