"Yes! just as I supposed they were--Harry Lingen's Horse!" exclaimed Sir Richard, after viewing them for a second or two. "And those poor fellows, their prisoners, likely enough are my own men--one of them, though I can't identify him, my unfortunate troop captain, young Trevor. They're _en route_ neither for Ross nor Hereford, but Goodrich Castle, where Lingen has his headquarters. It's but a short six miles, which may account for their setting out so late." "But Trevor's party was taken at a place near Ruardean--Hollymead House, if I recollect aright." "True; the house of Master Ambrose Powell. It was there Lingen surprised them, through a scoundrel who turned traitor." "Then why were they brought to Monmouth at all? Ruardean's but a step from Goodrich." "Just so, your Excellency, I was puzzled about that myself up till this morning. Now I know why, having got the information from our cadger friends. It appears that when Lingen made his swoop on Hollymead he was on the way to join Wintour at Beachley, so kept straight on through Monmouth, where he dropped his _impedimenta_ of prisoners. On return he's now picked them up again, and's taking them on to his own stronghold." "That's it, no doubt," assented Massey. "But," he added, with a smile of triumphant satisfaction, "whoever those captives be, pretty sure none of them have been brought up from Beachley. Nor is their escort as large as it might have been had Lingen left Wintour to himself. We gave their ranks a good weeding there--all round." "Yes, indeed," rejoined the knight, rather absently, and with the telescope still at his eye. He was endeavouring to make good the identity of the captive party, and assure himself whether it was really what he had conjectured it to be. But he could have little doubt, as he had none about the soldiers forming their escort--Lingen's Horse to a certainty--a partisan troop, variously armed, but most carrying the lance. And while he still continued gazing at them, they commenced the ascent of the Ley's _pitch_, which passes over the col between Little Doward and the Table Mount, the road running through woods all the way. Under these they were soon lost to his sight, and as the last lance with its pennon disappeared below the tops of the trees, he lowered his telescope with a sigh, saying,-- "What a pity the river's between, with a flood on! But for that we might have crossed at Huntsholme, and caught up with them ere they could--" He broke off abruptly at sound of footsteps: the tread of heavy boots, with the chink of spurs, and the louder clank of a steel scabbard striking against them. He making all these formidable noises was Sergeant Rob Wilde, seen ascending the steep pitch, and evidently on some errand that called for haste. Sir Richard, advancing to meet him, saw that he had something in his hand, with a good guess as to what it was.