Майн Рид
The White Gauntlet

Volume Two – Chapter Twelve

Shortly after the spies had taken their departure from Stone Dean, the conspirators might have been seen, emerging from the house, mounting their horses, and riding off. They went, much after the fashion in which they had come – in silence, alone, or in small groups; and, after clearing the gate entrance, along different roads. Some half dozen stayed later than the rest; but before the daylight could have disclosed their identity, these had also bidden adieu to Stone Dean; and were journeying far beyond the precincts of its secluded park.

When the last guest had gone, two of Holtspur’s improvised grooms – for whose services there was no further occasion – also took their departure from the place. There remained only three individuals in the old mansion – its owner, his Indian attendant, and Gregory Garth.

Of these, the last mentioned, and only he, had yielded his spirit to the embrace of the drowsy god.

On perceiving that his services as stable-helper were no longer in requisition, the ex-footpad, – having no other lodging to which he might betake himself, – had stretched his tired limbs along the beechwood bench; which, as on a former occasion, he had drawn up close to the kitchen fire. In five minutes after, not only the ample kitchen itself, but the contiguous apartments of pantry and wash-house, – with the various passages between, – were resonant of his snores.

Holtspur was still in the apartment in which the meeting had been held – the library it was – where, seated in front of a writing table, with pen in hand, he appeared to busy himself in the composition of some document of more than ordinary importance.

Oriole was the only one of the household who seemed to have no occupation: since he was neither sleeping, nor acting.

He was not inside the house, nor yet outside, but part of both: since he stood in the doorway, on the top step of the front entrance, – the door being still open.

He was in his habitual attitude of perfect repose, – silent and statuesque. This he had maintained for some length of time – having lingered, vaguely gazing after the last guest who had gone away – or, rather, the two woodmen, Walford and Dancey: for they had been the latest to take their departure.

It is difficult to say what may have been occupying the thoughts of the young savage. Perhaps they were dwelling upon scenes of the past – memories of his forest home, thousands of miles away – memories of his early years – of his tawny companions, and their sports – memories, perhaps more tender, of sister or mother? Whether or no, they stirred him not from his silent attitude; and for a long half hour he remained motionless, wrapped in speechless reverie.

It was only on seeing the first streaks of the dawn, stealing over the beech-clad crests of the hills, that he began to arouse himself; and then only in his eyes were exhibited signs of activity.

These, instead of being directed towards the sky, were turned towards the ground – scrutinising a space in front of the door-step, where the close crowding of hoof-prints told of the many horsemen who had late made their departure from the place.

For some time the Indian kept his eyes upon the ground, without exhibiting any apparent interest in the tracks. And yet he appeared to be tracing them: perhaps only in obedience to a habit learnt, and indulged in, from earliest childhood.

After a while, his glance wandered to a wider range; and something, observed at a few paces distance, appeared more seriously to engage his attention.

His statuesque attitude became at once disarranged; and, gliding down from the steps, he walked rapidly along the gravelled walk, leading to the left side of the house.

On arriving at the angle of the wall, he stooped downward – as if to examine some object at his feet.

After remaining motionless for a few seconds, he continued on – still with body bent – towards the back part of the dwelling.

He proceeded slowly, but without making a stop – till he had arrived near the rear of the mansion. There a narrow doorway, opening into the eastern wing, was before his eyes; and into this he stood gazing – evidently in some surprise. It could not be at seeing the door: for he knew of it already. It was its being open that elicited that look of astonishment.

During his stay at Stone Dean he had never known that side door to be otherwise than shut, and locked too. As there was only himself, and his master, who had the right to unlock it, he was naturally surprised at finding it ajar.

He might not have heeded the circumstance but for another, which seemed to connect itself with the open door. He had observed the footprints of two men, plainly impressed in the damp dust. They ran all along the wall, parallel to, and a few paces from it. Near the angle of the building, they were joined by a third set of footmarks; and from that point the three proceeded together till lost among the horse-tracks around the entrance in front.

It was these footmarks that had first attracted the Indian from his stand upon the steps; and, in tracing them, he had been conducted to the side doorway.

