The morning was breaking grayly as the little squad turned westward through the fields, and by a hollow to the Kingsford road. As they descended into the highway, Hugh faced a little about in his saddle, and gazed down it toward the village; a rise in the land shut the spot from sight, but he knew that yonder Captain Gwyeth lay, awaiting the message that he was not to bring. The trooper who rode at his stirrup took him roughly by the shoulder then, and made him face round to the front. “You don’t go to Kingsford to-day, sir,” he jeered. Hugh had not spirit even to look at the fellow, but fixed his eyes on the pommel of the saddle. Trees and road he had known slipped by, he was aware; he heard the horses stamp upon the roadway; and he felt his wet clothes press against his body, and felt the strap about his wrists cut into the flesh. But nothing of all that mattered as his numbed wits came to the full realization that this was the end of the boasting confidence with which he had set forth, and the end of his hope of meeting with his father. The last fight would be fought without him, or even now Captain Gwyeth, ignorant of the aid that should hurry to him, might be putting himself into his enemies’ hands. At that, Hugh tugged hopelessly at the strap, and found a certain relief in the fierce smarting of his chafed wrists. Like an echo of his thoughts Peregrine’s voice came at his elbow: “So you were thinking to reach Kingsford, were you?” “I should not be riding here just for my pleasure,” Hugh replied, with a piteous effort to force a light tone. “’Twould be as well for you if you were less saucy,” his cousin said sternly. “You know me.” “I know you carry one mark of my sword on you,” Hugh answered, looking his tormentor in the face, “and if you’d not let your troop come aid you, you’d carry more.” For a moment he expected Peregrine to strike him; then the elder lad merely laughed exasperatingly. “You’ll not talk so high by to-night,” he said, “when you’re fetched out to see that dog Gwyeth hanged up in Everscombe Park.” “You’d best catch him before you hang him,” Hugh answered stoutly, though the heart within him was heavy almost beyond endurance. What might the Oldesworths not do if once they laid hands on Captain Gwyeth? A prisoner of war had no rights, Hugh was well aware, and so many accidents could befall. He felt his face must show something of his fear, and he dreaded lest Peregrine goad him into farther speech, and his words betray his wretchedness.