“Come, Mistress Marion Wade!” whispered Dorothy, in a significant way. “It is not your wont to be thus tender-hearted. What is it to us, whether they fight or no? It isn’t your quarrel. This elegant cavalier, who seems to set everybody beside themselves, is not your champion, is he? If any one has reason to be interested in his fate, by my trow, I should say it was the Maid Marian —alias Bet Dancey. And certes, she does seem to take interest in him. See! What’s she doing now, the modest creature? By my word, I believe the wench is about to throw herself upon his breast, and embrace him!”
These words entered the ears of Marion Wade with stinging effect. Suddenly turning she looked down upon the sea of faces, that had thickened, and was swerving around the two men; who were expected soon to become engaged in deadly strife. Many of the cuirassiers had arrived upon the ground, and their steel armour now glittered conspicuously among the more sombre vestments of the civilian spectators.
Marion took no note of these; nor of aught else, save the half score figures that occupied the centre of the ring. Scarthe and his cornet, Henry Holtspur, Robin Hood, Little John, and the Friar were there; and there, too, was Maid Marian! What was she doing in the midst of the men? She had thrown herself in front of the cavalier – between him and his adversary. Her hands were upraised – one of them actually resting upon Holtspur’s shoulder! She appeared to be speaking in earnest appeal – as if dissuading him from the combat!
“In what way could the daughter of Dick Dancey be interested in the actions of Henry Holtspur?”
The question came quickly before the mind of Marion Wade, though it rose not to her lips.
“Bravo!” cried Dorothy Dayrell, as she saw that the cavalier was being equipped. “It’s going to go on! A combat in full armour! Won’t that be fine? It reminds one of the good old times of the troubadours!”
“O Dorothy!” said Lora, “to be merry at such a moment!”
“Hush!” commanded Marion, frantically grasping the jester by the arm, and looking angrily into her eye. “Another word, Mistress Dayrell – another trifling speech – and you and I shall cease to be friends.”
“Indeed!” scornfully retorted the latter. “What a misfortune that would be for me!”
Marion made no rejoinder. It was at this moment that Scarthe had flung out his taunt, about the glove in the hat of his antagonist.
Maid Marian heard the speech, and saw the action.
“Whose glove?” muttered she, as a pang passed through her heart.
Marion Wade heard the speech, and saw the action.
“My glove!” muttered she, as a thrill of sweet joy vibrated through her bosom.
The triumphant emotion was but short-lived. It was soon supplanted by a feeling of anxious apprehension, that reached its climax, as the two cavaliers, each bestriding his own steed, spurred their horses towards the centre of the camp – the arena of the intended combat.
With the exception of that made by the horsemen, as they rode trampling over the turf, not a movement could be observed within or around the enclosure of the camp. The dark circle of human forms, that girdled the ground, were as motionless, as if they had been turned into stones; and equally silent – men and women, youths and maidens, all alike absorbed in one common thought – all voicelessly gazing.
The chirrup of a grasshopper could have been heard throughout the encampment.
This silence had only commenced, as the combatants came forth upon the ground, in readiness to enter upon action. While engaged in preparation, the merits of both had been loudly and freely discussed; and bets had been made, as if the camp were a cockpit, and the cavaliers a main of game birds about to be unleashed at each other.
The popular feeling was not all on one side, though the “black horseman” was decidedly the favourite. There was an instinct on the part of the spectators that he was the people’s friend, and, in those tyrannous times, the phrase had an important signification.
But the crowd was composed of various elements; and there was more than a minority who, despite the daily evidence of royal outrages and wrongs, still tenaciously clung to that, the meanest sentiment that can find home in the human heart – loyalty. I mean loyalty to a throne.
In the captain of cuirassiers they saw the representative of that thing they had been accustomed to worship and obey – that mysterious entity, which they had been taught to believe was as necessary to their existence as the bread which they ate, or the beer they drank – a thing ludicrously styled “heaven-descended” – deriving its authority from God himself —a king!
Notwithstanding the insult he had put upon them, there were numbers present ready to shout —
“Huzza for the cuirassier captain!”
Notwithstanding his championship of their cause, there were numbers upon the ground ready to vociferate —
“Down with the black horseman!”
All exhibitions of this sort, however, had now ceased; and, in the midst of a profound silence, the mounted champions, having ridden clear of the crowd, advanced towards each other with glances reciprocally expressive of death and determination.
Volume One – Chapter Twenty
It was a terrible sight for the soft eye of woman to look upon. The timid Lora Lovelace would not stay; but ran off towards the house, followed by many others. Dorothy Dayrell called after them, jeering at their cowardice!
Marion remained. She could not drag herself from the approaching spectacle, though dreading to behold it. She stood under the dark shadow of a tree; but its darkness could not conceal the wild look of apprehension, with which she regarded the two mailed horsemen moving from opposite sides of the camp, and frowningly approaching one another.
Out rang the clear notes of the cavalry bugle, sounding the “charge.” The horses themselves understood the signal, and needed no spurring to prompt their advance.
Both appeared to know the purpose for which they had been brought forth. At the first note, they sprang towards one another – snorting mutual defiance – as if they, like their riders, were closing in mortal combat!
It was altogether a duello with swords. The sword, at that time, was the only weapon of the cuirassier cavalry, excepting their pistols; but by mutual agreement these last were not to be used.
With blades bare, the duellists dashed in full gallop towards each other, Scarthe crying out: “For the King;” while Holtspur, with equal energy raised the antagonistic cry: “For the People!”
At their first meeting, no wound was given or received. As the steeds swept past each other, the ring of steel could be heard – sword-blades glinting against cuirass and corslet – but neither of the combatants appeared to have obtained any advantage.
Both wheeled almost at the same instant; and again advanced to the charge.
This time the horses came into collision. That of the cuirassier was seen to stagger at the shock; but although, during the momentary suspension of the gallop, the sword-blades of the combatants were busy in mutual cut and thrust, they separated as before, apparently without injury on either side.
The collision, however, had roused the ire both of horses and riders; and, as they met for the third time, the spectators could note in the eyes of the latter the earnest anger of deadly strife.
Again rushed the horses together in a charging gallop, and met with a terrific crash – both weapons and defensive armour colliding at the same instant. The steed of the cuirassier recoiled from the impetus of his more powerful adversary. The black horse swept on unscathed; but as he passed to the rear, the hat of Holtspur was lifted upon the breeze; and fell behind him upon the grass.
Trifling