To examine the tracks, either of man or animal, and wherever seen, is a habit – indeed almost an instinct – with an Indian; and, ruled by this peculiarity of his people, Oriole had hastened to scrutinise the “sign.”

The act was not altogether unaccompanied by a process of ratiocination. Slightly as he understood the bearings of those political schemes, in which his master was engaged, the faithful follower knew that there was reason for secrecy, as well as suspicion in regard to the men, with whom he was brought in contact. It was some vague thought of this kind, that had caused him to take notice of the tracks.

He remembered having conducted all the gentlemen outward by the front door, on their departure, as he had conducted them inward on their arrival. He remembered that all had ridden directly away. Which of them, then, had gone round to the rear of the building, without his having observed them?

There were three distinct sets of footprints, not going towards the back, but returning towards the front. One set had been made by hobnailed shoes. These might be the tracks of one of the three helpers; but the other two were those of gentlemen.

Almost intuitively had the Indian arrived at this conclusion, when his analysis was interrupted by seeing the side door standing open – a circumstance which strengthened his incipient suspicion that there was something in the “sign.”

Without waiting to examine the tracks any further, he glided forward to the doorway; and, stepping inside, traversed the narrow passage which conducted to the antechamber – where Scarthe and his cornet had so silently assisted at the ceremony of the nocturnal assemblage.

The keen eye of the American aboriginal – even under the sombre light of the unused apartment – at once detected evidences of its late occupancy. The unshut doors afforded this; but the deep dust, that for years had been accumulating on the floors, showed traces of having been recently stirred by shuffling feet – leaving no doubt upon the mind of Oriole, that men had been in that room, and had gone out of it, only an hour or two before.

The disturbed spider webs upon the glazed partition did not escape his observation; nor the little spot upon the pane of glass that had been rubbed clean.

Oriole placed his eye to it. He could see the whole of the apartment, late occupied by his master’s guests. He could see that master, now alone – seated before his writing table – utterly unconscious of being observed.

The Indian was about to tap upon the glass, and communicate the discovery he had made; but, remembering his own misfortune, and that he could only speak by signs, he glided back through the passage, with the intention of reaching the library by the front entrance.

Daylight had come down – sufficiently clear to enable him to make scrutiny of the tracks with more exactness; and he lingered awhile retracing them – in the hope of finding some solution of the mystery of their existence. The sun had not yet risen; but the red rays of the aurora already encrimsoned the crests of the surrounding ridges, tinting also the tops of the tall trees that overhung the old dwelling of Stone Dean. The light, falling upon the roosts of the rooks, had set the birds astart, and caused them to commence the utterance of their cheerful cawing.

Whether it was the clamour of the crows, or the rustling of the riotous rats – as they chased one another along the empty shelves, and behind the decayed wainscotting of the old kitchen – or whether the circumstance was due to some other, and less explicable cause, certain it is that the slumbers of Gregory Garth were at that crisis interrupted.

His snoring suddenly came to a termination; and he awoke with a start.

It was a start, moreover, that led to a more serious disturbance: for, having destroyed his equilibrium on the beechwood bench – which chanced to be of somewhat slender dimensions – his body came down upon the hard stone flags of the floor, with a concussion, that for several seconds completely deprived him of breath.

On recovering his wind – and along with it his senses – which had for a while remained in a state of obfuscation – the ex-footpad soon comprehended the nature of the mishap that had befallen him.

But the unpleasant tumble upon the flagged floor, had cured him of all inclination to return to his treacherous couch; and, instead, he strolled out into the open air, to consult the sun – his unfailing monitor – as to the time of day.

Only the morning before, Gregory had been the proprietor of a watch – whether honestly so need not be said; but this timepiece was now ticking within the pigeon-hole depository of an Uxbridge pawnbroker; and the duplicate which the ex-footpad carried in his fob could give him no information about the hour.

In reality, he had not been asleep more than twenty minutes; but his dreams – drawn from a wide range of actual experiences – led him to believe that he had been slumbering for a much longer time.

