“A brave horse, in sooth!” exclaimed Stelfax. “I felt sorry to despatch him—but I must have shot him or you. You may, however, console yourself for the loss by reflecting that you will never more, in all likelihood, require his services.”
“That is but cold comfort,” the other rejoined. “However, we Cavaliers are not accustomed to despair, even at the foot of the scaffold. I hope to give you another run as good as the one you, have just enjoyed—with this difference only, that on the next occasion you may be left in the lurch.”
“Many a fox-chase has been less exciting, no doubt,” said Stelfax, entering into the jest. “But you must now submit to be searched by my men, sir. I regret that the measure cannot be dispensed with—but my orders are strict. All letters and papers must be sent to head-quarters—and perhaps I may learn at the same time whom I have the honour of addressing.”
Due precautions against a contingency like the present must have been taken by the Cavalier, since only a few unimportant articles were found upon him, and nothing whatever to afford a clue to his identity. Seeing the prisoner look very faint, and scarcely able to stand, though he uttered no complaint, Stelfax caused him to be lifted on to the croup of Nathan Guestling’s horse, and secured by a broad belt passed round his own waist and that of the stalwart trooper in front. He then directed Mattathias and Enoch to ride one on either side of the captive, to prevent the possibility of escape, and set off for a hamlet, close at hand, where he made sure of obtaining restoratives for the luckless Royalist. The place for which the Roundhead captain was bound was Poynings, one of the prettiest and most picturesque villages amidst the South Downs, and then remarkable for its fine old manor-house appertaining to the baronial family that took its name from the place, as well as for its antique church, which latter still exists.
Night was now coming on apace, but the sky was clear, and the light of the heavenly bodies dispelled the darkness. The hour of eight was tolled out as the little troop entered Poynings. The trampling of the horses quickly roused the villagers, and brought them to the doors of their cottages to see the soldiers pass, and great anxiety was evinced to obtain a glimpse of the malignant prisoner. But no near approach to him was permitted by the guard, and the curiosity of the spectators remained unsatisfied.
A decent hostelry was soon found near the church, and here Stelfax alighted, and caused his prisoner, who was unable to dismount without assistance, to be lifted from the trooper’s horse and carried inside. This service was rendered by the landlord, who announced himself to the Roundhead leader as Simon Piddinghoe, of the Poynings’ Arms, at the honourable captain’s service. The Cavalier was supported by the assiduous host into a large, comfortable-looking house-place, with a wood fire blazing upon the hearth—deep inglenooks on either side of the chimney—and a couple of cozy benches with high backs calculated to keep off all draught advancing far into the room, with a long and strong oak table between them. On these high-backed benches some nine or ten guests were seated, smoking and quaffing the stout amber ale, the mulled sack, and other liquors for which the Poynings’ Arms was famed.
The company consisted, as it turned out, of the village schoolmaster, Master Cisbury Oldfirle, who was accounted a man of parts and erudition, and who, at all events, considered himself such—two or three other inhabitants of the village of the better class—and a brace of sturdy farmers from the neighbourhood, who were discussing their evening pint, or quart, as it might be, before going home to their dames. Besides these, there were some other guests—nondescript individuals, whose precise position in society Simon Piddinghoe himself would have found it difficult to assign, and who might be disbanded Royalist soldiers, gentlemen out-at-elbows from drink or play, bankrupt tradesmen from London, or what you please. Shabby roysterers like these often took up their quarters in country hostels at the time—carefully selecting houses where good liquor and a good bowling-green were to be found; and notwithstanding their tarnished lace cloaks, threadbare doublets, and slouched Spanish hats, they were heartily welcomed by mine host—so long as they had wherewithal to pay the shot. To these personages the arrival of the Ironsides seemed to afford anything but satisfaction, though they endeavoured to put a good face upon their vexation, and rose with the rest of the company to salute the Roundhead captain on his entrance. All arose but one—a fierce, swashbuckling fellow, with a long rapier at his side, who was afterwards addressed by the host as Captain Goldspur. With a muttered oath, this personage pulled his slouched hat over his beetle-brows, shifted himself in his seat, and turned his back upon Stelfax. As the captive Cavalier was brought into the room, and the light of the fire illumined his features, Simon Piddinghoe gave a slight start of recognition; but a pressure of his arm by the prisoner cautioned him to hold his tongue.