Falconers, hawks, dogs, horses, and grooms, formed a picturesque group, viewed in combination with the ancient mansion, near whose porch they were assembled. Amidst the group, old Rupert, Colonel Maunsel’s favourite charger, and as noble a piece of antiquity as the colonel himself, occupied a prominent place. Rupert’s best days were long past, it is true—and so, alas! were his master’s—but though there were unmistakable marks of age about him, he was a fine animal still. There was fire in his eye, courage in his arching neck, that told of former mettle. Bright bay had been old Rupert’s colour, but the hue was now sadly changed, and the flanks were dull, which had once shone like satin. He was furnished with a large easy saddle, having a high pommel, and a troussequin at the hinder bow. A dapple-grey palfrey, with white mane and tail, was destined for Dulcia, and this lively, but well-trained little animal, by his pawing, champing, and snorting, offered a strong contrast to the sedate deportment of the ancient charger.
Notwithstanding his reduced revenue, Colonel Maunsel still managed to keep up a large troop of servants of one kind or other. Born upon the estate, most of the members of the old Cavalier’s establishment were so attached to him, that they would never have quitted his service, except upon compulsion. Wages were with them a minor consideration; one and all expressing their readiness to share their good old master’s reverses of fortune.
With the grooms and falconers awaiting the colonel’s coming forth, were gathered several others of the household: to wit, Giles Moppett, with a fat turnspit at his heels; Elias Crundy, the yeoman of the cellar, who had brought out a large black jack filled with stout ale for the falconers; Holney Ticeharst, the upper gardener, and Nut Springett, his man, with two or three hinds from the farm-yard.
The unusual circumstances of the colonel’s riding forth to enjoy the pastime of hawking would have sufficed to bring a portion of the household to the gate; but there was another motive for gathering together so many of them on the present occasion, which might easily be detected in the serious expression of their countenances. The state-messenger’s warning had struck terror into them all. Not that their fidelity to the colonel and his son was shaken by it; but knowing that Clavering had returned on the previous night, they were very apprehensive for his safety; for though told that the fugitive had left again before daybreak, few of them credited the statement, but felt convinced that he was hidden in the house.
It was on this alarming topic that they were now conversing together.
“Ah, well-a-day! these be sad times indeed!” old Ticehurst observed. “Wheresoever our young master may be, there I hope his enemies will never find him. Hast any news to gi’ us, Master Moppett? Thou be’st a scholard like his reverence, Master Beard, and read’st de pappers.”
“I have no news likely to yield thee much satisfaction, good Master Ticehurst,” Moppett replied. “I have read both the Perfect Diurnal and the Mercurius Politicus, and they are full of nothing save the Lord General Cromwell’s late glorious victory over the Scots king (as they term his most sacred Majesty) at Worcester; telling us how old Noll returned to London, and was met by a procession of the Men of Westminster, and how he made a triumphal entry into the City; how great rejoicings were held, and how the poor Scots prisoners were marched through the streets. Stay! I have one piece of news—and sorry bad news it is !—the brave Earl of Derby, the Earl of Lauderdale, and some other Royalists, who fought at Worcester, have been captured in Cheshire, and it is said will all be brought to the block, Heaven avert the like fate from our young master!”
“Ay, Heaven avert it from him, and from one higher than him,” said Eustace Saxby, in a deep, earnest tone. “Canst give us any tidings of the King, Master Moppett? Hath he escaped the bloodhounds set on his track? ‘Tis to be hoped he will be watched over as David was when pursued by Saul.”
“There be all sorts of rumours concerning him,” Moppett rejoined; “and right glad am I that there be so, for their number will serve to mislead his enemies. Most likely his Majesty be hidden in some ellinge old house in Hampshire, waiting for a vessel to convey him to France. Such is the colonel’s opinion.”