He was rather surprised – though not too well pleased – when, on reaching the door, and “squinting” outside, he perceived by the sky that it was still only the earliest hour of the day; and that, after all his dreaming, he had not had the advantage of over half an hour’s sleep.

He was contemplating a return to his bench-bedstead; when, on casting a stray glance outwards, his eye fell upon the figure of a man moving slowly around one of the angles of the mansion. He saw it was Oriole.

As Gregory knew that Oriole was the proper butler of the establishment – or at all events carried the key of the wine-cellar – it occurred to him that, through the intervention of the Indian, he might obtain a morning dram, to refresh him after his uneasy slumber.

He was proceeding outside – intending to make known his wish – when he perceived that Oriole was engaged in a peculiar occupation. With his body half bent, and his eyes keenly scrutinising the ground, the Indian was moving slowly along the side of the house, parallel to the direction of the wall.

Seeing this strange action Garth did not attempt to interrupt it; but, taking his stand by the angle of the building, silently watched the movement.

Somewhat to the surprise of the footpad, he saw the redskin crouch cautiously forward to a door, which stood open; and, with all the silent stealth, that might have been observed by the most accomplished cracksman, Garth saw him creep inside – as if afraid of being detected in the act!

“Humph!” muttered Gregory, with a portentous shake of his shaggy occiput; “I shouldn’t wonder if Master Henry ha’ got a treetor in his own camp. What he be about, I shud like to know – a goodish bit I shud like it. Can’t a be wittels, or drink, the dummy’s after? No – can’t a be neyther: seein’ he ha’ got charge o’ the keys, and may cram his gut whensomever he pleezes. It be somethin’ o’ more consarn than eatin’ or drinkin’. That be it, sureish. But what the Ole Scratch kin it be?”

As Gregory put this last interrogatory, he inserted his thick, knotty digits into the mazes of his matted mop, and commenced pulling the hair over his forehead, as if by that means to elicit an answer.

After tossing his coarse curly locks into a state of woolly frowsiness, he seemed to have arrived no nearer to an elucidation of the Indian’s mysterious conduct; as was evinced by another string of muttered interrogatories that proceeded from his lips.

“Be the redskin a playin’ spy? They be ticklish times for Master Henry, I knows that. But surely a tongueless Indyen lad, as ha’ followed him from tother side o’ the world, and been faithful to him most the whole o’ his life – he ha’ told me so – surely sich a thing as that an’t goin’ to turn treetor to him now? Beside, what kin a Indyen know o’ our polyticks? A spy, – pish! It can’t a be that! It may be a stealin’. That’s more likelyish; but whatsomdever it do be, heear go to find out.”

Garth was about moving towards the side door – into which Oriole had made his stealthy entrance – when he saw the latter coming out again.

As the Indian was seen to return towards the front, in the same cautious manner in which he had gone from it – that is, with body stooped, and eyes eagerly scrutinising the path – Garth also turned his glance towards the ground.

Though no match for the American in reading the “sign” – either of the heavens or the earth – the ex-footpad was not altogether unpractised in the translating of tracks.

It had been long – alas! too long – a branch of his peculiar calling; and the footpad’s experience now enabled him to perceive, that such was the occupation in which Oriole was engaged.

He saw the footprints which the Indian was following up, – not now as before in a backward direction; but in that by which they who had made them must have gone.

All at once a new light flashed into the brain of the retired robber. He no longer suspected the Indian of being a spy; but, on the contrary, perceived that he was in the act of tracking some individual, or individuals, more amenable to this suspicion. He remembered certain circumstances that had transpired during the night: odd expressions and actions that had signalised the behaviour of his fellow-helper, Walford. He had remarked the absence of the latter at a particular time; and also on the occasion of Walford’s taking two horses from the stable – the first led out – that he had used some arguments, to dissuade both Dancey and himself from giving him assistance.

Garth supposed at the time, that Walford had been actuated simply by a desire to secure the perquisites; but now, that he looked upon the tracks – which Oriole was in the act of scrutinising – a new thought rushed into his mind: a suspicion that, during that eventful night, treason had been stalking around the dwelling of Stone Dean.

