"My love,--We are inside Monmouth, thanks to little strategy I was able to effect, with the help of an old Low Country comrade, Kyrle, of Walford, whom you may know. For all, we had some sharp fighting by the bridge gate, where Kyrle proved himself worthy of his ancient repute as soldier and swordsman. Had we failed there this letter would not have been written, unless, perhaps, inside a prison. And now on that subject I'm sorry to say E. Trevor is still in one, but, unluckily, not at Monmouth. Taken by Harry Lingen from the Hereford side, they have carried him off that way, likely to Goodrich Castle. What's worse, he has been wounded; whether severely or not, I haven't yet been able to ascertain. Soon as I can learn for certain where he is, and what the nature of his hurt, you shall hear from me, as I know your sister will be in a sad state of anxiety. We've made many prisoners, and now, commanding Monmouth, may hope to gather in a good many more. If we succeed in clearing the Wye's western bank of the wolves so long infesting it you may all safely return to Hollymead." The letter did not conclude quite so abruptly. There were some expressions tenderer and of more private nature, which she was scarce permitted to read, much less dwell upon. For Vaga, all the while gazing in her face with a look of searching interrogation, saw a shadow pass over it, and unable longer to bear the suspense, cried out,-- "There's something wrong? Ah! it's Eustace; I know it is!" "Nothing wrong with him more than we knew of already. He is still a prisoner; but, of course, not at Monmouth, or he'd have been released. They have taken him away from there, as Richard thinks, to Goodrich Castle." There was that in her manner, with the words and their tone of utterance, which led to a suspicion of either subterfuge or reticence. And Vaga so suspecting, with another searching look into her eyes, exclaimed,-- "You've not told me all. There's something in that letter you fear to communicate. You need not, Sab. I'll try to be brave. Better for me to know the worst. Let _me_ read it." Thus appealed to the elder sister gave way. The thing she desired to conceal must become known sooner or later. Perhaps as well, if not better, at once. Tearing off that portion of the sheet on which were the words of tenderness concerning only herself, she passed the other into the hands of her sister, saying,-- "All's there that interests you, Vag; and don't let it alarm you. Remember that wounds are always made more of than--" "Wounded!" came the interrupting cry from Vaga's lips, intoned with agony. "He's wounded--it may be to death! I shall go to Goodrich. If he die, I die with him!" CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN. OLD COMRADES. "Well, Dick, for a man who's just captured a city, you look strangely downhearted--more like as if you'd been captured yourself."