Ovingdean Grange by W. Harrison Ainsworth

Rumboldsdyke coming up at the moment, his friend whispered a word to him, which instantly produced a magical effect upon the ruffling blade, whose demeanour became as respectful as that of Goldspur.

“This is Master Jervoise Rumboldsdyke, an it please your Majesty,” said Goldspur, in a low tone. “Like myself, he hath lost his fortune in your service. But what matters that? We would lose fifty fortunes—if we had them—in such a cause—and our lives into the bargain. Would we not, Rumboldsdyke?”

“Ay, that would we!” exclaimed the other ruffler.

Charles would have gladly dispensed both with the presence and professions of such suspicious adherents, but fearing some indiscretion on their part, he deemed it best to keep them in sight, and therefore invited them to enter the house, and drink a bottle of canary with him—an invitation which, as may be supposed, they gratefully accepted.

Charles found Colonel Gunter waiting for him just within the doorway, and the latter looked surprised and somewhat uneasy at perceiving his Majesty attended by the two threadbare Cavaliers. A glance from the king, however, reassured him, and on looking more narrowly at the persons with him, he remembered to have seen them amongst the guests at the Poynings’ Arms on the night when he was taken there by Stelfax, after his descent of the declivity near the Devil’s Dyke. Goldspur, however, sought to set him completely at ease by stepping up to him, and saying in his ear,

“It is all right, Colonel Gunter. We are both friends to Cæsar—both men of honesty and mettle. Do you not remember the night at the Poynings’ Arms, when that rascally Ironside captain brought you a prisoner there? Do you not recollect Captain Goldspur and his friend Jervoise Rumboldsdyke? I made an effort for your liberation. A shot was fired from Patcham Wood: ’twas I who sent the bullet at the accursed Stelfax!”

“Enough! enough! Captain Goldspur. I remember you perfectly,” replied Gunter, hastily. “But come into this private room. We shall be more at our ease there.”

So saying, he led the way into a parlour looking towards the back of the house. Charles had already preceded him, and having hastily apprised the others of the addition they might expect to their party, they were prepared for the appearance of the two rufflers. Glasses and a couple of flasks of canary had already been placed on the table, so there was no present occasion to summon the host; and Gunter, having closed the door in order to prevent intrusion, proceeded to introduce the new comers, whom he described as men who would not stick at a trifle to serve their friends.

The introduction over, Lord Wilmot, in a haughty tone, thus addressed them:

“Harkye, Captain Goldspur, and you, Master Rumboldsdyke—since such are the names you choose to go by—”

“‘Go by’—was that the word?” interrupted Goldspur, indignantly. “They are as much our names, my lord, as Henry Wilmot, Baron Wilmot in England, and Viscount Wilmot in Ireland, is your own.”

“Oddsfish, my lord!” exclaimed Charles, laughing, “you are known to these gentlemen, it seems, as well as we ourselves appear to be.”

“It were needless to remind his lordship where we have had the honour of meeting him,” observed Goldspur. “But if he desires it, I will mention—”

“Nay, it is needless to enter into particulars,” cried Lord Wilmot. “I fancy I have seen your faces before, but not under very creditable circumstances.”

“Your lordship does not mean to cast any reflections upon our honour, I trust?” said Goldspur, frowning, and laying his hand upon the hilt of his blade.

“Oh, not in the least, captain,” said Lord Wilmot, calmly. “I have no doubt you are both men of honour, according to your own acceptation of the term. But I was about to observe, when you first interrupted me, that you have chosen to force your company upon us—”

“Force, my lord!” cried Goldspur, indignantly. “Neither Master Rumboldsdyke nor myself desire to force our company upon any man. We sought only to offer our swords and our lives to our gracious master. We yield to no man living—not even to yourself, Lord Wilmot—in devotion to the king, and we are ready to approve it. We may have tarnished cloaks and threadbare jerkins, but we have loyal hearts in our breasts.”