Excited by this thought, the ex-footpad threw himself alongside the Indian, and endeavoured by signs to convey the intelligence he had obtained by conjecture – as well as to possess himself of that which the redskin might have arrived at, by some more trustworthy process of reasoning.

Unfortunately Gregory Garth was but a poor pantomimist. His grimaces and gestures were rather ludicrous, than explanatory of his thoughts; so much so, that the Indian, after vainly endeavouring to comprehend them, answered with an ambiguous shake of the head. Then, gliding silently past, he ascended the steps, and hurried on towards the apartment – in which he proposed to hold more intelligible communion with his master.

Volume Two – Chapter Thirteen

On the departure of his fellow conspirators – patriots we should rather call them – Holtspur, as we have already said, had passed the remainder of the night engaged at his writing table.

The time was spent in the performance of a duty, entrusted to him by his friends, Pym and Hampden; with whom, and a few others, he had held secret conference beyond the hours allotted to the more public business of the meeting. It was a duty no less important, than the drawing up of a charge of attainder against Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford.

It was one which Holtspur could perform with all the ardour of a zealous enthusiasm – springing from his natural indignation against this gigantic wrongdoer.

A true hater of kings, he felt triumphant. His republican sentiments, uttered in the assembly just separated – so loudly applauded by those who listened to them – could not fail to find echo in every honest English heart; and the patriot felt that the time was nigh, when such sentiments need be no longer spoken in the conclave of a secret conference, but boldly and openly in the tribune of a nation.

The king had been once more compelled to call his “Commons” together. In a few days the Parliament was to meet – that splendid Parliament afterwards known as the “Long” – and, from the election returns already received, Holtspur knew the character of most of the statesmen who were to compose it. With such men as Pym and Hampden at its head – with Hollis, Hazlerig, Vane, Martin, Cromwell, and a host of other popular patriots, taking part in its councils – it would be strange if something should not be effected, to stem the tide of tyranny, so long flowing over the land – submerging under its infamous waves every landmark of English liberty.

Swayed by thoughts like these, did Henry Holtspur enter upon the task assigned him.

For over an hour had he been occupied in its performance – with scarce a moment’s intermission; and then only, when the soft dream of love, stealing over his spirit, chased from it the sterner thoughts of statecraft and war, which had been the habitual themes of his later life.

He had well-nigh finished his work, when interrupted by the entrance of the Indian.

“Eh, Oriole?” demanded he, in some surprise, as, glancing up from his papers, he remarked the agitated mien of his attendant. “Anything the matter? You look as if something was amiss. I hope that you and Garth have not been quarrelling over your perquisites?”

The Indian made sign of a negative to this imputation – which he knew was only spoken in jest.

“Nothing about him, then? What is it, my brave?”

This question was answered by Oriole raising one of his feet – with the sole turned upwards, at the same time glancing to the ground with an angry ejaculation.

“Ha!” said Holtspur, who read those signs as easily as if they had been a written language – “An enemy upon the trail?”

Oriole held up three of his fingers – pointing perpendicularly towards the ceiling of the room.

“Three instead of one! and three men! Well, perhaps they will be easier to deal with than if it was a trio of women.”

The cavalier, as he made this half-jesting remark, seemed to give way for a moment to some reflection, altogether unconnected with the intelligence conveyed by his attendant.

“What is it, Oriole? What have you seen?” asked he, returning to the subject of the Indian’s communication.

Oriole’s answer to this was a sign for his master to follow him. At the same time, turning on his heel, he led the way out of the apartment, out of the front door, and round by the left wing of the house. Thither he was followed by Holtspur and Gregory Garth, when all three commenced re-examining the tracks.

These were again traced in a backward direction to the side doorway.

It could not be doubted that two of the men who made them had issued thence. The third – he who wore the hobnailed shoes – had met these on their coming out; and afterwards walked along with them to the front – where the footmarks were lost among the hoof-prints of the horses.

There were no tracks leading towards the side entrance; but, as there was no other way by which the room could have been entered – except by the glass door, and that had certainly not been unclosed – it was evident that the two men who had come out by the side passage must have gone in by it.

