The White Gauntlet. Reid Mayne

from their jargon; and, though they continued to pass their beer cans, it was in a constrained and respectful silence.

      The two officers wore their helmets; but the visors of both were open; and Walter could see their faces distinctly.

      He now perceived that neither of them was known to him; though one of them he thought he had seen before, a few days before – only for a moment, and in conference with the queen!

      This was the older of the two, and evidently the senior in rank – the captain of the troop. He was a man of thirty, or thereabouts; with a face of dark complexion, and not unhandsome; but with that rakish expression that drink, and the indulgence of evil passions, will imprint upon the noblest features. His had once been of the noblest – and still were they such that a gentleman need not have been ashamed of – had it not been for a cast half-cynical, half-sinister, that could be detected in his eyes, sadly detracting from a face otherwise well favoured. Altogether it was a countenance of that changing kind, that, smiling, might captivate the heart, but scowling could inspire it with fear.

      The younger man – who from the insignia on his shoulder was a cornet– presented a very different type of physiognomy. Though still only a youth, his countenance was repulsive in the extreme. There was no need to scan it closely, to arrive at this conclusion. In that reddish round face, shaded by a scant thatch of straight hay-coloured hair, you beheld at a glance a kindred compound of the stupid, the vulgar, and the brutal.

      Walter Wade had never looked on that countenance before. It inspired him with no wish to cultivate the acquaintance of its owner. If left to his own inclinations, the young courtier would not have desired ever to look upon it again.

      “Your wish?” demanded he, rising proudly up in his stirrups, and confronting the officer who had addressed him. “You have summoned me to stop – your wish?”

      “No offence, I hope, young gallant?” replied the cuirassier captain. “None meant, I assure you. By the sweat upon your horse – not a bad-looking brute, by the way. A good nag. Isn’t he, Stubbs?”

      “If sound,” laconically rejoined the cornet.

      “Oh! sound enough, no doubt, you incorrigible jockey! Well, youngster; as I was saying, the sweat upon your horse proves that you have ridden fast and far. Both you and he stand in need of refreshment. We called to you, merely to offer the hospitality of the inn.”

      “Thanks for your kindness,” replied Walter, in a tone that sufficiently expressed his true appreciation of the offer; “but I must decline availing myself of it. I am not in need of any refreshment; and as for my horse, a short five miles will bring him to a stable, where he will be well cared for.”

      “Oh! you are near the end of your journey, then?”

      “By riding five miles further I shall reach it.”

      “A visit to some country acquaintance, where you can enjoy the balmy atmosphere of the beech forests – have new-laid eggs every morning for breakfast, and new-pulled turnips along with your bacon for dinner, eh?”

      The choler of the high-bred youth had been gradually mounting upward, and might soon have found vent in angry words. But Walter Wade was one of those happy spirits who enjoy a joke – even at their own expense – and, perceiving that his new acquaintances meant no further mischief, than the indulgence in a little idle badinage, he repressed his incipient spleen; and replied in the same jocular and satirical strain.

      After a sharp passage of words – in which the young courtier was far from being worsted – he was on the point of riding onward; when the captain of the cuirassiers again proffered the hospitality of the inn – by inviting him to partake of a cup of burnt sack, which the landlord had just brought forth from the house.

      The offer was made with an air of studied politeness; and Walter, not caring to appear churlish, accepted it.

      He was about raising the goblet to his lips, when his entertainers called for a toast.

      “What would you?” asked the young courtier.

      “Anything, my gallant! Whatever is uppermost in your mind. Your mistress, I presume?”

      “Of course,” chimed in the cornet. “His mistress, of course.”

      “My mistress, then!” said Walter, tasting the wine, and returning the cup to the hand from which he had received it.

      “Some pretty shepherdess of the Chilterns – some sweet wood nymph, no doubt? Well, here’s to her! And now,” continued the officer, without lowering the goblet from his lips, “since I’ve drunk to your mistress, you’ll not refuse the same compliment to my master – the King. You won’t object to that toast, will you?”

      “By no means,” replied Walter, “I drink it willingly; though the king and I have not parted the best of friends.”

      “Ha! ha! ha! friends with the king! His Majesty has the honour of your acquaintance, eh?”

      “I have been nearly three years in his service.”

      “A courtier?”

      “I have been page to the queen.”

      “Indeed! Perhaps you have no objection to favour us with your name?”

      “Not the slightest. My name is Wade – Walter Wade.”

      “Son of Sir Marmaduke, of Bulstrode Park?”

      “I am.”

      “Ho! ho!” muttered the questioner, in a significant tone, and with a thoughtful glance at the young courtier.

      “I thought so,” stammered the cornet, exchanging a look of intelligence with his superior officer.

      “Son to Sir Marmaduke, indeed!” continued the latter, “In that case, Master Wade, we are likely to meet again; and perhaps you will some day favour me with an introduction to your sweet shepherdess. Ha! ha! ha! Now for the toast of every true Englishman – ‘The King!’”

      Walter responded; though with no great willingness: for the tone of the challenger, as well as his words, had produced upon him an unpleasant impression. But the toast was one, that, at the time, it was not safe to decline drinking; and partly on this account, and partly because the young courtier had no particular reason for declining, he raised the goblet once more to his lips, as he did so, repeating the Words – “to the king.”

      The cornet, drinking from a cup of his own, echoed the sentiment; and the troopers under the tree, clinking their beer measures together, vociferated in loud acclaim: – “the king – the king!”

      Volume One – Chapter Seven

      After this general declaration of loyalty, there was a lull – an interval of profound silence – such as usually succeeds the drinking of a toast.

      The silence was unexpectedly broken, by a voice that had not yet mingled in the chorus; and which was now heard in clear, firm tones, pronouncing a phrase of very different signification: – “the people!”

      A sentiment so antagonistic to the one so late issuing from the lips of the troopers, produced among them an instantaneous commotion. The soldiers, seated under the tree, started to their feet; while the officers faced in the direction whence the voice had come – their eyes angrily flashing under the umbrils of their helmets.

      He, who had so daringly declared himself, was not concealed. A horseman, of elegant appearance, had just ridden up, and halted in the middle of the road; where the landlord – apparently without orders, and as if accustomed to the service, – was helping him to a goblet of wine. It was this horseman who had called out: “The People!”

      In the enthusiasm of their loyalty, his arrival had either not been observed by the troopers, – or at all events no notice had been taken of it, – until the emphatic pronunciation fell upon their ears like the bursting of a bomb. Then all eyes were instantly turned towards him.

      As he gave utterance to the phrase, he was in the act of raising the wine cup to his lips. Without appearing to notice the effect which his speech had produced,