The White Gauntlet

Oriole made sign in the affirmative – pointing to the pistols that lay on the oaken mantelshelf.

“Enough! I may need them ere long. Place them in the holsters.”

“And now, Oriole,” continued his master, after a reflective pause, and regarding his attendant with some sadness; “I am going upon a journey. I may be absent for some time. You cannot accompany me. You must stay here – till I either return, or send for you.”

The Indian listened, his countenance clouding over with an expression of disquietude.

“Don’t be downhearted, my brave!” pursued Holtspur. “We shall not be separated for long – no longer than I can help.”

Oriole asked by a gesture why he was to be left behind; adding in a pantomime equally intelligible to Holtspur, that he was ready to follow him to the death – to die for him.

“I know all that, faithful boy,” responded his patron and protector; “right well do I know it: since you’ve given proof of it once before. But your prowess, that might avail me in the pathless coverts of your native forest, and against enemies of your own colour, would be of little service here. The foe I have now to fear is not a naked savage with club and tomahawk; but a king with sword and sceptre. Ah! my brave Oriole, your single arm would be idle to shield me, where a whole host are to be my adversaries. Come, faithful friend! I lose time – too much have I lost already. Quick with my valise. Pack and strap it to the croup. Put these papers into it. The rest may remain as they are. Quick, good Oriole! Hubert should be saddled by this time. Garth, what is it?”

Garth stood in the doorway – breathless, ghastly pale.

“Ho! what’s that? I need not ask. Too well do I understand those sounds!”

“Lor’, O lor’! Master Henry! The house be surrounded wi’ horsemen. They be the kewreseers from Bulstrode.”

“Ha! Scarthe has been quick and cunning! I’m too late, I fear!”

Saying this, the cavalier snatched up his pistols – at the same time grasping his sword – as if with the intention of making an attempt to defend himself.

The ex-footpad also armed himself with his terrible pike – which chanced to be standing in the hall; while Oriole’s weapon was a tomahawk, habitually worn about his person.

Drawing his blade from its scabbard, Holtspur rushed towards the front entrance – close followed by Garth and the Indian.

On reaching the door, which was still standing open, the conspirator saw at a glance, that resistance would be worse than idle: since it could only end in the sacrifice of his own life, and perhaps the lives of his faithful followers.

In front of the house was ranged a row of steel-clad cuirassiers – each with his arquebus ready to deliver its fire; while the trampling of hoofs, the clanking of armour, and the voices of men resounding from the rear of the dwelling, told that the circumvallation was complete.

“Who are you? What is your business?” demanded Holtspur of one, who from his attitude and gestures appeared to act as the leader – but whose face was hidden behind the closed visor of his helmet.

The demand was mechanical – a mere matter of form. He who made it knew – without the necessity of asking – to whom he was addressing himself, as well as the business that had brought him there.

He had not encountered that cavalier in the field of fight – and conquered him too – without leaving a souvenir by which he could be recognised.

But it needed not the wounded arm – still carried in its sling – to enable Henry Holtspur to recognise Richard Scarthe, his adversary in the equestrian duel. Without such evidence both horse and rider might have been identified.

“I came not here to answer idle questions,” replied Scarthe, with a laugh that rang ironically through the bars of his umbril. “Your first, I presume, needs no answer; and though I shall be over-courteous in replying to your second, you are welcome to the response you have challenged. My business, then, is to arrest a traitor!”

“A traitor! Who?”

“Henry Holtspur – a traitor to his king.”

“Coward!” cried Holtspur, returning scorn for scorn; “this is the thanks I receive for sparing your paltry life. From your extensive entourage of steel-clad hirelings, it is evident you fear a second chastisement at my hands. Why did you not bring a whole regiment with you? Ha! ha! ha!”

“You are pleased to be facetious,” said Scarthe, whose triumphant position facilitated the restraining of his temper. “In the end, Master Holtspur, you may find it not such matter for mirth. Let them be merry who win. Laughter comes with but ill grace from the lips of those who are about to lose; nay, have already lost.”

“Already lost!” interrupted Holtspur, driven to the interrogatory, by the tone of significant insinuation in which the other had spoken.

“Not your liberty: though that also you have already lost. Not your head: that you may lose by-and-bye; but something which, if you be a true cavalier, should be dear to you as either.”

“What?” mechanically inquired Holtspur, moved to the interrogatory, less by the ambiguous speech than by the sight of an object which, at that moment, flashed before his angry eye. “What?”