The absence of any footmarks leading inward had a signification of another kind. It proved that they, who had so intruded, must have passed inside before the coming on of the rain-storm, and gone out, after it had ceased. In other words, two men must have tenanted that chamber during most, if not all, of the time that the conference continued.

Other signs pointed out by the Indian – the disturbance of the dust upon the floor, and the removal of the cerements from the glass – left no doubt as to the object of their presence in the unused apartment. Spies, to a certainty!

Holtspur’s countenance became clouded, as this conviction forced itself upon him.

The hobnails told who was the traitor that had guided them thither. There were plenty of like tracks on the other side of the house, leading to the stable yard. Oriole easily identified the footmarks as made by Will Walford.

“It but crowns my suspicions of the knave,” said Holtspur, as with gloom upon his brow he walked back into the house.

“Dang seize the white-livered loon!” cried the ex-footpad. “He shall answer for this night’s dirty doin’s. That shall be sureish sartin, or my name arn’t Gregory Garth.”

On re-entering the library, Holtspur did not resume his seat; but commenced pacing the floor with quick, excited steps.

What had arisen was matter to make him serious. Spies had been present – he could not doubt it – and the fact was full of significance. It concerned not only his own safety, but that of many others – gentlemen of rank and position in the county, with several Members of Parliament from other counties: among them Pym, Hollis, Hazlerig, Henry Martin, and the younger Sir Harry Vane.

Sir Marmaduke Wade, too, must have been seen by the spies!

In regard to the latter, Holtspur felt a special apprehension. It was by invitation – his own – that Sir Marmaduke had been present at the meeting; and Holtspur knew that the knight would now be compromised beyond redemption – even to the danger of losing his life.

Whoever had occupied that antechamber must have overheard not only all that had been spoken, but have seen each speaker in turn – in short, every individual present, and under a light clear enough to have rendered sure their identification.

It needed very little reflection to point out who had been the chief spy. The despatch, taken by Garth from the king’s messenger, rendered it easy to tell that Richard Scarthe had been in that chamber – either in person, or by deputy.

All this knowledge flashed upon the mind of the patriot conspirator, with a distinctness painfully vivid.

Unfortunately, the course, proper for him to pursue, was far from being so clear; and for some minutes he remained in a state of indecision as to how he should act.

With such evidence as Scarthe possessed against him, he felt keenly conscious of danger – a danger threatening not only his liberty, but his life.

If taken before the Star Chamber – after what he had that night said and done – he could not expect any other verdict than a conviction; and his would not be the first head, during that weak tyrant’s reign, that had tumbled untimely from the block.

It was of no use upbraiding himself, with the negligence that had led to the unfortunate situation. Nor was there any time to indulge in self-reproach: for the longer he reflected, the more proximate would be the danger he had to dread.

Henry Holtspur was a man of ready determination. A life partly spent amidst dangers of flood and field – under the shadows of primeval American forests – on the war-path of the hostile Mohawk – had habituated him to the forming of quick resolves, and as quickly carrying them into execution.

But no man is gifted with omniscience; and there are occasions when the wisest in thought, and quickest in action, may be overtaken.

It was so in Holtspur’s case at this particular crisis. He felt that he had been outwitted. In the fair field of fight he had defeated an adversary, who, in the dark diplomacy of intrigue, was likely to triumph over him.

There was not much time to be lost. Was there any? They, who had made that stealthy visit to Stone Dean, would be sure to repeat it; and soon – not secretly as before, but openly, and in force.

Why had they not returned already? This was the only question that appeared difficult to answer.

Why the arrest had not been made at once – a wholesale capture of the conspirators – could be more easily answered. The spies might not have been prepared for a coup so sudden, or extensive.

But since there had been time —

“By Heaven!” exclaimed the cavalier, suddenly interrupting the train of his conjectures; “there’s no time to be lost! I must from here, and at once. Garth!”

“Master Henry?”

“Saddle my horse, on the instant! Oriole!”

The Indian stood before him.

“Are my pistols loaded?”

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!”