“Your mistress!” was the taunting reply. “Don’t fancy, my pretty picker-up of stray gloves, that you are the only one who receives such sweet favours. The fair lady of the golden hair, and white gauntlets, may have taken a fancy to dispose of a pair; and where two are thus delicately dispensed, the last given is the one most prized by me!”

As Scarthe said this, he raised his hand triumphantly towards the peak of his helmet; where a glove of white doeskin was seen conspicuously set – its tapering fingers turned forward, as if pointing in derision at him who possessed its fellow!

Scarthe’s gesture was superfluous. The eye of his adversary had been already fixed upon the indicated object; and the frown, that suddenly overspread his face, betrayed a strange commingling of emotions – surprise, incredulity, anger, with something more than its share of incipient jealousy.

Rushed into Holtspur’s mind at that moment, the recollection of the tête-à-tête, he had witnessed after parting with Marion Wade – her promenade up the long avenue, side by side with Scarthe – that short but bitter moment, when she had appeared complaisante.

If he wronged her in thought, he did not do so in speech. His jealousy kept silence; his anger alone found utterance.

“False trickster!” he cried, “’tis an impudent deception. She never gave you that glove. Thou hast found it – stolen it, more likely; and, by Heaven! I shall take it from thee, and restore it to its slandered owner – even here, in spite of your myrmidons! Yield it up, Richard Scarthe! or on the point of my sword – ”

The threat was left unfinished, or rather unheard: for, simultaneous with its utterance, came the action – Holtspur raising his naked blade, and rushing upon his adversary.

“Seize him!” cried the latter, reining his horse backward to escape the thrust. “Seize the rebel! Slay him, if he resist!”

At the command, half-a-dozen of the cuirassiers spurred their steeds forward to the spot. Some stretched forth their hands to lay hold upon Holtspur, while others aimed at striking him down with the butts of their carbines.

Garth and the Indian had sallied forth to defend their master; who, had it not been for this, would perhaps have made a more prolonged resistance. But the sight of his two faithful followers – thus unnecessarily risking their lives – caused him suddenly to change his mad design; and, without offering further resistance, he surrendered himself into the hands of the soldiers who had surrounded him.

“Fast bind the rebel!” cried Scarthe, endeavouring to conceal his chagrin, at having shown fear, by pouring forth a volley of loyal speeches.

“Relieve him of his worthless weapon! Tie him hand and foot – neck and crop! He is mad, and therefore dangerous. Ha! ha! ha! Tight, you knaves! Tight as a hangman’s neck-tie!”

The order was obeyed quickly – if not to the letter; and in a few seconds Henry Holtspur stood bound, in the midst of his jeering enemies.

“Bring forth his horse!” cried Scarthe, in mocking tones. “The black horseman! ha! ha! ha! Let him have one last ride on his favourite charger. After that, he shall ride at the King’s expense. Ha! ha! ha!”

The black steed, already saddled by Garth, was soon brought round, and led towards the captive. There was something significant in the neigh, to which Hubert gave utterance as he approached the spot – something mournful: as if he suspected, or knew, that his master was in a position of peril.

As he was conducted nearer, and at length placed side by side with the prisoner, he bent his neck round till his muzzle touched Holtspur’s cheek; while his low, tremulous whimpering proved, as plainly as words could have expressed it, that he comprehended all.

The cuirassier captain had watched the odd and affecting incident. Instead of exciting his sympathy, it only intensified his chagrin. The presence of that steed reminded him, more forcibly than ever, of his own humiliating defeat – of which the animal had been more than a little the cause. Scarthe hated the horse almost as much as his master!

“Now, brave sir!” shouted he, endeavouring, in a derisive strain, to drown the unpleasant memories which the sight of Hubert had summoned up. “Such a distinguished individual must not ride bareheaded along the king’s highway. Ho there! Bring out his beaver, and set it upon his crown jauntily – jauntily!”

Three or four of the cuirassiers, who had dismounted, were proceeding to obey this last order – and had already mounted the steps leading up to the entrance – when an ejaculation from their commander caused them to turn back.

“Never mind, my lads!” he cried, as if having changed his intention. “Back to your horses! Never mind the hat: I shall go for it myself.”

The final words of this injunction were rather muttered, than spoken aloud. It was not intended they should be heard. They appeared to be the involuntary expression of some secret purpose, which had suddenly suggested itself to the mind of the speaker.

After giving utterance to them, the cuirassier captain leaped silently out of his saddle; and, mounting the stone steps, entered the door of the dwelling.